Hercule Poirot's Christmas Read online

  ‘You’ve noticed that?’

  ‘Talking of settling down, fat George has done well for himself as far as looks go. Who was she?’

  Simeon shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘How should I know? George picked her up at a mannequin parade, I believe. She says her father was a retired naval officer.’

  Harry said:

  ‘Probably a second mate of a coasting steamer. George will have a bit of trouble with her if he’s not careful.’

  ‘George,’ said Simeon Lee, ‘is a fool.’

  Harry said: ‘What did she marry him for—his money?’

  Simeon shrugged his shoulders.

  Harry said: ‘Well, you think that you can square Alfred all right?’

  ‘We’ll soon settle that,’ said Simeon grimly.

  He touched a bell that stood on a table near him.

  Horbury appeared promptly. Simeon said:

  ‘Ask Mr Alfred to come here.’

  Horbury went out and Harry drawled:

  ‘That fellow listens at doors!’

  Simeon shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Probably.’

  Alfred hurried in. His face twitched when he saw his brother. Ignoring Harry, he said pointedly:

  ‘You wanted me, Father?’

  ‘Yes, sit down. I was just thinking we must reorganize things a bit now that we have two more people living in the house.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Pilar will make her home here, naturally. And Harry is home for good.’

  Alfred said: ‘Harry is coming to live here?’

  ‘Why not, old boy?’ said Harry.

  Alfred turned sharply to him.

  ‘I should think that you yourself would see that!’

  ‘Well, sorry—but I don’t.’

  ‘After everything that has happened? The disgraceful way you behaved. The scandal—’

  Harry waved an easy hand.

  ‘All that’s in the past, old boy.’

  ‘You behaved abominably to Father, after all he’s done for you.’

  ‘Look here, Alfred, it strikes me that’s Father’s business, not yours. If he’s willing to forgive and forget—’

  ‘I’m willing,’ said Simeon. ‘Harry’s my son, after all, you know, Alfred.’

  ‘Yes, but—I resent it—for Father’s sake.’

  Simeon said: ‘Harry’s coming here! I wish it.’ He laid a hand gently on the latter’s shoulder. ‘I’m very fond of Harry.’

  Alfred got up and left the room. His face was white. Harry rose too and went after him, laughing.

  Simeon sat chuckling to himself. Then he started and looked round. ‘Who the devil’s that? Oh, it’s you, Horbury. Don’t creep about that way.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’

  ‘Never mind. Listen, I’ve got some orders for you. I want everybody to come up here after lunch—everybody.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘There’s something else. When they come, you come with them. And when you get half-way along the passage raise your voice so that I can hear. Any pretext will do. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Horbury went downstairs. He said to Tressilian:

  ‘If you ask me, we are going to have a Merry Christmas.’

  Tressilian said sharply: ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You wait and see, Mr Tressilian. It’s Christmas Eve today, and a nice Christmas spirit abroad—I don’t think!’

  II

  They came into the room and paused at the doorway.

  Simeon was speaking into the telephone. He waved a hand to them.

  ‘Sit down, all of you. I shan’t be a minute.’

  He went on speaking into the telephone.

  ‘Is that Charlton, Hodgkins & Bruce? Is that you, Charlton? Simeon Lee speaking. Yes, isn’t it?…Yes…No, I wanted you to make a new will for me…Yes, it’s some time since I made the other…Circumstances have altered…Oh no, no hurry. Don’t want you to spoil your Christmas. Say Boxing Day or the day after. Come along, and I’ll tell you what I want done. No, that’s quite all right. I shan’t be dying just yet.’

  He replaced the receiver, then looked round at the eight members of his family. He cackled and said:

  ‘You’re all looking very glum. What is the matter?’

  Alfred said: ‘You sent for us…’

  Simeon said quickly: ‘Oh, sorry—nothing portentous about it. Did you think it was a family council? No, I’m just rather tired today, that’s all. None of you need come up after dinner. I shall go to bed. I want to be fresh for Christmas Day.’

  He grinned at them. George said earnestly:

  ‘Of course…of course…’

  Simeon said: ‘Grand old institution, Christmas. Promotes solidarity of family feeling. What do you think, Magdalene, my dear?’

  Magdalene Lee jumped. Her rather silly little mouth flew open and then shut itself. She said: ‘Oh—oh, yes!’

  Simeon said: ‘Let me see, you lived with a retired naval officer’—he paused—‘your father. Don’t suppose you made much of Christmas. It needs a big family for that!’

  ‘Well—well—yes, perhaps it does.’

  Simeon’s eyes slid past her.

  ‘Don’t want to talk of anything unpleasant at this time of year, but you know, George, I’m afraid I’ll have to cut down your allowance a bit. My establishment here is going to cost me a bit more to run in future.’

  George got very red.

  ‘But look here, Father, you can’t do that!’

  Simeon said softly: ‘Oh, can’t I!’

  ‘My expenses are very heavy already. Very heavy. As it is, I don’t know how I make both ends meet. It needs the most rigorous economy.’

  ‘Let your wife do a bit more of it,’ said Simeon. ‘Women are good at that sort of thing. They often think of economies where a man would never have dreamt of them. And a clever woman can make her own clothes. My wife, I remember, was clever with her needle. About all she was clever with—a good woman, but deadly dull—’

  David sprang up. His father said:

  ‘Sit down, boy, you’ll knock something over—’

  David said: ‘My mother—’

  Simeon said: ‘Your mother had the brains of a louse! And it seems to me she’s transmitted those brains to her children.’ He raised himself up suddenly. A red spot appeared on each cheek. His voice came high and shrill. ‘You’re not worth a penny piece, any of you! I’m sick of you all! You’re not men! You’re weaklings—a set of namby-pamby weaklings. Pilar’s worth any two of you put together! I’ll swear to heaven I’ve got a better son somewhere in the world than any of you, even if you are born the right side of the blanket!’

  ‘Here, Father, hold hard,’ cried Harry.

  He had jumped up and stood there, a frown on his usually good-humoured face. Simeon snapped:

  ‘The same goes for you! What have you ever done? Whined to me for money from all over the world! I tell you I’m sick of the sight of you all! Get out!’

  He leaned back in his chair, panting a little.

  Slowly, one by one, his family went out. George was red and indignant. Magdalene looked frightened. David was pale and quivering. Harry blustered out of the room. Alfred went like a man in a dream. Lydia followed him with her head held high. Only Hilda paused in the doorway and came slowly back.

  She stood over him, and he started when he opened his eyes and found her standing there. There was something menacing in the solid way she stood there quite immovably.

  He said irritably: ‘What is it?’

  Hilda said: ‘When your letter came I believed what you said—that you wanted your family round you for Christmas, I persuaded David to come.’

  Simeon said: ‘Well, what of it?’

  Hilda said slowly: ‘You did want your family round you—but not for the purpose you said! You wanted them there, didn’t you, in order to set them all by the ears? God help you, it’s your idea of fun!’

  Simeon chuck
led. He said: ‘I always had rather a specialized sense of humour. I don’t expect anyone else to appreciate the joke. I’m enjoying it!’

  She said nothing. A vague feeling of apprehension came over Simeon Lee. He said sharply:

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  Hilda Lee said slowly: ‘I’m afraid…’

  Simeon said: ‘You’re afraid—of me?’

  Hilda said: ‘Not of you. I’m afraid—for you!’

  Like a judge who has delivered sentence, she turned away. She marched, slowly and heavily, out of the room…

  Simeon sat staring at the door.

  Then he got to his feet and made his way over to the safe. He murmured: ‘Let’s have a look at my beauties.’

  III

  The doorbell rang about a quarter to eight.

  Tressilian went to answer it. he returned to his pantry to find Horbury there, picking up the coffee-cups off the tray and looking at the mark on them.

  ‘Who was it?’ said Horbury.

  ‘Superintendent of Police—Mr Sugden—mind what you’re doing!’

  Horbury had dropped one of the cups with a crash.

  ‘Look at that now,’ lamented Tressilian. ‘Eleven years I’ve had the washing up of those and never one broken, and now you come along touching things you’ve no business to touch, and look what happens!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Tressilian. I am indeed,’ the other apologized. His face was covered with perspiration. ‘I don’t know how it happened. Did you say a Superintendent of Police had called?’

  ‘Yes—Mr Sugden.’

  The valet passed a tongue over pale lips.

  ‘What—what did he want?’

  ‘Collecting for the Police Orphanage.’

  ‘Oh!’ The valet straightened his shoulders. In a more natural voice he said:

  ‘Did he get anything?’

  ‘I took up the book to old Mr Lee, and he told me to fetch the superintendent up and to put the sherry on the table.’

  ‘Nothing but begging, this time of year,’ said Horbury. ‘The old devil’s generous, I will say that for him, in spite of his other failings.’

  Tressilian said with dignity:

  ‘Mr Lee has always been an open-handed gentleman.’

  Horbury nodded.

  ‘It’s the best thing about him! Well, I’ll be off now.’

  ‘Going to the pictures?’

  ‘I expect so. Ta-ta, Mr Tressilian.’

  He went through the door that led to the servants’ hall.

  Tressilian looked up at the clock hanging on the wall.

  He went into the dining-room and laid the rolls in the napkins.

  Then, after assuring himself that everything was as it should be, he sounded the gong in the hall.

  As the last note died away the police superintendent came down the stairs. Superintendent Sugden was a large handsome man. He wore a tightly buttoned blue suit and moved with a sense of his own importance.

  He said affably: ‘I rather think we shall have a frost tonight. Good thing: the weather’s been very unseasonable lately.’

  Tressilian said, shaking his head:

  ‘The damp affects my rheumatism.’

  The superintendent said that the rheumatism was a painful complaint, and Tressilian let him out by the front door.

  The old butler refastened the door and came back slowly into the hall. He passed his hand over his eyes and sighed. Then he straightened his back as he saw Lydia pass into the drawing-room. George Lee was just coming down the stairs.

  Tressilian hovered ready. When the last guest, Magdalene, had entered the drawing-room, he made his own appearance, murmuring:

  ‘Dinner is served.’

  In his way Tressilian was a connoisseur of ladies’ dress. He always noted and criticized the gowns of the ladies as he circled round the table, decanter in hand.

  Mrs Alfred, he noted, had got on her new flowered black and white taffeta. A bold design, very striking, but she could carry it off, though many ladies couldn’t. The dress Mrs George had on was a model, he was pretty sure of that. Must have cost a pretty penny. He wondered how Mr George would like paying for it! Mr George didn’t like spending money—he never had. Mrs David now: a nice lady, but didn’t have any idea of how to dress. For her figure, plain black velvet would have been the best. Figured velvet, and crimson at that, was a bad choice. Miss Pilar, now, it didn’t matter what she wore, with her figure and her hair she looked well in anything. A flimsy cheap little white gown it was, though. Still, Mr Lee would soon see to that! Taken to her wonderful, he had. Always was the same way when a gentleman was elderly. A young face could do anything with him!

  ‘Hock or claret?’ murmured Tressilian in a deferential whisper in Mrs George’s ear. Out of the tail of his eye he noted that Walter, the footman, was handing the vegetables before the gravy again—after all he had been told!

  Tressilian went round with the soufflé. It struck him, now that his interest in the ladies’ toilettes and his misgivings over Walter’s deficiencies were a thing of the past, that everyone was very silent tonight. At least, not exactly silent: Mr Harry was talking enough for twenty—no, not Mr Harry, the South African gentleman. And the others were talking too, but only, as it were, in spasms. There was something a little—queer about them.

  Mr Alfred, for instance, he looked downright ill. As though he had had a shock or something. Quite dazed he looked and just turning over the food on his plate without eating it. The mistress, she was worried about him. Tressilian could see that. Kept looking down the table towards him—not noticeably, of course, just quietly. Mr George was very red in the face—gobbling his food, he was, without tasting it. He’d get a stroke one day if he wasn’t careful. Mrs George wasn’t eating. Slimming, as likely as not. Miss Pilar seemed to be enjoying her food all right and talking and laughing up at the South African gentleman. Properly taken with her, he was. Didn’t seem to be anything on their minds!

  Mr David? Tressilian felt worried about Mr David. Just like his mother, he was, to look at. And remarkably young-looking still. But nervy; there, he’d knocked over his glass.

  Tressilian whisked it away, mopped up the stream deftly. It was all over. Mr David hardly seemed to notice what he had done, just sat staring in front of him with a white face.

  Thinking of white faces, funny the way Horbury had looked in the pantry just now when he’d heard a police officer had come to the house…almost as though—

  Tressilian’s mind stopped with a jerk. Walter had dropped a pear off the dish he was handing. Footmen were no good nowadays! They might be stable-boys, the way they went on!

  He went round with the port. Mr Harry seemed a bit distrait tonight. Kept looking at Mr Alfred. Never had been any love lost between those two, not even as boys. Mr Harry, of course, had always been his father’s favourite, and that had rankled with Mr Alfred. Mr Lee had never cared for Mr Alfred much. A pity, when Mr Alfred always seemed so devoted to his father.

  There, Mrs Alfred was getting up now. She swept round the table. Very nice that design on the taffeta; that cape suited her. A very graceful lady.

  He went out to the pantry, closing the dining-room door on the gentlemen with their port.

  He took the coffee tray into the drawing-room. The four ladies were sitting there rather uncomfortably, he thought. They were not talking. He handed round the coffee in silence.

  He went out again. As he went into his pantry he heard the dining-room door open. David Lee came out and went along the hall to the drawing-room.

  Tressilian went back into his pantry. He read the riot act to Walter. Walter was nearly, if not quite, impertinent!

  Tressilian, alone in his pantry, sat down rather wearily.

  He had a feeling of depression. Christmas Eve, and all this strain and tension…He didn’t like it!

  With an effort he roused himself. He went to the drawing-room and collected the coffee-cups. The room was empty except for Lydia, who was standing half con
cealed by the window curtain at the far end of the room. She was standing there looking out into the night.

  From next door the piano sounded.

  Mr David was playing. But why, Tressilian asked himself, did Mr David play the ‘Dead March’? For that’s what it was. Oh, indeed things were very wrong.