The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘Well, it’ll show up so well on the snow and I shall wear my red pyjamas.’

‘If you wear red pyjamas, they won’t show the bloodstains,’ said Michael in a practical manner.

‘But they’d look so effective against the snow,’ said Bridget, ‘and they’ve got white facings, you know, so the blood could be on that. Oh, won’t it be gorgeous? Do you think he will really be taken in?’

‘He will if we do it well enough,’ said Michael. ‘We’ll have just your footprints in the snow and one other person’s going to the body and coming away from it—a man’s, of course. He won’t want to disturb them, so he won’t know that you’re not really dead. You don’t think,’ Michael stopped, struck by a sudden idea. The others looked at him. ‘You don’t think he’ll be annoyed about it?’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so,’ said Bridget, with facile optimism. ‘I’m sure he’ll understand that we’ve just done it to entertain him. A sort of Christmas treat.’

‘I don’t think we ought to do it on Christmas Day,’ said Colin reflectively. ‘I don’t think Grandfather would like that very much.’

‘Boxing Day then,’ said Bridget.

‘Boxing Day would be just right,’ said Michael.

‘And it’ll give us more time, too,’ pursued Bridget. ‘After all, there are a lot of things to arrange. Let’s go and have a look at all the props.’

They hurried into the house.

The evening was a busy one. Holly and mistletoe had been brought in in large quantities and a Christmas tree had been set up at one end of the dining-room. Everyone helped to decorate it, to put up the branches of holly behind pictures and to hang mistletoe in a convenient position in the hall.

‘I had no idea anything so archaic still went on,’ murmured Desmond to Sarah with a sneer.

‘We’ve always done it,’ said Sarah, defensively.

‘What a reason!’

‘Oh, don’t be tiresome, Desmond. I think it’s fun.’

‘Sarah my sweet, you can’t!’

‘Well, not—not really perhaps but—I do in a way.’

‘Who’s going to brave the snow and go to midnight mass?’ asked Mrs Lacey at twenty minutes to twelve.

‘Not me,’ said Desmond. ‘Come on, Sarah.’

With a hand on her arm he guided her into the library and went over to the record case.

‘There are limits, darling,’ said Desmond. ‘Midnight mass!’

‘Yes,’ said Sarah. ‘Oh yes.’

With a good deal of laughter, donning of coats and stamping of feet, most of the others got off. The two boys, Bridget, David and Diana set out for the ten minutes’ walk to the church through the falling snow. Their laughter died away in the distance.

‘Midnight mass!’ said Colonel Lacey, snorting. ‘Never went to midnight mass in my young days. Mass, indeed! Popish, that is! Oh, I beg your pardon, M. Poirot.’

Poirot waved a hand. ‘It is quite all right. Do not mind me.’

‘Matins is good enough for anybody, I should say,’ said the colonel. ‘Proper Sunday morning service. “Hark the herald angels sing,” and all the good old Christmas hymns. And then back to Christmas dinner. That’s right, isn’t it, Em?’

‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs Lacey. ‘That’s what we do. But the young ones enjoy the midnight service. And it’s nice, really, that they want to go.’

‘Sarah and that fellow don’t want to go.’

‘Well, there dear, I think you’re wrong,’ said Mrs Lacey. ‘Sarah, you know, did want to go, but she didn’t like to say so.’

‘Beats me why she cares what that fellow’s opinion is.’

‘She’s very young, really,’ said Mrs Lacey placidly. ‘Are you going to bed, M. Poirot? Good night. I hope you’ll sleep well.’

‘And you, Madame? Are you not going to bed yet?’

‘Not just yet,’ said Mrs Lacey. ‘I’ve got the stockings to fill, you see. Oh, I know they’re all practically grown up, but they do like their stockings. One puts jokes in them! Silly little things. But it all makes for a lot of fun.’

‘You work very hard to make this a happy house at Christmas time,’ said Poirot. ‘I honour you.’

He raised her hand to his lips in a courtly fashion.

‘Hm,’ grunted Colonel Lacey, as Poirot departed. ‘Flowery sort of fellow. Still—he appreciates you.’

Mrs Lacey dimpled up at him. ‘Have you noticed, Horace, that I’m standing under the mistletoe?’ she asked with the demureness of a girl of nineteen.

Hercule Poirot entered his bedroom. It was a large room well provided with radiators. As he went over towards the big four-poster bed he noticed an envelope lying on his pillow. He opened it and drew out a piece of paper. On it was a shakily printed message in capital letters.

DON’T EAT NONE OF THE PLUM PUDDING. ONE AS WISHES YOU WELL.

Hercule Poirot stared at it. His eyebrows rose. ‘Cryptic,’ he murmured, ‘and most unexpected.’

Christmas dinner took place at 2 p.m. and was a feast indeed. Enormous logs crackled merrily in the wide fireplace and above their crackling rose the babel of many tongues talking together. Oyster soup had been consumed, two enormous turkeys had come and gone, mere carcasses of their former selves. Now, the supreme moment, the Christmas pudding was brought in, in state! Old Peverell, his hands and his knees shaking with the weakness of eighty years, permitted no one but himself to bear it in. Mrs Lacey sat, her hands pressed together in nervous apprehension. One Christmas, she felt sure, Peverell would fall down dead. Having either to take the risk of letting him fall down dead or of hurting his feelings to such an extent that he would probably prefer to be dead than alive, she had so far chosen the former alternative. On a silver dish the Christmas pudding reposed in its glory. A large football of a pudding, a piece of holly stuck in it like a triumphant flag and glorious flames of blue and red rising round it. There was a cheer and cries of ‘Ooh-ah.’

One thing Mrs Lacey had done: prevailed upon Peverell to place the pudding in front of her so that she could help it rather than hand it in turn round the table. She breathed a sigh of relief as it was deposited safely in front of her. Rapidly the plates were passed round, flames still licking the portions.

‘Wish, M. Poirot,’ cried Bridget. ‘Wish before the flame goes. Quick, Gran darling, quick.’

Mrs Lacey leant back with a sigh of satisfaction. Operation Pudding had been a success. In front of everyone was a helping with flames still licking it. There was a momentary silence all round the table as everyone wished hard.

There was nobody to notice the rather curious expression on the face of M.Poirot as he surveyed the portion of pudding on his plate. ‘Don’t eat none of the plum pudding.’ What on earth did that sinister warning mean? There could be nothing different about his portion of plum pudding from that of everyone else! Sighing as he admitted himself baffled—and Hercule Poirot never liked to admit himself baffled—he picked up his spoon and fork.

‘Hard sauce, M. Poirot?’

Poirot helped himself appreciatively to hard sauce. ‘Swiped my best brandy again, eh Em?’ said the colonel good-humouredly from the other end of the table. Mrs Lacey twinkled at him.

‘Mrs Ross insists on having the best brandy, dear,’ she said. ‘She says it makes all the difference.’

‘Well, well,’ said Colonel Lacey, ‘Christmas comes but once a year and Mrs Ross is a great woman. A great woman and a great cook.’

‘She is indeed,’ said Colin. ‘Smashing plum pudding, this. Mmmm.’ He filled an appreciative mouth.