Hercule Poirot’s Christmas

‘Oh, well!’ said Magdalene. ‘After all, Christmas is pretty grim anywhere!’

‘I suppose,’ said George, pursuing his own line of thought, ‘they will expect to have a Christmas dinner? A nice piece of beef, perhaps, instead of a turkey.’

‘Who?’ The servants? Oh, George, don’t fuss so. You’re always worrying about money.’

‘Somebody has to worry,’ said George.

‘Yes, but it’s absurd to pinch and scrape in all these little ways. Why don’t you make your father give you some more money?’

‘He already gives me a very handsome allowance.’

‘It’s awful to be completely dependent on your father, as you are! He ought to settle some money on you outright.’

‘That’s not his way of doing things.’

Magdalene looked at him. Her hazel eyes were suddenly sharp and keen. The expressionless egg-like face showed sudden meaning.

‘He’s frightfully rich, isn’t he, George? A kind of millionaire, isn’t he?’

‘A millionaire twice over, I believe.’

Magdalene gave an envious sigh.

‘How did he make it all? South Africa, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, he made a big fortune there in his early days. Mainly diamonds.’

‘Thrilling!’ said Magdalene.

‘Then he came to England and started in business and his fortune has actually doubled or trebled itself, I believe.’

‘What will happen when he dies?’ asked Magdalene.

‘Father’s never said much on the subject. Of course one can’t exactly ask. I should imagine that the bulk of his money will go to Alfred and myself. Alfred, of course, will get the larger share.’

‘You’ve got other brothers, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, there’s my brother David. I don’t fancy he will get much. He went off to do art or some tomfoolery of that kind. I believe Father warned him that he would cut him out of his will and David said he didn’t care.’

‘How silly!’ said Magdalene with scorn.

‘There was my sister Jennifer too. She went off with a foreigner—a Spanish artist—one of David’s friends. But she died just over a year ago. She left a daughter, I believe. Father might leave a little money to her, but nothing much. And of course there’s Harry—’

He stopped, slightly embarrassed.

‘Harry?’ said Magdalene, surprised. ‘Who is Harry?’

‘Ah—er—my brother.’

‘I never knew you had another brother.’

‘My dear, he wasn’t a great—er—credit—to us. We don’t mention him. His behaviour was disgraceful. We haven’t heard anything of him for some years now. He’s probably dead.’

Magdalene laughed suddenly.

‘What is it? What are you laughing at?’

Magdalene said:

‘I was only thinking how funny it was that you—you, George, should have a disreputable brother! You’re so very respectable.’

‘I should hope so,’ said George coldly.

Her eyes narrowed.

‘Your father isn’t—very respectable, George.’

‘Really, Magdalene!’

‘Sometimes the things he says make me feel quite uncomfortable.’

George said:

‘Really, Magdalene, you surprise me. Does—er—does Lydia feel the same?’

‘He doesn’t say the same kind of things to Lydia,’ said Magdalene. She added angrily, ‘No, he never says them to her. I can’t think why not.’

George glanced at her quickly and then glanced away.

‘Oh, well,’ he said vaguely. ‘One must make allowances. At Father’s age—and with his health being so bad—’

He paused. His wife asked:

‘Is he really—pretty ill?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. He’s remarkably tough. All the same, since he wants to have his family round him at Christmas, I think we are quite right to go. It may be his last Christmas.’

She said sharply:

‘You say that, George, but really, I suppose, he may live for years?’

Slightly taken aback, her husband stammered:

‘Yes—yes, of course he may.’

Magdalene turned away.

‘Oh, well,’ she said, ‘I suppose we’re doing the right thing by going.’