The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Colin. ‘That’s why I wouldn’t let anyone go near her until we got you. I thought you’d know what to do.’

‘All the same,’ said Hercule Poirot briskly, ‘first, we must see if she is still alive? Is not that so?’

‘Well—yes—of course,’ said Michael, a little doubtfully. ‘but you see, we thought—I mean, we didn’t like—’

‘Ah, you have the prudence! You have read the detective stories. It is most important that nothing should be touched and that the body should be left as it is. But we cannot be sure as yet if it is a body, can we? After all, though prudence is admirable, common humanity comes first. We must think of the doctor, must we not, before we think of the police?’

‘Oh yes. Of course,’ said Colin, still a little taken aback.

‘We only thought—I mean—we thought we’d better get you before we did anything,’ said Michael hastily.

‘Then you will both remain here,’ said Poirot. ‘I will approach from the other side so as not to disturb these footprints. Such excellent footprints, are they not—so very clear? The footprints of a man and a girl going out together to the place where she lies. And then the man’s footsteps come back but the girl’s—do not.’

‘They must be the footprints of the murderer,’ said Colin, with bated breath.

‘Exactly,’ said Poirot. ‘The footprints of the murderer. A long narrow foot with rather a peculiar type of shoe. Very interesting. Easy, I think, to recognize. Yes, those footprints will be very important.’

At that moment Desmond Lee-Wortley came out of the house with Sarah and joined them.

‘What on earth are you all doing here?’ he demanded in a somewhat theatrical manner. ‘I saw you from my bedroom window. What’s up? Good lord, what’s this? It—it looks like—’

‘Exactly,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘It looks like murder, does it not?’

Sarah gave a gasp, then shot a quick suspicious glance at the two boys.

‘You mean someone’s killed the girl—what’s-her-name—Bridget?’ demanded Desmond. ‘Who on earth would want to kill her? It’s unbelievable!’

‘There are many things that are unbelievable,’ said Poirot. ‘Especially before breakfast, is it not? That is what one of your classics says. Six impossible things before breakfast.’ He added: ‘Please wait here, all of you.’

Carefully making a circuit, he approached Bridget and bent for a moment down over the body. Colin and Michael were now both shaking with suppressed laughter. Sarah joined them, murmuring ‘What have you two been up to?’

‘Good old Bridget,’ whispered Colin. ‘Isn’t she wonderful? Not a twitch!’

‘I’ve never seen anything look so dead as Bridget does,’ whispered Michael.

Hercule Poirot straightened up again.

‘This is a terrible thing,’ he said. His voice held an emotion it had not held before.

Overcome by mirth, Michael and Colin both turned away. In a choked voice Michael said:

‘What—what must we do?’

‘There is only one thing to do,’ said Poirot. ‘We must send for the police. Will one of you telephone or would you prefer me to do it?’

‘I think,’ said Colin, ‘I think—what about it, Michael?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, ‘I think the jig’s up now.’ He stepped forward. For the first time he seemed a little unsure of himself. ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he said, ‘I hope you won’t mind too much. It—er—it was a sort of joke for Christmas and all that, you know. We thought we’d—well, lay on a murder for you.’

‘You thought you would lay on a murder for me? Then this—then this—’

‘It’s just a show we put on,’ explained Colin, ‘to—to make you feel at home, you know.’

‘Aha,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘I understand. You make of me the April fool, is that it? But today is not April the first, it is December the twenty-sixth.’

‘I suppose we oughtn’t to have done it really,’ said Colin, ‘but—but—you don’t mind very much, do you, M. Poirot? Come on, Bridget,’ he called, ‘get up. You must be half-frozen to death already.’

The figure in the snow, however, did not stir.

‘It is odd,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘she does not seem to hear you.’ He looked thoughtfully at them. ‘It is a joke, you say? You are sure this is a joke?’

‘Why, yes.’ Colin spoke uncomfortably. ‘We—we didn’t mean any harm.’

‘But why then does Mademoiselle Bridget not get up?’

‘I can’t imagine,’ said Colin.

‘Come on, Bridget,’ said Sarah impatiently. ‘Don’t go on lying there playing the fool.’

‘We really are very sorry, M. Poirot,’ said Colin apprehensively. ‘We do really apologize.’

‘You need not apologize,’ said Poirot, in a peculiar tone.

‘What do you mean?’ Colin stared at him. He turned again. ‘Bridget! Bridget! What’s the matter? Why doesn’t she get up? Why does she go on lying there?’

Poirot beckoned to Desmond. ‘You, Mr Lee-Wortley. Come here—’

Desmond joined him.

‘Feel her pulse,’ said Poirot.

Desmond Lee-Wortley bent down. He touched the arm—the wrist.

‘There’s no pulse …’ He stared at Poirot. ‘Her arm’s stiff. Good God, she really is dead!’

Poirot nodded. ‘Yes, she is dead,’ he said. ‘Someone has turned the comedy into a tragedy.’

‘Someone—who?’

‘There is a set of footprints going and returning. A set of footprints that bears a strong resemblance to the footprints you have just made, Mr Lee-Wortley, coming from the path to this spot.’

Desmond Lee-Wortley wheeled round. ‘What on earth—Are you accusing me? ME? You’re crazy! Why on earth should I want to kill the girl?’

‘Ah—why? I wonder … Let us see …’

He bent down and very gently prised open the stiff fingers of the girl’s clenched hand.

Desmond drew a sharp breath. He gazed down unbelievingly. In the palm of the dead girl’s hand was what appeared to be a large ruby.