The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding - Agatha Christie [10]
‘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.
III
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.