While the Light Lasts - Agatha Christie [22]
‘I see,’ said M. Poirot; ‘and in the meantime, M. Roger’s elder brother has died, and he has come home–to find his dream shattered. All the same, you are not yet married, Mademoiselle.’
‘A Haworth does not break her word, M. Poirot,’ said the girl proudly.
Almost as she spoke, the door opened, and a big man with a rubicund face, narrow, crafty eyes, and a bald head stood on the threshold.
‘What are you moping in here for, Evelyn? Come out for a stroll.’
‘Very well, Oscar.’
She rose listlessly. Poirot rose also and demanded politely:
‘Mademoiselle Levering, she is still indisposed?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry to say my sister is still in bed. Too bad, to be laid up on Christmas Day.’
‘It is indeed,’ agreed the detective politely.
A few minutes sufficed for Evelyn to put on her snow-boots and some wraps, and she and her fiancé went out into the snow-covered grounds. It was an ideal Christmas Day, crisp and sunny. The rest of the house-party were busy with the erection of the snowman. Levering and Evelyn paused to watch them.
‘Love’s young dream, yah!’ cried Johnnie, and threw a snowball at them.
‘What do you think of it, Evelyn?’ cried Jean. ‘M. Hercule Poirot, the great detective.’
‘Wait till the moustache goes on,’ said Eric. ‘Nancy’s going to clip off a bit of her hair for it. Vivent les braves Belges! Pom, pom!’
‘Fancy having a real-live detective in the house!’–this from Charlie–‘I wish there could be a murder, too.’
‘Oh, oh, oh!’ cried Jean, dancing about. ‘I’ve got an idea. Let’s get up a murder–a spoof one, I mean. And take him in. Oh, do let’s–it would be no end of a rag.’
Five voices began to talk at once.
‘How should we do it?’
‘Awful groans!’
‘No, you stupid, out here.’
‘Footprints in the snow, of course.’
‘Jean in her nightie.’
‘You do it with red paint.’
‘In your hand–and clap it to your head.’
‘I say, I wish we had a revolver.’
‘I tell you, Father and Aunt Em won’t hear. Their rooms are the other side of the house.’
‘No, he won’t mind a bit; he’s no end of a sport.’
‘Yes, but what kind of red paint? Enamel?’
‘We could get some in the village.’
‘Fat-head, not on Christmas Day.’
‘No, watercolour. Crimson lake.’
‘Jean can be it.’
‘Never mind if you are cold. It won’t be for long.’
‘No, Nancy can be it, Nancy’s got those posh pyjamas.’
‘Let’s see if Graves knows where there’s any paint.’
A stampede to the house.
‘In a brown study, Endicott?’ said Levering, laughing disagreeably.
Roger roused himself abruptly. He had heard little of what had passed.
‘I was just wondering,’ he said quietly.
‘Wondering?’
‘Wondering what M. Poirot was doing down here at all.’
Levering seemed taken aback; but at that moment the big gong pealed out, and everybody went in to Christmas dinner. The curtains were drawn in the dining-room, and the lights on, illuminating the long table piled high with crackers and other decorations. It was a real old-fashioned Christmas dinner. At one end of the table was the Squire, red-faced and jovial; his sister faced him at the other. M. Poirot, in honour of the occasion, had donned a red waistcoat, and his plumpness, and the way he carried his head on one side, reminded one irresistibly of a robin redbreast.
The Squire carved rapidly, and everyone fell to on turkey. The carcasses of two turkeys were removed, and there fell a breathless hush. Then Graves, the butler, appeared in state, bearing the plum-pudding aloft–a gigantic pudding wreathed in flames. A hullabaloo broke out.
‘Quick. Oh! my piece is going out. Buck up, Graves; unless it’s still burning, I shan’t get my wish.’
Nobody had leisure to notice a curious expression on the face of M. Poirot as he