While the Light Lasts - Agatha Christie [23]
‘Confound it, Emily!’ he roared. ‘Why do you let the cook put glass in the puddings?’
‘Glass?’ cried Miss Endicott, astonished.
The Squire withdrew the offending substance from his mouth.
‘Might have broken a tooth,’ he grumbled. ‘Or swallowed it and had appendicitis.’
In front of each person was a small finger-bowl of water, designed to receive the sixpences and other matters found in the trifle. Mr Endicott dropped the piece of glass into this, rinsed it and held it up.
‘God bless my soul!’ he ejaculated. ‘It’s a red stone out of one of the cracker brooches.’
‘You permit?’ Very deftly, M. Poirot took it from his fingers and examined it attentively. As the Squire had said, it was a big red stone, the colour of a ruby. The light gleamed from its facets as he turned it about.
‘Gee!’ cried Eric. ‘Suppose it’s real.’
‘Silly boy!’ said Jean scornfully. ‘A ruby that size would be worth thousands and thousands and thousands–wouldn’t it, M. Poirot?’
‘Extraordinary how well they get up these cracker things,’ murmured Miss Endicott. ‘But how did it get into the pudding?’
Undoubtedly that wasthe question of the hour. Every hypothesis was exhausted. Only M. Poirot said nothing, but carelessly, as though thinking of something else, he dropped the stone into his pocket.
After dinner he paid a visit to the kitchen.
The cook was rather flustered. To be questioned by a member of the house-party, and the foreign gentleman too! But she did her best to answer his questions. The puddings had been made three days ago–‘The day you arrived, Sir.’ Everyone had come out into the kitchen to have a stir and wish. An old custom–perhaps they didn’t have it abroad? After that the puddings were boiled, and then they were put in a row on the top shelf in the larder. Was there anything special to distinguish this pudding from the others? No, she didn’t think so. Except that it was in an aluminium pudding-basin, and the others were in china ones. Was it the pudding originally intended for Christmas Day? It was funny that he should ask that. No, indeed! The Christmas pudding was always boiled in a big white china mould with a pattern of holly-leaves. But this very morning (the cook’s red face became wrathful) Gladys, the kitchen-maid, sent to fetch it down for the final boiling, had managed to drop and break it. ‘And of course, seeing that there might be splinters in it, I wouldn’t send it to table, but took the big aluminium one instead.’
M. Poirot thanked her for her information. He went out of the kitchen, smiling a little to himself, as though satisfied with the information he had obtained. And the fingers of his right hand played with something in his pocket.
II
‘M. Poirot! M. Poirot! Do wake up! Something dreadful’s happened!’
Thus Johnnie in the early hours of the following morning. M. Poirot sat up in bed. He wore a night-cap. The contrast between the dignity of his countenance and the rakish tilt of the night-cap was certainly droll; but its effect on Johnnie seemed disproportionate. But for his words, one might have fancied that the boy was violently amused about something. Curious sounds came from outside the door, too, suggesting soda-water syphons in difficulty.
‘Come down at once, please,’ continued Johnnie, his voice shaking slightly. ‘Someone’s been killed.’ He turned away.
‘Aha, that is serious!’ said M. Poirot.
He arose, and, without unduly hurrying himself, made a partial toilet. Then he followed Johnnie down the stairs. The house-party was clustered round the door into the garden. Their countenances all expressed intense emotion. At sight of him Eric was seized with a violent choking fit.
Jean came forward and laid her hand on M. Poirot’s arm.
‘Look!’ she said, and pointed dramatically