Midwinter Murder

by Agatha Christie

  He said softly, ‘So it was your sister. Well, after all—’ He gave a sudden queer smile. ‘It doesn’t much matter, does it? Your sister—my brother—’ He took something out of his pocket. He was smiling now, happily.

  Molly stared at the object he held. ‘I always thought the police didn’t carry revolvers,’ she said.

  ‘The police don’t,’ said the young man. He went on, ‘But you see, Mrs Davis, I’m not a policeman. I’m Jim. I’m Georgie’s brother. You thought I was a policeman because I rang up from the call box in the village and said that Sergeant Trotter was on his way. Then I cut the telephone wires outside the house when I got here, so that you shouldn’t be able to ring back to the police station.’

  Molly stared at him. The revolver was pointing at her now.

  ‘Don’t move, Mrs Davis—and don’t scream—or I pull the trigger at once.’

  He was still smiling. It was, Molly realized with horror, a child’s smile. And his voice, when he spoke, was becoming a child’s voice.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m Georgie’s brother. Georgie died at Longridge Farm. That nasty woman sent us there, and the farmer’s wife was cruel to us, and you wouldn’t help us—three little blind mice. I said then I’d kill you all when I grew up. I meant it. I’ve thought of it ever since.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘They bothered me a lot in the army—that doctor kept asking me questions—I had to get away. I was afraid they’d stop me doing what I wanted to do. But I’m grown up now. Grown-ups can do what they like.’

  Molly pulled herself together. Talk to him, she said to herself. Distract his mind.

  ‘But, Jim, listen,’ she said. ‘You’ll never get safely away.’

  His face clouded over. ‘Somebody’s hidden my skis. I can’t find them.’ He laughed. ‘But I daresay it will be all right. It’s your husband’s revolver. I took it out of his drawer. I daresay they’ll think he shot you. Anyway—I don’t much care. It’s been such fun—all of it. Pretending! That woman in London, her face when she recognized me. That stupid woman this morning!’

  He nodded his head.

  Clearly, with eerie effect, came a whistle. Someone whistling the tune of ‘Three Blind Mice.’

  Trotter started, the revolver wavered—a voice shouted, ‘Down, Mrs Davis.’

  Molly dropped to the floor as Major Metcalf, rising from behind the concealment of the sofa by the door flung himself upon Trotter. The revolver went off—and the bullet lodged in one of the somewhat mediocre oil paintings dear to the heart of the late Miss Emory.

  A moment later, all was pandemonium—Giles rushed in, followed by Christopher and Mr Paravicini.

  Major Metcalf, retaining his grasp of Trotter, spoke in short explosive sentences.

  ‘Came in while you were playing—slipped behind the sofa—I’ve been on to him from the beginning—that’s to say, I knew he wasn’t a police officer. I’m a police officer—Inspector Tanner. We arranged with Metcalf I should take his place. Scotland Yard thought it advisable to have someone on the spot. Now, my lad—’ He spoke quite gently to the now docile Trotter. ‘You come with me. No one will hurt you. You’ll be all right. We’ll look after you.’

  In a piteous child’s voice the bronzed young man asked, ‘Georgie won’t be angry with me?’

  Metcalf said, ‘No. Georgie won’t be angry.’

  He murmured to Giles as he passed him, ‘Mad as a hatter, poor devil.’

  They went out together. Mr Paravicini touched Christopher Wren on the arm.

  ‘You, also, my friend,’ he said, ‘come with me.’

  Giles and Molly, left alone, looked at each other. In another moment they were in each other’s arms.

  ‘Darling,’ said Giles, ‘you’re sure he didn’t hurt you?’

  ‘No, no, I’m quite all right. Giles, I’ve been so terribly mixed up. I almost thought you—why did you go to London that day?’

  ‘Darling, I wanted to get you an anniversary present, for tomorrow. I didn’t want you to know.’

  ‘How extraordinary! I went to London to get you a present and I didn’t want you to know.’

  ‘I was insanely jealous of that neurotic ass. I must have been mad. Forgive me, darling.’

  The door opened, and Mr Paravicini skipped in in his goatlike way. He was beaming.

  ‘Interrupting the reconciliation—Such a charming scene—But, alas, I must bid you adieu. A police jeep has managed to get through. I shall persuade them to take me with them.’ He bent and whispered mysteriously in Molly’s ear, ‘I may have a few embarrassments in the near future—but I am confident I can arrange matters, and if you should receive a case—with a goose, say, a turkey, some tins of foie gras, a ham—some nylon stockings, yes? Well, you understand, it will be with my compliments to a very charming lady. Mr Davis, my check is on the hall table.’

  He kissed Molly’s hand and skipped to the door.

  ‘Nylons?’ murmured Molly, ‘Foie gras? Who is Mr Paravicini? Santa Claus?’

  ‘Black-market style, I suspect,’ said Giles.

  Christopher Wren poked a diffident head in. ‘My dears,’ he said, ‘I hope I’m not intruding, but there’s a terrible smell of burning from the kitchen. Ought I to do something about it?’

  With an anguished cry of ‘My pie!’ Molly fled from the room.

  The Chocolate Box

  It was a wild night. Outside, the wind howled malevolently, and the rain beat against the windows in great gusts.

  Poirot and I sat facing the hearth, our legs stretched out to the cheerful blaze. Between us was a small table. On my side of it stood some carefully brewed hot toddy; on Poirot’s was a cup of thick, rich chocolate which I would not have drunk for a hundred pounds! Poirot sipped the thick brown mess in the pink china cup, and sighed with contentment.

  ‘Quelle belle vie!’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes, it’s a good old world,’ I agreed. ‘Here am I with a job, and a good job too! And here are you, famous—’

  ‘Oh, mon ami!’ protested Poirot.

  ‘But you are. And rightly so! When I think back on your long line of successes, I am positively amazed. I don’t believe you know what failure is!’

  ‘He would be a droll kind of original who could say that!’

  ‘No, but seriously, have you ever failed?’

  ‘Innumerable times, my friend. What would you? La bonne chance, it cannot always be on your side. I have been called in too late. Very often another, working towards the same goal, has arrived there first. Twice have I been stricken down with illness just as I was on the point of success. One must take the downs with the ups, my friend.’

  ‘I didn’t quite mean that,’ I said. ‘I meant, had you ever been completely down and out over a case through your own fault?’

  ‘Ah, I comprehend! You ask if I have ever made the complete prize ass of myself, as you say over here? Once, my friend—’ A slow, reflective smile hovered over his face. ‘Yes, once I made a fool of myself.’

  He sat up suddenly in his chair.

  ‘See here, my friend, you have, I know, kept a record of my little successes. You shall add one more story to the collection, the story of a failure!’

  He leaned forward and placed a log on the fire. Then, after carefully wiping his hands on a little duster that hung on a nail by the fireplace, he leaned back and commenced his story.

  That of which I tell you (said M. Poirot) took place in Belgium many years ago. It was at the time of the terrible struggle in France between church and state. M. Paul Déroulard was a French deputy of note. It was an open secret that the portfolio of a Minister awaited him. He was among the bitterest of the anti-Catholic party, and it was certain that on his accession to power, he would have to face violent enmity. He was in many ways a peculiar man. Though he neither drank nor smoked, he was nevertheless not so scrupulous in other ways. You comprehend, Hastings, c’était des femmes—toujours des femmes!

  He had married some years earlier a young lady from Brussels who had brought him
a substantial dot. Undoubtedly the money was useful to him in his career, as his family was not rich, though on the other hand he was entitled to call himself M. le Baron if he chose. There were no children of the marriage, and his wife died after two years—the result of a fall downstairs. Among the property which she bequeathed to him was a house on the Avenue Louise in Brussels.

  It was in this house that his sudden death took place, the event coinciding with the resignation of the Minister whose portfolio he was to inherit. All the papers printed long notices of his career. His death, which had taken place quite suddenly in the evening after dinner, was attributed to heart-failure.

  At that time, mon ami, I was, as you know, a member of the Belgian detective force. The death of M. Paul Déroulard was not particularly interesting to me. I am, as you also know, bon catholique, and his demise seemed to me fortunate.

  It was some three days afterwards, when my vacation had just begun, that I received a visitor at my own apartments—a lady, heavily veiled, but evidently quite young; and I perceived at once that she was a jeune fille tout à fait comme il faut.

  ‘You are Monsieur Hercule Poirot?’ she asked in a low sweet voice.

  I bowed.

  ‘Of the detective service?’

  Again I bowed. ‘Be seated, I pray of you, mademoiselle,’ I said.

  She accepted a chair and drew aside her veil. Her face was charming, though marred with tears, and haunted as though with some poignant anxiety.

  ‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘I understand that you are now taking a vacation. Therefore you will be free to take up a private case. You understand that I do not wish to call in the police.’

  I shook my head. ‘I fear what you ask is impossible, mademoiselle. Even though on vacation, I am still of the police.’

  She leaned forward. ‘Ecoutez, monsieur. All that I ask of you is to investigate. The result of your investigations you are at perfect liberty to report to the police. If what I believe to be true is true, we shall need all the machinery of the law.’

  That placed a somewhat different complexion on the matter, and I placed myself at her service without more ado.

  A slight colour rose in her cheeks. ‘I thank you, monsieur. It is the death of M. Paul Déroulard that I ask you to investigate.’

  ‘Comment?’ I exclaimed, surprised.

  ‘Monsieur, I have nothing to go upon—nothing but my woman’s instinct, but I am convinced—convinced, I tell you—that M. Déroulard did not die a natural death!’

  ‘But surely the doctors—’

  ‘Doctors may be mistaken. He was so robust, so strong. Ah, Monsieur Poirot, I beseech of you to help me—’

  The poor child was almost beside herself. She would have knelt to me. I soothed her as best I could.

  ‘I will help you, mademoiselle. I feel almost sure that your fears are unfounded, but we will see. First, I will ask you to describe to me the inmates of the house.’

  ‘There are the domestics, of course, Jeannette, Félice, and Denise the cook. She has been there many years; the others are simple country girls. Also there is François, but he too is an old servant. Then there is Monsieur Déroulard’s mother who lived with him, and myself. My name is Virginie Mesnard. I am a poor cousin of the late Madame Déroulard, M. Paul’s wife, and I have been a member of their ménage for over three years. I have now described to you the household. There were also two guests staying in the house.’

  ‘And they were?’

  ‘M. de Saint Alard, a neighbour of M. Déroulard’s in France. Also an English friend, Mr John Wilson.’

  ‘Are they still with you?’

  ‘Mr Wilson, yes, but M. de Saint Alard departed yesterday.’

  ‘And what is your plan, Mademoiselle Mesnard?’

  ‘If you will present yourself at the house in half an hour’s time, I will have arranged some story to account for your presence. I had better represent you to be connected with journalism in some way. I shall say you have come from Paris, and that you have brought a card of introduction from M. de Saint Alard. Madame Déroulard is very feeble in health, and will pay little attention to details.’

  On mademoiselle’s ingenious pretext I was admitted to the house, and after a brief interview with the dead deputy’s mother, who was a wonderfully imposing and aristocratic figure though obviously in failing health, I was made free of the premises.

  I wonder, my friend (continued Poirot), whether you can possibly figure to yourself the difficulties of my task? Here was a man whose death had taken place three days previously. If there had been foul play, only one possibility was admittable—poison! And I had no chance of seeing the body, and there was no possibility of examining, or analysing, any medium in which the poison could have been administered. There were no clues, false or otherwise, to consider. Had the man been poisoned? Had he died a natural death? I, Hercule Poirot, with nothing to help me, had to decide.

  First, I interviewed the domestics, and with their aid, I recapitulated the evening. I paid especial notice to the food at dinner, and the method of serving it. The soup had been served by M. Déroulard himself from a tureen. Next a dish of cutlets, then a chicken. Finally, a compote of fruits. And all placed on the table, and served by Monsieur himself. The coffee was brought in a big pot to the dinner-table. Nothing there, mon ami—impossible to poison one without poisoning all!

  After dinner Madame Déroulard had retired to her own apartments and Mademoiselle Virginie had accompanied her. The three men had adjourned to M. Déroulard’s study. Here they had chatted amicably for some time, when suddenly, without any warning, the deputy had fallen heavily to the ground. M. de Saint Alard had rushed out and told François to fetch the doctor immediately. He said it was without doubt an apoplexy, explained the man. But when the doctor arrived, the patient was past help.

  Mr John Wilson, to whom I was presented by Mademoiselle Virginie, was what was known in those days as a regular John Bull Englishman, middle-aged and burly. His account, delivered in very British French, was substantially the same.

  ‘Déroulard went very red in the face, and down he fell.’

  There was nothing further to be found out there. Next I went to the scene of the tragedy, the study, and was left alone there at my own request. So far there was nothing to support Mademoiselle Mesnard’s theory. I could not but believe that it was a delusion on her part. Evidently she had entertained a romantic passion for the dead man which had not permitted her to take a normal view of the case. Nevertheless, I searched the study with meticulous care. It was just possible that a hypodermic needle might have been introduced into the dead man’s chair in such a way as to allow of a fatal injection. The minute puncture it would cause was likely to remain unnoticed. But I could discover no sign to support the theory. I flung myself down in the chair with a gesture of despair.

  ‘Enfin, I abandon it!’ I said aloud. ‘There is not a clue anywhere! Everything is perfectly normal.’

  As I said the words, my eyes fell on a large box of chocolates standing on a table near by, and my heart gave a leap. It might not be a clue to M. Déroulard’s death, but here at least was something that was not normal. I lifted the lid. The box was full, untouched; not a chocolate was missing—but that only made the peculiarity that had caught my eye more striking. For, see you, Hastings, while the box itself was pink, the lid was blue. Now, one often sees a blue ribbon on a pink box, and vice versa, but a box of one colour, and a lid of another—no, decidedly—ça ne se voit jamais!

  I did not as yet see that this little incident was of any use to me, yet I determined to investigate it as being out of the ordinary. I rang the bell for François, and asked him if his late master had been fond of sweets. A faint melancholy smile came to his lips.

  ‘Passionately fond of them, monsieur. He would always have a box of chocolates in the house. He did not drink wine of any kind, you see.’

  ‘Yet this box has not been touched?’ I lifted the lid to show him.

  ‘Pardon, mo
nsieur, but that was a new box purchased on the day of his death, the other being nearly finished.’

  ‘Then the other box was finished on the day of his death,’ I said slowly.

  ‘Yes, monsieur, I found it empty in the morning and threw it away.’

  ‘Did M. Déroulard eat sweets at all hours of the day?’

  ‘Usually after dinner, monsieur.’

  I began to see light.

  ‘François,’ I said, ‘you can be discreet?’

  ‘If there is need, monsieur.’

  ‘Bon! Know, then, that I am of the police. Can you find me that other box?’

  ‘Without doubt, monsieur. It will be in the dustbin.’

  He departed, and returned in a few minutes with a dust-covered object. It was the duplicate of the box I held, save for the fact that this time the box was blue and the lid was pink. I thanked François, recommended him once more to be discreet, and left the house in the Avenue Louise without more ado.

  Next I called upon the doctor who had attended M. Déroulard. With him I had a difficult task. He entrenched himself prettily behind a wall of learned phraseology, but I fancied that he was not quite as sure about the case as he would like to be.

  ‘There have been many curious occurrences of the kind,’ he observed, when I had managed to disarm him somewhat. ‘A sudden fit of anger, a violent emotion—after a heavy dinner, c’est entendu—then, with an access of rage, the blood flies to the head, and pst!—there you are!’

  ‘But M. Déroulard had had no violent emotion.’

  ‘No? I made sure that he had been having a stormy altercation with M. de Saint Alard.’

  ‘Why should he?’

  ‘C’est évident!’ The doctor shrugged his shoulders. ‘Was not M. de Saint Alard a Catholic of the most fanatical? Their friendship was being ruined by this question of church and state. Not a day passed without discussions. To M. de Saint Alard, Déroulard appeared almost as Antichrist.’

  This was unexpected, and gave me food for thought.

  ‘One more question, Doctor: would it be possible to introduce a fatal dose of poison into a chocolate?’