Midwinter Murder

by Agatha Christie

‘I suppose,’ said Edward, ‘that I’m so completely ordinary. Is that it?’

  ‘Not ordinary—different. I can’t make you out. How’s poor old Jimmy? Very fed up, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, Jimmy’s all right,’ said Edward.

  ‘It’s easy enough to say that—but it’s rough luck on him having a sprained ankle. Did he tell you the whole story?’

  ‘Not a word. I’m completely in the dark. I wish you’d enlighten me.’

  ‘Oh, the thing worked like a dream. Jimmy went in at the front door, togged up in his girl’s clothes. I gave him a minute or two, and then shinned up to the window. Agnes Larella’s maid was there laying out Agnes’s dress and jewels, and all the rest. Then there was a great yell downstairs, and the squib went off, and everyone shouted fire. The maid dashed out, and I hopped in, helped myself to the necklace, and was out and down in a flash, and out of the place by the back way across the Punch Bowl. I shoved the necklace and the notice where to pick me up in the pocket of the car in passing. Then I joined Louise at the hotel, having shed my snow boots of course. Perfect alibi for me. She’d no idea I’d been out at all.’

  ‘And what about Jimmy?’

  ‘Well, you know more about that than I do.’

  ‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ said Edward easily.

  ‘Well, in the general rag, he caught his foot in his skirt and managed to sprain it. They had to carry him to the car, and the Larellas’ chauffeur drove him home. Just fancy if the chauffeur had happened to put his hand in the pocket!’

  Edward laughed with her, but his mind was busy. He understood the position more or less now. The name of Larella was vaguely familiar to him—it was a name that spelt wealth. This girl, and an unknown man called Jimmy, had conspired together to steal the necklace, and had succeeded. Owing to his sprained ankle and the presence of the Larellas’ chauffeur Jimmy had not been able to look in the pocket of the car before telephoning to the girl—probably had had no wish to do so. But it was almost certain that the other unknown ‘Gerald’ would do so at any early opportunity. And in it, he would find Edward’s muffler!

  ‘Good going,’ said the girl.

  A tram flashed past them, they were on the outskirts of London. They flashed in and out of the traffic. Edward’s heart stood in his mouth. She was a wonderful driver, this girl, but she took risks!

  Quarter of an hour later they drew up before an imposing house in a frigid square.

  ‘We can shed some of our clothing here,’ said the girl, ‘before we go on to Ritson’s.’

  ‘Ritson’s?’ queried Edward. He mentioned the famous night-club almost reverently.

  ‘Yes, didn’t Gerald tell you?’

  ‘He did not,’ said Edward grimly. ‘What about my clothes?’

  She frowned.

  ‘Didn’t they tell you anything? We’ll rig you up somehow. We’ve got to carry this through.’

  A stately butler opened the door and stood aside to let them enter.

  ‘Mr Gerald Champneys rang up, your ladyship. He was very anxious to speak to you, but he wouldn’t leave a message.’

  ‘I bet he was anxious to speak to her,’ said Edward to himself. ‘At any rate, I know my full name now. Edward Champneys. But who is she? Your ladyship, they called her. What does she want to steal a necklace for? Bridge debts?’

  In the feuilletons which he occasionally read, the beautiful and titled heroine was always driven desperate by bridge debts.

  Edward was led away by the stately butler, and delivered over to a smooth-mannered valet. A quarter of an hour later he rejoined his hostess in the hall, exquisitely attired in evening clothes made in Savile Row which fitted him to a nicety.

  Heavens! What a night!

  They drove in the car to the famous Ritson’s. In common with everyone else Edward had read scandalous paragraphs concerning Ritson’s. Anyone who was anyone turned up at Ritson’s sooner or later. Edward’s only fear was that someone who knew the real Edward Champneys might turn up. He consoled himself by the reflection that the real man had evidently been out of England for some years.

  Sitting at a little table against the wall, they sipped cocktails. Cocktails! To the simple Edward they represented the quintessence of the fast life. The girl, wrapped in a wonderful embroidered shawl, sipped nonchalantly. Suddenly she dropped the shawl from her shoulders and rose.

  ‘Let’s dance.’

  Now the one thing that Edward could do to perfection was to dance. When he and Maud took the floor together at the Palais de Danse, lesser lights stood still and watched in admiration.

  ‘I nearly forgot,’ said the girl suddenly. ‘The necklace?’

  She held out her hand. Edward, completely bewildered, drew it from his pocket and gave it to her. To his utter amazement, she coolly clasped it round her neck. Then she smiled up at him intoxicatingly.

  ‘Now,’ she said softly, ‘we’ll dance.’

  They danced. And in all Ritson’s nothing more perfect could be seen.

  Then, as at length they returned to their table, an old gentleman with a would-be rakish air accosted Edward’s companion.

  ‘Ah! Lady Noreen, always dancing! Yes, yes. Is Captain Folliot here tonight?’

  ‘Jimmy’s taken a toss—racked his ankle.’

  ‘You don’t say so? How did that happen?’

  ‘No details as yet.’

  She laughed and passed on.

  Edward followed, his brain in a whirl. He knew now. Lady Noreen Eliot, the famous Lady Noreen herself, perhaps the most talked of girl in England. Celebrated for her beauty, for her daring—the leader of that set known as the Bright Young People. Her engagement to Captain James Folliot, V.C., of the Household Calvalry, had been recently announced.

  But the necklace? He still couldn’t understand the necklace. He must risk giving himself away, but know he must.

  As they sat down again, he pointed to it.

  ‘Why that, Noreen?’ he said. ‘Tell me why?’

  She smiled dreamily, her eyes far away, the spell of the dance still holding her.

  ‘It’s difficult for you to understand, I suppose. One gets so tired of the same thing—always the same thing. Treasure hunts were all very well for a while, but one gets used to everything. ‘Burglaries” were my idea. Fifty pounds entrance fee, and lots to be drawn. This is the third. Jimmy and I drew Agnes Larella. You know the rules? Burglary to be carried out within three days and the loot to be worn for at least an hour in a public place, or you forfeit your stake and a hundred-pound fine. It’s rough luck on Jimmy spraining his ankle, but we’ll scoop the pool all right.’

  ‘I see,’ said Edward, drawing a deep breath. ‘I see.’

  Noreen rose suddenly, pulling her shawl round her.

  ‘Drive me somewhere in the car. Down to the docks. Somewhere horrible and exciting. Wait a minute—’ She reached up and unclasped the diamonds from her neck. ‘You’d better take these again. I don’t want to be murdered for them.’

  They went out of Ritson’s together. The car stood in a small by-street, narrow and dark. As they turned the corner towards it, another car drew up to the curb, and a young man sprang out.

  ‘Thank the Lord, Noreen, I’ve got hold of you at last,’ he cried. ‘There’s the devil to pay. That ass Jimmy got off with the wrong car. God knows where those diamonds are at this minute. We’re in the devil of a mess.’

  Lady Noreen stared at him.

  ‘What do you mean? We’ve got the diamonds—at least Edward has.’

  ‘Edward?’

  ‘Yes.’ She made a slight gesture to indicate the figure by her side.

  ‘It’s I who am in the devil of a mess,’ thought Edward. ‘Ten to one this is brother Gerald.’

  The young man stared at him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said slowly. ‘Edward’s in Scotland.’

  ‘Oh!’ cried the girl. She stared at Edward. ‘Oh!’

  Her colour came and went.

  ‘So you,’ she said, in a l
ow voice, ‘are the real thing?’

  It took Edward just one minute to grasp the situation. There was awe in the girl’s eyes—was it, could it be—admiration? Should he explain? Nothing so tame! He would play up to the end.

  He bowed ceremoniously.

  ‘I have to thank you, Lady Noreen,’ he said, in the best highwayman manner, ‘for a most delightful evening.’

  One quick look he cast at the car from which the other had just alighted. A scarlet car with a shining bonnet. His car!

  ‘And I will wish you good-evening.’

  One quick spring and he was inside, his foot on the clutch. The car started forward. Gerald stood paralysed, but the girl was quicker. As the car slid past she leapt for it, alighting on the running board.

  The car swerved, shot blindly round the corner and pulled up. Noreen, still panting from her spring, laid her hand on Edward’s arm.

  ‘You must give it me—oh, you must give it me. I’ve got to return it to Agnes Larella. Be a sport—we’ve had a good evening together—we’ve danced—we’ve been—pals. Won’t you give it to me? To me?’

  A woman who intoxicated you with her beauty. There were such women then . . .

  Also, Edward was only too anxious to get rid of the necklace. It was a heaven-sent opportunity for a beau geste.

  He took it from his pocket and dropped it into her outstretched hand.

  ‘We’ve been—pals,’ he said.

  ‘Ah!’ Her eyes smouldered—lit up.

  Then surprisingly she bent her head to him. For a moment he held her, her lips against his . . .

  Then she jumped off. The scarlet car sped forward with a great leap.

  Romance!

  Adventure!

  At twelve o’clock on Christmas Day, Edward Robinson strode into the tiny drawing-room of a house in Clapham with the customary greeting of ‘Merry Christmas’.

  Maud, who was rearranging a piece of holly, greeted him coldly.

  ‘Have a good day in the country with that friend of yours?’ she inquired.

  ‘Look here,’ said Edward. ‘That was a lie I told you. I won a competition—£500, and I bought a car with it. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d kick up a row about it. That’s the first thing. I’ve bought the car and there’s nothing more to be said about it. The second thing is this—I’m not going to hang about for years. My prospects are quite good enough and I mean to marry you next month. See?’

  ‘Oh!’ said Maud faintly.

  Was this—could this be—Edward speaking in this masterful fashion?

  ‘Will you?’ said Edward. ‘Yes or no?’

  She gazed at him, fascinated. There was awe and admiration in her eyes, and the sight of that look was intoxicating to Edward. Gone was that patient motherliness which had roused him to exasperation.

  So had the Lady Noreen looked at him last night. But the Lady Noreen had receded far away, right into the region of Romance, side by side with the Marchesa Bianca. This was the Real Thing. This was his woman.

  ‘Yes or no?’ he repeated, and drew a step nearer.

  ‘Ye—ye-es,’ faltered Maud. ‘But, oh, Edward, what has happened to you? You’re quite different today.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Edward. ‘For twenty-four hours I’ve been a man instead of a worm—and, by God, it pays!’

  He caught her in his arms almost as Bill the superman might have done.

  ‘Do you love me, Maud? Tell me, do you love me?’

  ‘Oh, Edward!’ breathed Maud. ‘I adore you . . .’

  Christmas Adventure

  The big logs crackled merrily in the wide, open fireplace, and above their crackling rose the babel of six tongues all wagging industriously together. The house-party of young people were enjoying their Christmas.

  Old Miss Endicott, known to most of those present as Aunt Emily, smiled indulgently on the clatter.

  ‘Bet you you can’t eat six mince-pies, Jean.’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘You’ll get the pig out of the trifle if you do.’

  ‘Yes, and three helps of trifle, and two helps of plum-pudding.’

  ‘I hope the pudding will be good,’ said Miss Endicott apprehensively. ‘But they were only made three days ago. Christmas puddings ought to be made a long time before Christmas. Why, I remember when I was a child, I thought the last Collect before Advent—‘Stir up, O Lord, we beseech Thee . . .’—referred in some way to stirring up the Christmas puddings!’

  There was a polite pause while Miss Endicott was speaking. Not because any of the young people were in the least interested in her reminiscences of bygone days, but because they felt that some show of attention was due by good manners to their hostess. As soon as she stopped, the babel burst out again. Miss Endicott sighed, and glanced towards the only member of the party whose years approached her own, as though in search of sympathy—a little man with a curious egg-shaped head and fierce upstanding moustaches. Young people were not what they were, reflected Miss Endicott. In olden days there would have been a mute, respectful circle, listening to the pearls of wisdom dropped by their elders. Instead of which there was all this nonsensical chatter, most of it utterly incomprehensible. All the same, they were dear children! Her eyes softened as she passed them in review—tall, freckled Jean; little Nancy Cardell, with her dark, gipsy beauty; the two younger boys home from school, Johnnie and Eric, and their friend, Charlie Pease; and fair, beautiful Evelyn Haworth . . . At thought of the last, her brow contracted a little, and her eyes wandered to where her eldest nephew, Roger, sat morosely silent, taking no part in the fun, with his eyes fixed on the exquisite Northern fairness of the young girl.

  ‘Isn’t the snow ripping?’ cried Johnnie, approaching the window. ‘Real Christmas weather. I say, let’s have a snowball fight. There’s lots of time before dinner, isn’t there, Aunt Emily?’

  ‘Yes, my dear. We have it at two o’clock. That reminds me, I had better see to the table.’

  She hurried out of the room.

  ‘I tell you what. We’ll make a snowman!’ screamed Jean.

  ‘Yes, what fun! I know; we’ll do a snow statue of M. Poirot. Do you hear, M. Poirot? The great detective, Hercule Poirot, modelled in snow, by six celebrated artists!’

  The little man in the chair bowed his acknowledgements with a twinkling eye.

  ‘Make him very handsome, my children,’ he urged. ‘I insist on that.’

  ‘Ra-ther!’

  The troop disappeared like a whirlwind, colliding in the doorway with a stately butler who was entering with a note on a salver. The butler, his calm re-established, advanced towards Poirot.

  Poirot took the note and tore it open. The butler departed. Twice the little man read the note through, then he folded it up and put it in his pocket. Not a muscle of his face had moved, and yet the contents of the note were sufficiently surprising. Scrawled in an illiterate hand were the words: ‘Don’t eat any plum-pudding.’

  ‘Very interesting,’ murmured M. Poirot to himself. ‘And quite unexpected.’

  He looked across to the fireplace. Evelyn Haworth had not gone out with the rest. She was sitting staring at the fire, absorbed in thought, nervously twisting a ring on the third finger of her left hand round and round.

  ‘You are lost in a dream, Mademoiselle,’ said the little man at last. ‘And the dream is not a happy one, eh?’

  She started, and looked across at him uncertainly. He nodded reassuringly.

  ‘It is my business to know things. No, you are not happy. Me, too, I am not very happy. Shall we confide in each other? See you, I have the big sorrow because a friend of mine, a friend of many years, has gone away across the sea to the South America. Sometimes, when we were together, this friend made me impatient, his stupidity enraged me; but now that he is gone, I can remember only his good qualities. That is the way of life, is it not? And now, Mademoiselle, what is your trouble? You are not like me, old and alone—you are young and beautiful; an
d the man you love loves you—oh yes, it is so: I have been watching him for the last half-hour.’

  The girl’s colour rose.

  ‘You mean Roger Endicott? Oh, but you have made a mistake; it is not Roger I am engaged to.’

  ‘No, you are engaged to Mr Oscar Levering. I know that perfectly. But why are you engaged to him, since you love another man?’

  The girl did not seem to resent his words; indeed, there was something in his manner which made that impossible. He spoke with a mixture of kindliness and authority that was irresistible.

  ‘Tell me all about it,’ said Poirot gently; and he added the phrase he had used before, the sound of which was oddly comforting to the girl. ‘It is my business to know things.’

  ‘I am so miserable, M. Poirot—so very miserable. You see, once we were very well off. I was supposed to be an heiress, and Roger was only a younger son; and—and although I’m sure he cared for me, he never said anything, but went off to Australia.’

  ‘It is droll, the way they arrange the marriages over here,’ interpolated M. Poirot. ‘No order. No method. Everything left to chance.’ Evelyn continued.

  ‘Then suddenly we lost all our money. My mother and I were left almost penniless. We moved into a tiny house, and we could just manage. But my mother became very ill. The only chance for her was to have a serious operation and go abroad to a warm climate. And we hadn’t the money, M. Poirot—we hadn’t the money! It meant that she must die. Mr Levering had proposed to me once or twice already. He again asked me to marry him, and promised to do everything that could be done for my mother. I said yes—what else could I do? He kept his word. The operation was performed by the greatest specialist of the day, and we went to Egypt for the winter. That was a year ago. My mother is well and strong again; and I—I am to marry Mr Levering after Christmas.’

  ‘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.