Hercule Poirot's Christmas

by Agatha Christie

Her father-in-law looked at her, a keen, penetrating glance.

  He laughed.

  ‘I never get any change out of Lydia,’ he said. ‘I’ll say this for you, Lydia, you’re a well-bred woman. Breeding tells. I know that well enough. A funny thing, though, heredity. There’s only one of you that’s taken after me—only one out of all the litter.’

  His eyes danced.

  ‘Now guess who’s coming for Christmas. I’ll give you three guesses and I’ll bet you a fiver you won’t get the answer.’

  He looked from one face to the other. Alfred said frowning:

  ‘Horbury said you expected a young lady.’

  ‘That intrigued you—yes, I dare say it did. Pilar will be arriving any minute now. I gave orders for the car to go and meet her.’

  Alfred said sharply:

  ‘Pilar?’

  Simeon said:

  ‘Pilar Estravados. Jennifer’s girl. My granddaughter. I wonder what she’ll be like.’

  Alfred cried out:

  ‘Good heavens, Father, you never told me…’

  The old man was grinning.

  ‘No, I thought I’d keep it a secret! Got Charlton to write out and fix things.’

  Alfred repeated, his tone hurt and reproachful:

  ‘You never told me…’

  His father said, still grinning wickedly:

  ‘It would have spoilt the surprise! Wonder what it will be like to have young blood under this roof again? I never saw Estravados. Wonder which the girl takes after—her mother or her father?’

  ‘Do you really think it’s wise, Father,’ began Alfred. ‘Taking everything into consideration—’

  The old man interrupted him.

  ‘Safety—safety—you play for safety too much, Alfred! Always have! That hasn’t been my way! Do what you want and be damned to it! That’s what I say! The girl’s my granddaughter—the only grandchild in the family! I don’t care what her father was or what he did! She’s my flesh and blood! And she’s coming to live here in my house.’

  Lydia said sharply: ‘She’s coming to live here?’

  He darted a quick look at her. ‘Do you object?’

  She shook her head. She said smiling:

  ‘I couldn’t very well object to your asking someone to your own house, could I? No, I was wondering about—her.’

  ‘About her—what d’you mean?’

  ‘Whether she would be happy here.’

  Old Simeon flung up his head.

  ‘She’s not got a penny in the world. She ought to be thankful!’

  Lydia shrugged her shoulders.

  Simeon turned to Alfred:

  ‘You see? It’s going to be a grand Christmas! All my children round me. All my children! There, Alfred, there’s your clue. Now guess who the other visitor is.’

  Alfred stared at him.

  ‘All my children! Guess, boy! Harry, of course! Your brother Harry!’

  Alfred had gone very pale. He stammered:

  ‘Harry—not Harry—’

  ‘Harry himself!’

  ‘But we thought he was dead!’

  ‘Not he!’

  ‘You—you are having him back here? After everything?’

  ‘The prodigal son, eh? You’re right. The fatted calf! We must kill the fatted calf, Alfred. We must give him a grand welcome.’

  Alfred said:

  ‘He treated you—all of us—disgracefully. He—’

  ‘No need to recite his crimes! It’s a long list. But Christmas, you’ll remember, is the season of forgiveness! We’ll welcome the prodigal home.’

  Alfred rose. He murmured:

  ‘This has been—rather a shock. I never dreamt that Harry would ever come inside these walls again.’

  Simeon leaned forward.

  ‘You never liked Harry, did you?’ he said softly.

  ‘After the way he behaved to you—’

  Simeon cackled. He said:

  ‘Ah, but bygones must be bygones. That’s the spirit for Christmas, isn’t it, Lydia?’

  Lydia, too, had gone pale. She said dryly:

  ‘I see that you have thought a good deal about Christmas this year.’

  ‘I want my family round me. Peace and goodwill. I’m an old man. Are you going, my dear?’

  Alfred had hurried out. Lydia paused a moment before following him.

  Simeon nodded his head after the retreating figure.

  ‘It’s upset him. He and Harry never got on. Harry used to jeer at Alfred. Called him old Slow and Sure.’

  Lydia’s lips parted. She was about to speak, then, as she saw the old man’s eager expression, she checked herself. Her self-control, she saw, disappointed him. The perception of that fact enabled her to say:

  ‘The hare and the tortoise. Ah, well, the tortoise wins the race.’

  ‘Not always,’ said Simeon. ‘Not always, my dear Lydia.’

  She said, still smiling:

  ‘Excuse me, I must go after Alfred. Sudden excitements always upset him.’

  Simeon cackled.

  ‘Yes, Alfred doesn’t like changes. He always was a regular sobersides.’

  Lydia said:

  ‘Alfred is very devoted to you.’

  ‘That seems odd to you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Lydia, ‘it does.’

  She left the room. Simeon looked after her.

  He chuckled softly and rubbed his palms together. ‘Lots of fun,’ he said. ‘Lots of fun still. I’m going to enjoy this Christmas.’

  With an effort he pulled himself upright, and with the help of his stick, shuffled across the room.

  He went to a big safe that stood at the corner of the room. He twirled the handle of the combination. The door came open and, with shaking fingers, he felt inside.

  He lifted out a small wash-leather bag, and opening it, let a stream of uncut diamonds pass through his fingers.

  ‘Well, my beauties, well…Still the same—still my old friends. Those were good days—good days…They shan’t carve you and cut you about, my friends. You shan’t hang round the necks of women or sit on their fingers or hang on their ears. You’re mine! My old friends! We know a thing or two, you and I. I’m old, they say, and ill, but I’m not done for! Lots of life in the old dog yet. And there’s still some fun to be got out of life. Still some fun—’

  Part 2

  December 23rd

  Tressilian went to answer the doorbell. It had been an unusually aggressive peal, and now, before he could make his slow way across the hall, it pealed out again.

  Tressilian flushed. An ill-mannered, impatient way of ringing the bell at a gentleman’s house! If it was a fresh lot of those carol singers he’d give them a piece of his mind.

  Through the frosted glass of the upper half of the door he saw a silhouette—a big man in a slouch hat. He opened the door. As he had thought—a cheap, flashy stranger—nasty pattern of suit he was wearing—loud! Some impudent begging fellow!

  ‘Blessed if it isn’t Tressilian,’ said the stranger. ‘How are you, Tressilian?’

  Tressilian stared—took a deep breath—stared again. That bold arrogant jaw, the high-bridged nose, the rollicking eye. Yes, they had all been there three years ago. More subdued then…

  He said with a gasp:

  ‘Mr Harry!’

  Harry Lee laughed.

  ‘Looks as though I’d given you quite a shock. Why? I’m expected, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, sir. Certainly, sir.’

  ‘Then why the surprise act?’ Harry stepped back a foot or two and looked up at the house—a good solid mass of red brick, unimaginative but solid.

  ‘Just the same ugly old mansion,’ he remarked. ‘Still standing, though, that’s the main thing. How’s my father, Tressilian?’

  ‘He’s somewhat of an invalid, sir. Keeps his room, and can’t get about much. But he’s wonderfully well, considering.’

  ‘The old sinner!’

  Harry Lee came inside, let Tressilian remo
ve his scarf and take the somewhat theatrical hat.

  ‘How’s my dear brother Alfred, Tressilian?’

  ‘He’s very well, sir.’

  Harry grinned.

  ‘Looking forward to seeing me? Eh?’

  ‘I expect so, sir.’

  ‘I don’t! Quite the contrary. I bet it’s given him a nasty jolt, my turning up! Alfred and I never did get on. Ever read your Bible, Tressilian?’

  ‘Why, yes, sir, sometimes, sir.’

  ‘Remember the tale of the prodigal’s return? The good brother didn’t like it, remember? Didn’t like it at all! Good old stay-at-home Alfred doesn’t like it either, I bet.’

  Tressilian remained silent looking down his nose. His stiffened back expressed protest. Harry clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Lead on, old son,’ he said. ‘The fatted calf awaits me! Lead me right to it.’

  Tressilian murmured:

  ‘If you will come this way into the drawing-room, sir. Iam not quite sure where everyone is…They were unable to send to meet you, sir, not knowing the time of your arrival.’

  Harry nodded. He followed Tressilian along the hall, turning his head to look about him as he went.

  ‘All the old exhibits in their place, I see,’ he remarked. ‘I don’t believe anything has changed since I went away twenty years ago.’

  He followed Tressilian into the drawing-room. The old man murmured:

  ‘I will see if I can find Mr or Mrs Alfred,’ and hurried out.

  Harry Lee had marched into the room and had then stopped, staring at the figure who was seated on one of the window-sills. His eyes roamed incredulously over the black hair and the creamy exotic pallor.

  ‘Good Lord!’ he said. ‘Are you my father’s seventh and most beautiful wife?’

  Pilar slipped down and came towards him.

  ‘I am Pilar Estravados,’ she announced. ‘And you must be my Uncle Harry, my mother’s brother.’

  Harry said, staring:

  ‘So that’s who you are! Jenny’s daughter.’

  Pilar said: ‘Why did you ask me if I was your father’s seventh wife? Has he really had six wives?’

  Harry laughed.

  ‘No, I believe he’s only had one official one. Well—Pil—what’s your name?’

  ‘Pilar, yes.’

  ‘Well, Pilar, it really gives me quite a turn to see something like you blooming in this mausoleum.’

  ‘This—maus—please?’

  ‘This museum of stuffed dummies! I always thought this house was lousy! Now I see it again I think it’s lousier than ever!’

  Pilar said in a shocked voice:

  ‘Oh, no, it is very handsome here! The furniture is good and the carpets—thick carpets everywhere—and there are lots of ornaments. Everything is very good quality and very, very rich!’

  ‘You’re right there,’ said Harry, grinning. He looked at her with amusement. ‘You know, I can’t help getting a kick out of seeing you in the midst—’

  He broke off as Lydia came rapidly into the room.

  She came straight to him.

  ‘How d’you do, Harry? I’m Lydia—Alfred’s wife.’

  ‘How de do, Lydia.’ He shook hands, examining her intelligent mobile face in a swift glance and approving mentally of the way she walked—very few women moved well.

  Lydia in her turn took quick stock of him.

  She thought: ‘He looks a frightful tough—attractive though. I wouldn’t trust him an inch…’

  She said smiling:

  ‘How does it look after all these years? Quite different, or very much the same?’

  ‘Pretty much the same.’ He looked round him. ‘This room’s been done over.’

  ‘Oh, many times.’

  He said:

  ‘I meant by you. You’ve made it—different.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so…’

  He grinned at her, a sudden impish grin that reminded her with a start of the old man upstairs.

  ‘It’s got more class about it now! I remember hearing that old Alfred had married a girl whose people came over with the Conqueror.’

  Lydia smiled. She said:

  ‘I believe they did. But they’ve rather run to seed since those days.’

  Harry said:

  ‘How’s old Alfred? Just the same blessed old stick-in-the-mud as ever?’

  ‘I’ve no idea whether you will find him changed or not.’

  ‘How are the others? Scattered all over England?’

  ‘No—they’re all here for Christmas, you know.’

  Harry’s eyes opened.

  ‘Regular Christmas family reunion? What’s the matter with the old man? He used not to give a damn for sentiment. Don’t remember his caring much for his family, either. He must have changed!’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Lydia’s voice was dry.

  Pilar was staring, her big eyes wide and interested.

  Harry said:

  ‘How’s old George? Still the same skinflint? How he used to howl if he had to part with a halfpenny of his pocket-money!’

  Lydia said:

  ‘George is in Parliament. He’s member for Westeringham.’

  ‘What? Popeye in Parliament? Lord, that’s good.’

  Harry threw back his head and laughed.

  It was rich stentorian laughter—it sounded uncontrolled and brutal in the confined space of the room. Pilar drew in her breath with a gasp. Lydia flinched a little.

  Then, at a movement behind him, Harry broke off his laugh and turned sharply. He had not heard anyone coming in, but Alfred was standing there quietly. He was looking at Harry with an odd expression on his face.

  Harry stood a minute, then a slow smile crept to his lips. He advanced a step.

  ‘Why,’ he said, ‘it’s Alfred!’

  Alfred nodded.

  ‘Hallo, Harry,’ he said.

  They stood staring at each other. Lydia caught her breath. She thought:

  ‘How absurd! Like two dogs—looking at each other…’

  Pilar’s gaze widened even further. She thought to herself:

  ‘How silly they look standing there…Why do they not embrace? No, of course the English do not do that. But they might say something. Why do they just look?’

  Harry said at last:

  ‘Well, well. Feels funny to be here again!’

  ‘I expect so—yes. A good many years since you—got out.’

  Harry threw up his head. He drew his finger along the line of his jaw. It was a gesture that was habitual with him. It expressed belligerence.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I have come’—he paused to bring out the word with greater significance—‘home…’

  II

  ‘I’ve been, I suppose, a very wicked man,’ said Simeon Lee.

  He was leaning back in his chair. His chin was raised and with one finger he was stroking his jaw reflectively. In front of him a big fire glowed and danced. Beside it sat Pilar, a little screen of papier-mâché held in her hand. With it she shielded her face from the blaze. Occasionally she fanned herself with it, using her wrist in a supple gesture. Simeon looked at her with satisfaction.

  He went on talking, perhaps more to himself than to the girl, and stimulated by the fact of her presence.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve been a wicked man. What do you say to that, Pilar?’

  Pilar shrugged her shoulders. She said:

  ‘All men are wicked. The nuns say so. That is why one has to pray for them.’

  ‘Ah, but I’ve been more wicked than most.’ Simeon laughed. ‘I don’t regret it, you know. No, I don’t regret anything. I’ve enjoyed myself…every minute! They say you repent when you get old. That’s bunkum. I don’t repent. And as I tell you, I’ve done most things…all the good old sins! I’ve cheated and stolen and lied…lord, yes! And women—always women! Someone told me the other day of an Arab chief who had a bodyguard of forty of his sons—all roughly the same age! Aha! Forty! I don’t know about forty, but I bet
I could produce a very fair bodyguard if I went about looking for the brats! Hey, Pilar, what do you think of that? Shocked?’