Hercule Poirot's Christmas

by Agatha Christie

  Johnson cut him short.

  ‘Just answer my questions, please.’

  ‘Yes, sir, certainly, sir.’

  ‘What time did you go out tonight, and where have you been?’

  ‘I left the house just before eight, sir. I went to the Superb, sir, just five minutes’ walk away. Love in Old Seville was the picture, sir.’

  ‘Anyone who saw you there?’

  ‘The young lady in the box office, sir, she knows me. And the commissionaire at the door, he knows me too. And—er—as a matter of fact, I was with a young lady, sir. I met her there by appointment.’

  ‘Oh, you did, did you? What’s her name?’

  ‘Doris Buckle, sir. She works in the Combined Dairies, sir, 23, Markham Road.’

  ‘Good. We’ll look into that. Did you come straight home?’

  ‘I saw my young lady home first, sir. Then I came straight back. You’ll find it’s quite all right, sir. I didn’t have anything to do with this. I was—’

  Colonel Johnson said curtly:

  ‘Nobody’s accusing you of having anything to do with it.’

  ‘No, sir, of course not, sir. But it’s not very pleasant when a murder happens in a house.’

  ‘Nobody said it was. Now, then, how long had you been in Mr Lee’s service?’

  ‘Just over a year, sir.’

  ‘Did you like your place here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was quite satisfied. The pay was good. Mr Lee was rather difficult sometimes, but of course I’m used to attending on invalids.’

  ‘You’ve had previous experience?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. I was with Major West and with the Honourable Jasper Finch—’

  ‘You can give all those particulars to Sugden later. What I want to know is this: At what time did you last see Mr Lee this evening?’

  ‘It was about half-past seven, sir. Mr Lee had a light supper brought to him every evening at seven o’clock. I then prepared him for bed. After that he would sit in front of the fire in his dressing-gown till he felt like going to bed.’

  ‘What time was that usually?’

  ‘It varied, sir. Sometimes he would go to bed as early as eight o’clock—that’s if he felt tired. Sometimes he would sit up till eleven or after.’

  ‘What did he do when he did want to go to bed?’

  ‘Usually he rang for me, sir.’

  ‘And you assisted him to bed?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But this was your evening out. Did you always have Fridays?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Friday was my regular day.’

  ‘What happened then when Mr Lee wanted to go to bed?’

  ‘He would ring his bell and either Tressilian or Walter would see to him.’

  ‘He was not helpless? He could move about?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but not very easily. Rheumatoid arthritis was what he suffered from, sir. He was worse some days than others.’

  ‘Did he never go into another room in the daytime?’

  ‘No, sir. He preferred to be in just the one room. Mr Lee wasn’t luxurious in his tastes. It was a big room with plenty of air and light in it.’

  ‘Mr Lee had his supper at seven, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I took the tray away and put out the sherry and two glasses on the bureau.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Mr Lee’s orders.’

  ‘Was that usual?’

  ‘Sometimes. It was the rule that none of the family came to see Mr Lee in the evening unless he invited them. Some evenings he liked to be alone. Other evenings he’d send down and ask Mr Alfred, or Mrs Alfred, or both of them, to come up after dinner.’

  ‘But, as far as you know, he had not done so on this occasion? That is, he had not sent a message to any member of the family requesting their presence?’

  ‘He hadn’t sent any message by me, sir.’

  ‘So that he wasn’t expecting any of the family?’

  ‘He might have asked one of them personally, sir.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Horbury continued:

  ‘I saw that everything was in order, wished Mr Lee goodnight and left the room.’

  Poirot asked:

  ‘Did you make up the fire before you left the room?’

  The valet hesitated.

  ‘It wasn’t necessary, sir. It was well built up.’

  ‘Could Mr Lee have done that himself?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. I expect Mr Harry Lee had done it.’

  ‘Mr Harry Lee was with him when you came in before supper?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He went away when I came.’

  ‘What was the relationship between the two as far as you could judge?’

  ‘Mr Harry Lee seemed in very good spirits, sir. Throwing back his head and laughing a good deal.’

  ‘And Mr Lee?’

  ‘He was quiet and rather thoughtful.’

  ‘I see. Now, there’s something more I want to know, Horbury: What can you tell us about the diamonds Mr Lee kept in his safe?’

  ‘Diamonds, sir? I never saw any diamonds.’

  ‘Mr Lee kept a quantity of uncut stones there. You must have seen him handling them.’

  ‘Those funny little pebbles, sir? Yes, I did see him with them once or twice. But I didn’t know they were diamonds. He was showing them to the foreign young lady only yesterday—or was it the day before?’

  Colonel Johnson said abruptly:

  ‘These stones have been stolen.’

  Horbury cried out:

  ‘I hope you don’t think, sir, that I had anything to do with it!’

  ‘I’m not making any accusations,’ said Johnson. ‘Now then, is there anything you can tell us that has any bearing on this matter?’

  ‘The diamonds, sir? Or the murder?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Horbury considered. He passed his tongue over his pale lips. At last he looked up with eyes that were a shade furtive.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything, sir.’

  Poirot said softly:

  ‘Nothing you’ve overheard, say, in the course of your duties, which might be helpful?’

  The valet’s eyelids flickered a little.

  ‘No, sir, I don’t think so, sir. There was a little awkwardness between Mr Lee and—and some members of his family.’

  ‘Which members?’

  ‘I gathered there was a little trouble over Mr Harry Lee’s return. Mr Alfred Lee resented it. I understand he and his father had a few words about it—but that was all there was to it. Mr Lee didn’t accuse him for a minute of having taken any diamonds. And I’m sure Mr Alfred wouldn’t do such a thing.’

  Poirot said quickly:

  ‘His interview with Mr Alfred was after he had discovered the loss of the diamonds, was it not, though?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Poirot leaned forward.

  ‘I thought, Horbury,’ he said softly, ‘that you did not know of the theft of the diamonds until we informed you of it just now. How, then, do you know that Mr Lee had discovered his loss before he had this conversation with his son?’

  Horbury turned brick red.

  ‘No use lying. Out with it,’ said Sugden. ‘When did you know?’

  Horbury said sullenly:

  ‘I heard him telephoning to someone about it.’

  ‘You weren’t in the room?’

  ‘No, outside the door. Couldn’t hear much—only a word or two.’

  ‘What did you hear exactly?’ asked Poirot sweetly.

  ‘I heard the words robbery and diamonds, and I heard him say, “I don’t know who to suspect”—and I heard him say something about this evening at eight o’clock.’

  Superintendent Sugden nodded.

  ‘That was to me he was speaking, my lad. About five-ten, was it?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘And when you went into his room afterwards, did he look upset?’

  ‘Just a bit, sir. Seemed absent-minded and worried.’

/>   ‘So much so that you got the wind up—eh?’

  ‘Look here, Mr Sugden, I won’t have you saying things like that. Never touched any diamonds, I didn’t, and you can’t prove I did. I’m not a thief.’

  Superintendent Sugden, unimpressed, said:

  ‘That remains to be seen.’ He glanced questioningly at the chief constable, received a nod, and went on: ‘That’ll do for you, my lad. Shan’t want you again tonight.’

  Horbury went out gratefully in haste.

  Sugden said appreciatively:

  ‘Pretty bit of work, M. Poirot. You trapped him as neatly as I’ve ever seen it done. He may be a thief or he may not, but he’s certainly a first-class liar!’

  ‘An unprepossessing person,’ said Poirot.

  ‘Nasty bit of goods,’ agreed Johnson. ‘Question is, what do we think of his evidence?’

  Sugden summarized the position neatly.

  ‘Seems to me there are three possibilities: (1) Horbury’s a thief and a murderer. (2) Horbury’s a thief, but not a murderer. (3) Horbury’s an innocent man. Certain amount of evidence for (1). He overheard telephone call and knew the theft had been discovered. Gathered from old man’s manner that he was suspected. Made his plans accordingly. Went out ostentatiously at eight o’clock and cooked up an alibi. Easy enough to slip out of a cinema and return there unnoticed. He’d have to be pretty sure of the girl, though, that she wouldn’t give him away. I’ll see what I can get out of her tomorrow.’

  ‘How, then, did he manage to re-enter the house?’ asked Poirot.

  ‘That’s more difficult,’ Sugden admitted. ‘But there might be ways. Say one of the women servants unlocked a side door for him.’

  Poirot raised his eyebrows quizzically.

  ‘He places, then, his life at the mercy of two women? With one woman it would be taking a big risk; with two—eh bien, I find the risk fantastic!’

  Sugden said:

  ‘Some criminals think they can get away with anything!’

  He went on:

  ‘Let’s take (2). Horbury pinched those diamonds. He took ’em out of the house tonight and has possibly passed them on to some accomplice. That’s quite easy going and highly probable. Now we’ve got to admit that somebody else chose this night to murder Mr Lee. That somebody being quite unaware of the diamond complication. It’s possible, of course, but it’s a bit of a coincidence.

  ‘Possibility (3)—Horbury’s innocent. Somebody else both took the diamonds and murdered the old gentleman. There it is; it’s up to us to get at the truth.’

  Colonel Johnson yawned. He looked again at his watch and got up.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think we’ll call it a night, eh? Better just have a look in the safe before we go. Odd thing if those wretched diamonds were there all the time.’

  But the diamonds were not in the safe. They found the combination where Alfred Lee had told them, in the small note-book taken from the dressing-gown pocket of the dead man. In the safe they found an empty chamois-leather bag. Among the papers the safe contained only one was of interest.

  It was a will dated some fifteen years previously. After various legacies and bequests, the provisions were simple enough. Half Simeon Lee’s fortune went to Alfred Lee. The other half was to be divided in equal shares between his remaining children: Harry, George, David and Jennifer.

  Part 4

  December 25th

  In the bright sun of Christmas noon, Poirot walked in the gardens of Gorston Hall. The Hall itself was a large solidly built house with no special architectural pretensions.

  Here, on the south side, was a broad terrace flanked with a hedge of clipped yew. Little plants grew in the interstices of the stone flags and at intervals along the terrace there were stone sinks arranged as miniature gardens.

  Poirot surveyed them with benign approval. He murmured to himself:

  ‘C’est bien imaginé, c¸a!’

  In the distance he caught sight of two figures going towards an ornamental sheet of water some three hundred yards away. Pilar was easily recognizable as one of the figures, and he thought at first the other was Stephen Farr, then he saw that the man with Pilar was Harry Lee. Harry seemed very attentive to his attractive niece. At intervals he flung his head back and laughed, then bent once more attentively towards her.

  ‘Assuredly, there is one who does not mourn,’ Poirot murmured to himself.

  A soft sound behind him made him turn. Magdalene Lee was standing there. She, too, was looking at the retreating figures of the man and girl. She turned her head and smiled enchantingly at Poirot. She said:

  ‘It’s such a glorious sunny day! One can hardly believe in all the horrors of last night, can one, M. Poirot?’

  ‘It is difficult, truly, madame.’

  Magdalene sighed.

  ‘I’ve never been mixed up in tragedy before. I’ve—I’ve really only just grown up. I stayed a child too long, I think—That’s not a good thing to do.’

  Again she sighed. She said:

  ‘Pilar, now, seems so extraordinarily self-possessed—I suppose it’s the Spanish blood. It’s all very odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘What is odd, madame?’

  ‘The way she turned up here, out of the blue!’

  Poirot said:

  ‘I have learned that Mr Lee had been searching for her for some time. He had been in correspondence with the Consulate in Madrid and with the vice-consul at Aliquara, where her mother died.’

  ‘He was very secretive about it all,’ said Magdalene. ‘Alfred knew nothing about it. No more did Lydia.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Poirot.

  Magdalene came a little nearer to him. He could smell the delicate perfume she used.

  ‘You know, M. Poirot, there’s some story connected with Jennifer’s husband, Estravados. He died quite soon after the marriage, and there’s some mystery about it. Alfred and Lydia know. I believe it was something—rather disgraceful…’

  ‘That,’ said Poirot, ‘is indeed sad.’

  Magdalene said:

  ‘My husband feels—and I agree with him—that the family ought to have been told more about the girl’s antecedents. After all, if her father was a criminal—’

  She paused, but Hercule Poirot said nothing. He seemed to be admiring such beauties of nature as could be seen in the winter season in the grounds of Gorston Hall.

  Magdalene said:

  ‘I can’t help feeling that the manner of my father-in-law’s death was somehow significant. It—it was so very unEnglish.’

  Hercule Poirot turned slowly. His grave eyes met hers in innocent inquiry.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The Spanish touch, you think?’

  ‘Well, they are cruel, aren’t they?’ Magdalene spoke with an effect of childish appeal. ‘All those bull fights and things!’

  Hercule Poirot said pleasantly:

  ‘You are saying that in your opinion señorita Estravados cut her grandfather’s throat?’

  ‘Oh no, M. Poirot!’ Magdalene was vehement. She was shocked. ‘I never said anything of the kind! Indeed I didn’t!’

  ‘Well,’ said Poirot. ‘Perhaps you did not.’

  ‘But I do think that she is—well, a suspicious person. The furtive way she picked up something from the floor of that room last night, for instance.’

  A different note crept into Hercule Poirot’s voice. He said sharply:

  ‘She picked up something from the floor last night?’

  Magdalene nodded. Her childish mouth curved spitefully.

  ‘Yes, as soon as we got into the room. She gave a quick glance round to see if anyone was looking, and then pounced on it. But the superintendent man saw her, I’m glad to say, and made her give it up.’

  ‘What was it that she picked up, do you know, madame?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t near enough to see.’ Magdalene’s voice held regret. ‘It was something quite small.’

  Poirot frowned to himself.