‘Hock or claret?’ murmured Tressilian in a deferential whisper in Mrs George’s ear. Out of the tail of his eye he noted that Walter, the footman, was handing the vegetables before the gravy again—after all he had been told!
Tressilian went round with the soufflé. It struck him, now that his interest in the ladies’ toilettes and his misgivings over Walter’s deficiencies were a thing of the past, that everyone was very silent tonight. At least, not exactly silent: Mr Harry was talking enough for twenty—no, not Mr Harry, the South African gentleman. And the others were talking too, but only, as it were, in spasms. There was something a little—queer about them.
Mr Alfred, for instance, he looked downright ill. As though he had had a shock or something. Quite dazed he looked and just turning over the food on his plate without eating it. The mistress, she was worried about him. Tressilian could see that. Kept looking down the table towards him—not noticeably, of course, just quietly. Mr George was very red in the face—gobbling his food, he was, without tasting it. He’d get a stroke one day if he wasn’t careful. Mrs George wasn’t eating. Slimming, as likely as not. Miss Pilar seemed to be enjoying her food all right and talking and laughing up at the South African gentleman. Properly taken with her, he was. Didn’t seem to be anything on their minds!
Mr David? Tressilian felt worried about Mr David. Just like his mother, he was, to look at. And remarkably young-looking still. But nervy; there, he’d knocked over his glass.
Tressilian whisked it away, mopped up the stream deftly. It was all over. Mr David hardly seemed to notice what he had done, just sat staring in front of him with a white face.
Thinking of white faces, funny the way Horbury had looked in the pantry just now when he’d heard a police officer had come to the house…almost as though—
Tressilian’s mind stopped with a jerk. Walter had dropped a pear off the dish he was handing. Footmen were no good nowadays! They might be stable-boys, the way they went on!
He went round with the port. Mr Harry seemed a bit distrait tonight. Kept looking at Mr Alfred. Never had been any love lost between those two, not even as boys. Mr Harry, of course, had always been his father’s favourite, and that had rankled with Mr Alfred. Mr Lee had never cared for Mr Alfred much. A pity, when Mr Alfred always seemed so devoted to his father.
There, Mrs Alfred was getting up now. She swept round the table. Very nice that design on the taffeta; that cape suited her. A very graceful lady.
He went out to the pantry, closing the dining-room door on the gentlemen with their port.
He took the coffee tray into the drawing-room. The four ladies were sitting there rather uncomfortably, he thought. They were not talking. He handed round the coffee in silence.
He went out again. As he went into his pantry he heard the dining-room door open. David Lee came out and went along the hall to the drawing-room.
Tressilian went back into his pantry. He read the riot act to Walter. Walter was nearly, if not quite, impertinent!
Tressilian, alone in his pantry, sat down rather wearily.
He had a feeling of depression. Christmas Eve, and all this strain and tension…He didn’t like it!
With an effort he roused himself. He went to the drawing-room and collected the coffee-cups. The room was empty except for Lydia, who was standing half concealed by the window curtain at the far end of the room. She was standing there looking out into the night.
From next door the piano sounded.
Mr David was playing. But why, Tressilian asked himself, did Mr David play the ‘Dead March’? For that’s what it was. Oh, indeed things were very wrong.
He went slowly along the hall and back into his pantry.
It was then he first heard the noise from overhead: a crashing of china, the overthrowing of furniture, a series of cracks and bumps.
‘Good gracious!’ thought Tressilian. ‘Whatever is the master doing? What’s happening up there?’
And then, clear and high, came a scream—a horrible high wailing scream that died away in a choke or gurgle.
Tressilian stood there a moment paralysed, then he ran out into the hall and up the broad staircase. Others were with him. That scream had been heard all over the house.
They raced up the stairs and round the bend, past a recess with statues gleaming white and eerie, and along the straight passage to Simeon Lee’s door. Mr Farr was there already and Mrs David. She was leaning back against the wall and he was twisting at the door handle.
‘The door’s locked,’ he was saying. ‘The door’s locked!’
Harry Lee pushed past and wrested it from him. He, too, turned and twisted at the handle.
‘Father,’ he shouted. ‘Father, let us in.’
He held up his hand and in the silence they all listened. There was no answer. No sound from inside the room.
The front door bell rang, but no one paid any attention to it.
Stephen Farr said:
‘We’ve got to break the door down. It’s the only way.’
Harry said: ‘That’s going to be a tough job. These doors are good solid stuff. Come on, Alfred.’
They heaved and strained. Finally they went and got an oak bench and used it as a battering-ram. The door gave at last. Its hinges splintered and the door sank shuddering from its frame.
For a minute they stood there huddled together looking in. What they saw was a sight that no one of them ever forgot…
There had clearly been a terrific struggle. Heavy furniture was overturned. China vases lay splintered on the floor. In the middle of the hearthrug in front of the blazing fire lay Simeon Lee in a great pool of blood…Blood was splashed all round. The place was like a shambles.
There was a long shuddering sigh, and then two voices spoke in turn. Strangely enough, the words they uttered were both quotations.
David Lee said:
‘The mills of God grind slowly…’
Lydia’s voice came like a fluttering whisper:
‘Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?…’
IV
Superintendent Sugden had rung the bell three times. Finally, in desperation, he pounded on the knocker.
A scared Walter at length opened the door.
‘Oo-er,’ he said. A look of relief came over his face. ‘I was just ringing up the police.’
‘What for?’ said Superintendent Sugden sharply. ‘What’s going on here?’
Walter whispered:
‘It’s old Mr Lee. He’s been done in…’
The superintendent pushed past him and ran up the stairs. He came into the room without anyone being aware of his entrance. As he entered he saw Pilar bend forward and pick up something from the floor. He saw David Lee standing with his hands over his eyes.
He saw the others huddled into a little group. Alfred Lee alone had stepped near his father’s body. He stood now quite close, looking down. His face was blank.
George Lee was saying importantly:
‘Nothing must be touched—remember that—nothing—till the police arrive. That is most important!’
‘Excuse me,’ said Sugden.
He pushed his way forward, gently thrusting the ladies aside.
Alfred Lee recognized him.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘It’s you, Superintendent Sugden. You’ve got here very quickly.’
‘Yes, Mr Lee.’ Superintendent Sugden did not waste time on explanations. ‘What’s all this?’
‘My father,’ said Alfred Lee, ‘has been killed—murdered…’
His voice broke.
Magdalene began suddenly to sob hysterically.
Superintendent Sugden held up a large official hand. He said authoritatively:
‘Will everybody kindly leave the room except Mr Lee and—er—Mr George Lee?…’
They moved slowly towards the door, reluctantly, like sheep. Superintendent Sugden intercepted Pilar suddenly.
‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Nothing must be
touched or disturbed.’
She stared at him. Stephen Farr said impatiently:
‘Of course not. She understands that.’
Superintendent Sugden said, still in the same pleasant manner: ‘You picked up something from the floor just now?’
Pilar’s eyes opened. She stared and said incredulously: ‘I did?’
Superintendent Sugden was still pleasant. His voice was just a little firmer.
‘Yes, I saw you…’
‘Oh!’
‘So please give it to me. It’s in your hand now.’
Slowly Pilar unclosed her hand. There lay in it a wisp of rubber and a small object made of wood. Superintendent Sugden took them, enclosed them in an envelope and put them away in his breast pocket. He said: ‘Thank you.’
He turned away. Just for a minute Stephen Farr’s eyes showed a startled respect. It was as though he had underestimated the large handsome superintendent.
They went slowly out of the room. Behind them they heard the superintendent’s voice saying officially:
‘And now, if you please…’
V
‘Nothing like a wood fire,’ said Colonel Johnson as he threw on an additional log and then drew his chair nearer to the blaze. ‘Help yourself,’ he added, hospitably calling attention to the tantalus and siphon that stood near his guest’s elbow.
The guest raised a polite hand in negation. Cautiously he edged his own chair nearer to the blazing logs, though he was of the opinion that the opportunity for roasting the soles of one’s feet (like some mediaeval torture) did not offset the cold draught that swirled round the back of the shoulders.
Colonel Johnson, Chief Constable of Middleshire, might be of the opinion that nothing could beat a wood fire, but Hercule Poirot was of the opinion that central heating could and did every time!
‘Amazing business that Cartwright case,’ remarked the host reminiscently. ‘Amazing man! Enormous charm of manner. Why, when he came here with you, he had us all eating out of his hand.’
He shook his head.
‘We’ll never have anything like that case!’ he said. ‘Nicotine poisoning is rare, fortunately.’
‘There was a time when you would have considered all poisoning unEnglish,’ suggested Hercule Poirot. ‘A device of foreigners! Unsportsmanlike!’
‘I hardly think we could say that,’ said the chief constable. ‘Plenty of poisoning by arsenic—probably a good deal more than has ever been suspected.’
‘Possibly, yes.’
‘Always an awkward business, a poisoning case,’ said Johnson. ‘Conflicting testimony of the experts—then doctors are usually so extremely cautious in what they say. Always a difficult case to take to a jury. No, if one must have murder (which heaven forbid!) give me a straightforward case. Something where there’s no ambiguity about the cause of death.’
Poirot nodded.
‘The bullet wound, the cut throat, the crushed-in skull? It is there your preference lies?’
‘Oh, don’t call it a preference, my dear fellow. Don’t harbour the idea that I like murder cases! Hope I never have another. Anyway, we ought to be safe enough during your visit.’
Poirot began modestly:
‘My reputation—’
But Johnson had gone on.
‘Christmas time,’ he said. ‘Peace, goodwill—and all that kind of thing. Goodwill all round.’
Hercule Poirot leaned back in his chair. He joined his fingertips. He studied his host thoughtfully.
He murmured: ‘It is, then, your opinion that Christmas time is an unlikely season for crime?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Johnson was thrown slightly out of his stride. ‘Well, as I’ve just said—season of good cheer, and all that!’
Hercule Poirot murmured:
‘The British, they are so sentimental!’
Johnson said stoutly: ‘What if we are? What if we do like the old ways, the old traditional festivities? What’s the harm?’
‘There is no harm. It is all most charming! But let us for a moment examine facts. You have said that Christmas is a season of good cheer. That means, does it not, a lot of eating and drinking? It means, in fact, the over eating! And with the overeating there comes the indigestion! And with the indigestion there comes the irritability!’
‘Crimes,’ said Colonel Johnson, ‘are not committed from irritability.’
‘I am not so sure! Take another point. There is, at Christmas, a spirit of goodwill. It is, as you say, “the thing to do”. Old quarrels are patched up, those who have disagreed consent to agree once more, even if it is only temporarily.’
Johnson nodded.
‘Bury the hatchet, that’s right.’
Poirot pursued his theme:
‘And families now, families who have been separated throughout the year, assemble once more together. Now under these conditions, my friend, you must admit that there will occur a great amount of strain. People who do not feel amiable are putting great pressure on themselves to appear amiable! There is at Christmas time a great deal of hypocrisy, honourable hypocrisy, hypocrisy undertaken pour le bon motif, c’est entendu, but nevertheless hypocrisy!’
‘Well, I shouldn’t put it quite like that myself,’ said Colonel Johnson doubtfully.
Poirot beamed upon him.
‘No, no. It is I who am putting it like that, not you. Iam pointing out to you that under these conditions—mental strain, physical malaise—it is highly probable that dislikes that were before merely mild and disagreements that were trivial might suddenly assume a more serious character. The result of pretending to be a more amiable, a more forgiving, a more high-minded person than one really is, has sooner or later the effect of causing one to behave as a more disagreeable, a more ruthless and an altogether more unpleasant person than is actually the case! If you dam the stream of natural behaviour, mon ami, sooner or later the dam bursts and a cataclysm occurs!’
Colonel Johnson looked at him doubtfully.
‘Never know when you’re serious and when you’re pulling my leg,’ he grumbled.
Poirot smiled at him.
‘I am not serious! Not in the least am I serious! But all the same, it is true what I say—artificial conditions bring about their natural reaction.’
Colonel Johnson’s manservant entered the room.
‘Superintendent Sugden on the phone, sir.’
‘Right. I’ll come.’
With a word of apology the chief constable left the room.
He returned some three minutes later. His face was grave and perturbed.
‘Damn it all!’ he said. ‘Case of murder! On Christmas Eve, too!’
Poirot’s eyebrows rose.
‘It is that definitely—murder, I mean?’
‘Eh? Oh, no other solution possible! Perfectly clear case. Murder—and a brutal murder at that!’
‘Who is the victim?’
‘Old Simeon Lee. One of the richest men we’ve got! Made his money in South Africa originally. Gold—no, diamonds, I believe. He sunk an immense fortune in manufacturing some particular gadget of mining machinery. His own invention, I believe. Anyway, it’s paid him hand over fist! They say he’s a millionaire twice over.’
Poirot said: ‘He was well liked, yes?’
Johnson said slowly:
‘Don’t think anyone liked him. Queer sort of chap. He’s been an invalid for some years now. I don’t know very much about him myself. But of course he is one of the big figures of the county.’
‘So this case, it will make a big stir?’
‘Yes. I must get over to Longdale as fast as I can.’
He hesitated, looking at his guest. Poirot answered the unspoken question:
‘You would like that I should accompany you?’
Johnson said awkwardly:
‘Seems a shame to ask you. But, well, you know how it is! Superintendent Sugden is a good man, none better, painstaking, careful, thoroughl
y sound—but—well, he’s not an imaginative chap in any way. Should like very much, as you are here, benefit of your advice.’
He halted a little over the end part of his speech, making it somewhat telegraphic in style. Poirot responded quickly.
‘I shall be delighted. You can count on me to assist you in any way I can. We must not hurt the feelings of the good superintendent. It will be his case—not mine. Iam only the unofficial consultant.’
Colonel Johnson said warmly:
‘You’re a good fellow, Poirot.’
With those words of commendation, the two men started out.
VI
It was a constable who opened the front door to them and saluted. Behind him, Superintendent Sugden advanced down the hall and said:
‘Glad you’ve got here, sir. Shall we come into this room here on the left—Mr Lee’s study? I’d like to run over the main outlines. The whole thing’s a rum business.’
He ushered them into a small room on the left of the hall. There was a telephone there and a big desk covered with papers. The walls were lined with bookcases.
The chief constable said: ‘Sugden, this is M. Hercule Poirot. You may have heard of him. Just happened to be staying with me. Superintendent Sugden.’
Poirot made a little bow and looked the other man over. He saw a tall man with square shoulders and amilitary bearing who had an aquiline nose, a pugnacious jaw and a large flourishing chestnut-coloured moustache. Sugden stared hard at Hercule Poirot after acknowledging the introduction. Hercule Poirot stared hard at Superintendent Sugden’s moustache. Its luxuriance seemed to fascinate him.
Hercule Poirot's Christmas: A Hercule Poirot Mystery Page 6