‘I do not know.’
He said:
‘You’d rather sit on a balcony and eat sweets all day long? And grow enormously fat and have three double chins?’
Pilar laughed and Stephen said:
‘That’s better. I’ve made you laugh.’
Pilar said:
‘I thought I should laugh this Christmas! In books I have read that an English Christmas is very gay, that one eats burning raisins and there is a plum pudding all in flames, and something that is called a Yule log.’
Stephen said:
‘Ah, but you must have a Christmas uncomplicated by murder. Come in here a minute. Lydia took me in here yesterday. It’s her store-room.’
He led her into a small room little bigger than a cupboard.
‘Look, Pilar, boxes and boxes of crackers, and preserved fruits and oranges and dates and nuts. And here—’
‘Oh!’ Pilar clasped her hands. ‘They are pretty, these gold and silver balls.’
‘Those were to hang on a tree, with presents for the servants. And here are little snowmen all glittering with frost to put on the dinner table. And here are balloons of every colour all ready to blow up!’
‘Oh!’ Pilar’s eyes shone. ‘Oh! can we blow one up? Lydia would not mind. I do love balloons.’
Stephen said: ‘Baby! Here, which will you have?’
Pilar said: ‘I will have a red one.’
They selected their balloons and blew, their cheeks distended. Pilar stopped blowing to laugh, and her balloon went down again.
She said:
‘You look so funny—blowing—with your cheeks puffed out.’
Her laugh rang out. Then she fell to, blowing industriously. They tied up their balloons carefully and began to play with them, patting them upwards, sending them to and fro.
Pilar said:
‘Out in the hall there would be more room.’
They were sending the balloons to each other, and laughing, when Poirot came along the hall. He regarded them indulgently.
‘So you play les jeux d’enfants? It is pretty, that!’
Pilar said breathlessly:
‘Mine is the red one. It is bigger than his. Much bigger. If we took it outside it would go right up in the sky.’
‘Let’s send them up and wish,’ said Stephen.
‘Oh, yes, that is a good idea.’
Pilar ran to the garden door, Stephen followed. Poirot came behind, still looking indulgent.
‘I will wish for a great deal of money,’ announced Pilar.
She stood on tiptoe, holding the string of the balloon. It tugged gently as a puff of wind came. Pilar let go and it floated along, taken by the breeze.
Stephen laughed.
‘You mustn’t tell your wish.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘Because it doesn’t come true. Now, I’m going to wish.’
He released his balloon. But he was not so lucky. It floated sideways, caught on a holly bush and expired with a bang.
Pilar ran to it.
She announced tragically:
‘It is gone…’
Then, as she stirred the little limp wisp of rubber with her toe, she said:
‘So that was what I picked up in Grandfather’s room. He, too, had had a balloon, only his was a pink one.’
Poirot gave a sharp exclamation. Pilar turned inquiringly.
Poirot said:
‘It is nothing. I stabbed—no stubbed—the toe.’
He wheeled round and looked at the house.
He said:
‘So many windows! A house, mademoiselle, has its eyes—and its ears. It is indeed regrettable that the English are so fond of open windows.’
Lydia came out on the terrace. She said:
‘Lunch is just ready. Pilar, my dear, everything has been settled quite satisfactorily. Alfred will explain the exact details to you after lunch. Shall we come in?’
They went into the house. Poirot came last. He was looking grave.
III
Lunch was over.
As they came out of the dining-room, Alfred said to Pilar:
‘Will you come into my room? There is something I want to talk over with you.’
He led her across the hall and into his study, shutting the door after him. The others went on into the drawing-room. Only Hercule Poirot remained in the hall looking thoughtfully at the closed study door.
He was aware suddenly of the old butler hovering uneasily near him.
Poirot said: ‘Yes, Tressilian, what is it?’
The old man seemed troubled. He said:
‘I wanted to speak to Mr Lee. But I don’t like to disturb him now.’
Poirot said: ‘Something has occurred?’
Tressilian said slowly:
‘It’s such a queer thing. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Tell me,’ said Hercule Poirot.
Tressilian hesitated. Then he said:
‘Well, it’s this, sir. You may have noticed that each side of the front door there was a cannon ball. Big heavy stone things. Well, sir, one of them’s gone.’
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose. He said; ‘Since when?’
‘They were both there this morning, sir. I’ll take my oath on that.’
‘Let me see.’
Together they went outside the front door. Poirot bent and examined the remaining cannon ball. When he straightened himself, his face was very grave.
Tressilian quavered:
‘Who’d want to steal a thing like that, sir? It doesn’t make sense.’
Poirot said: ‘I do not like it. I do not like it at all…’
Tressilian was watching him anxiously. He said slowly:
‘What’s come to the house, sir? Ever since the master was murdered it doesn’t seem like the same place. I feel the whole time as though I was going about in a dream. I mix things up, and I sometimes feel I can’t trust my own eyes.’
Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said:
‘You are wrong. Your own eyes are just what you must trust.’
Tressilian said, shaking his head:
‘My sight’s bad—I can’t see like I used to do. I get things mixed up—and people. I’m getting too old for my work.’
Hercule Poirot clapped him on the shoulder and said:
‘Courage.’
‘Thank you, sir. You mean it kindly, I know. But there it is, I am too old. I’m always going back to the old days and the old faces. Miss Jenny and Master David and Master Alfred. I’m always seeing them as young gentlemen and ladies. Ever since that night when Mr Harry came home—’
Poirot nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is what I thought. You said just now “Ever since the master was murdered”—but it began before that. It is ever since Mr Harry came home, is it not, that things have altered and seemed unreal?’
The butler said:
‘You’re quite right, sir. It was then. Mr Harry always brought trouble into the house, even in the old days.’
His eyes wandered back to the empty stone base.
‘Who can have taken it, sir?’ he whispered. ‘And why? It’s—it’s like a madhouse.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘It is not madness I am afraid of. It is sanity! Somebody, Tressilian, is in great danger.’
He turned and re-entered the house.
At that moment Pilar came out from the study. A red spot shone on either cheek. She held her head high and her eyes glittered.
As Poirot came up to her, she suddenly stamped her foot and said: ‘I will not take it.’
Poirot raised his eyebrows. He said:
‘What is it that you will not take, mademoiselle?’
Pilar said:
‘Alfred has just told me that I am to have my mother’s share of the money my grandfather left.’
‘Well?’
‘I could not get it by law, he said. But he and Lydia and the others consider it should be mine. They say it is a matter
of justice. And so they will hand it over to me.’
Poirot said again:
‘Well?’
Pilar stamped once more with her foot.
‘Do you not understand? They are giving it to me—giving it to me.’
‘Need that hurt your pride? Since what they say is true—that it should in justice be yours?’
Pilar said:
‘You do not understand…’
Poirot said:
‘On the contrary—I understand very well.’
‘Oh!…’ She turned away pettishly.
There was a ring at the bell. Poirot glanced over his shoulder. He saw the silhouette of Superintendent Sugden outside the door. He said hurriedly to Pilar:
‘Where are you going?’
She said sulkily:
‘To the drawing-room. To the others.’
Poirot said quickly:
‘Good. Stay with them there. Do not wander about the house alone, especially after dark. Be on your guard. You are in great danger, mademoiselle. You will never be in greater danger than you are today.’
He turned away from her and went to meet Sugden.
The latter waited till Tressilian had gone back into his pantry.
Then he shoved a cable form under Poirot’s nose.
‘Now we’ve got it!’ he said. ‘Read that. It’s from the South African Police.’
The cable said:
‘Ebenezer Farr’s only son died two years ago.’
Sugden said:
‘So now we know! Funny—I was on a different tack altogether…’
IV
Pilar marched into the drawing-room, her head held high.
She went straight up to Lydia, who was sitting in the window with some knitting.
Pilar said:
‘Lydia, I have come to tell you that I will not take that money. I am going away—at once…’
Lydia looked astonished. She laid down her knitting. She said:
‘My dear child, Alfred must have explained very badly! It is not in the least a matter of charity, if that is what you feel. Really, it is not a question of kindness or generosity on our part. It is a plain matter of right and wrong. In the ordinary course of events your mother would have inherited this money, and you would have come into it from her. It is your right—your blood right. It is a matter, not of charity, but of justice!’
Pilar said fiercely:
‘And that is why I cannot do it—not when you speak like that—not when you are like that! I enjoyed coming here. It was fun! It was an adventure, but now you have spoilt it all! I am going away now, at once—you will never be bothered by me again…’
Tears choked her voice. She turned and ran blindly out of the room.
Lydia stared. She said helplessly:
‘I’d no idea she would take it like that!’
Hilda said:
‘The child seems quite upset.’
George cleared his throat and said portentously:
‘Er—as I pointed out this morning—the principle involved is wrong. Pilar has the wit to see that for herself. She refuses to accept charity—’
Lydia said sharply:
‘It is not charity. It is her right!’
George said:
‘She does not seem to think so!’
Superintendent Sugden and Hercule Poirot came in. The former looked round and asked:
‘Where’s Mr Farr? I want a word with him.’
Before anyone had time to answer, Hercule Poirot said sharply:
‘Where is the señorita Estravados?’
George Lee said with a trace of malicious satisfaction:
‘Going to clear out, so she says. Apparently she has had enough of her English relations.’
Poirot wheeled round.
He said to Sugden:
‘Come!’
As the two men emerged into the hall, there was the sound of a heavy crash and a far-away shriek.
Poirot cried:
‘Quick…Come…’
They raced along the hall and up the far staircase. The door of Pilar’s room was open and a man stood in the doorway. He turned his head as they ran up. It was Stephen Farr.
He said:
‘She’s alive…’
Pilar stood crouched against the wall of her room. She was staring at the floor where a big stone cannon ball was lying.
She said breathlessly:
‘It was on top of my door, balanced there. It would have crashed down on my head when I came in, but my skirt caught on a nail and jerked me back just as I was coming in.’
Poirot knelt down and examined the nail. On it was a thread of purple tweed. He looked up and nodded gravely.
‘That nail, mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘saved your life.’
The superintendent said, bewildered:
‘Look here, what’s the meaning of all this?’
Pilar said:
‘Someone tried to kill me!’
She nodded her head several times.
Superintendent Sugden glanced up at the door.
‘Booby trap,’ he said. ‘An old-fashioned booby trap—and its purpose was murder! That’s the second murder planned in this house. But this time it didn’t come off!’
Stephen Farr said huskily:
‘Thank God you’re safe.’
Pilar flung out her hands in a wide, appealing gesture.
‘Madre de Dios,’ she cried. ‘Why should anyone wish to kill me? What have I done?’
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
‘You should rather ask, mademoiselle, what do I know?’
She stared.
‘Know? I do not know anything.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘That is where you are wrong. Tell me, Mademoiselle Pilar, where were you at the time of the murder? You were not in this room.’
‘I was. I have told you so!’
Superintendent Sugden said with deceptive mildness:
‘Yes, but you weren’t speaking the truth when you said that, you know. You told us you heard your grandfather scream—you couldn’t have heard that if you were in here—Mr Poirot and I tested that yesterday.’
‘Oh!’ Pilar caught her breath.
Poirot said:
‘You were somewhere very much nearer his room. I will tell you where I think you were, mademoiselle. You were in the recess with the statues quite close to your grandfather’s door.’
Pilar said, startled:
‘Oh…How did you know?’
Poirot said with a faint smile:
‘Mr Farr saw you there.’
Stephen said sharply:
‘I did not. That’s an absolute lie!’
Poirot said:
‘I ask your pardon, Mr Farr, but you did see her. Remember your impression that there were three statues in that recess, not two. Only one person wore a white dress that night, Mademoiselle Estravados. She was the third white figure you saw. That is so, is it not, mademoiselle?’
Pilar said, after a moment’s hesitation: ‘Yes, it is true.’
Poirot said gently: ‘Now tell us, mademoiselle, the whole truth. Why were you there?’
Pilar said:
‘I left the drawing-room after dinner and I thought I would go and see my grandfather. I thought he would be pleased. But when I turned into the passage I saw someone else was there at his door. I did not want to be seen because I knew my grandfather had said he did not want to see anyone that night. I slipped into the recess in case the person at the door turned round.’
‘Then, all at once, I heard the most horrible sounds, tables—chairs’—she waved her hands—‘everything falling and crashing. I did not move. I do not know why. I was frightened. And then there was a terrible scream’—she crossed herself—‘and my heart it stopped beating, and I said, “Someone is dead…” ’
‘And then?’
‘And then people began coming running along the passage and I came out at the end and joined them.’
Super
intendent Sugden said sharply:
‘You said nothing of all this when we first questioned you. Why not?’
Pilar shook her head. She said, with an air of wisdom:
‘It is not good to tell too much to the police. I thought, you see, that if I said I was near there you might think that I had killed him. So I said I was in my room.’
Sugden said sharply:
‘If you tell deliberate lies all that it ends in is that you’re bound to come under suspicion.’
Stephen Farr said: ‘Pilar?’
‘Yes?’
‘Who did you see standing at the door when you turned into the passage? Tell us.’
Sugden said: ‘Yes, tell us.’
For a moment the girl hesitated. Her eyes opened, then narrowed. She said slowly:
‘I don’t know who it was. It was too dimly lit to see. But it was a woman…’
V
Superintendent Sugden looked round at the circle of faces. He said, with something as near irritation as he had yet shown:
‘This is very irregular, Mr Poirot.’
Poirot said:
‘It is a little idea of mine. I wish to share with everyone the knowledge that I have acquired. I shall then invite their co-operation, and so we shall get at the truth.’
Sugden murmured under his breath: ‘Monkey tricks.’
He leaned back in his chair. Poirot said:
‘To begin with, you have, I think, an explanation to ask of Mr Farr.’
Sugden’s mouth tightened.
‘I should have chosen a less public moment,’ he said. ‘However, I’ve no objection.’ He handed the cable to Stephen Farr. ‘Now, Mr Farr, as you call yourself, perhaps you can explain this?’
Stephen Farr took it. Raising his eyebrows, he read it slowly out loud. Then, with a bow, he handed it back to the superintendent.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s pretty damning, isn’t it?’
Sugden said:
‘Is that all you’ve got to say about it? You quite understand there is no obligation on you to make a statement—’
Stephen Farr interrupted. He said:
‘You needn’t caution me, Superintendent. I can see it trembling on your tongue! Yes, I’ll give you an explanation. It’s not a very good one, but it’s the truth.’
He paused. Then he began:
‘I’m not Ebenezer Farr’s son. But I knew both father and son quite well. Now try and put yourself in my place. (My name is Stephen Grant, by the way.) I arrived in this country for the first time in my life. I was disappointed. Everything and everybody seemed drab and lifeless. Then I was travelling by train and I saw a girl. I’ve got to say it straight out: I fell for that girl! She was the loveliest and most unlikely creature in the world! I talked to her for a while in the train and I made up my mind then and there not to lose sight of her. As I was leaving the compartment I caught sight of the label on her suitcase. Her name meant nothing to me, but the address to which she was travelling did. I’d heard of Gorston Hall, and I knew all about its owner. He was Ebenezer Farr’s one-time partner and old Eb often talked about him and said what a personality he was.
Hercule Poirot's Christmas: A Hercule Poirot Mystery Page 18