Hercule Poirot's Christmas

‘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 overeating! 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 ofstrain. 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.