Hercule Poirot's Christmas

Poirot turned from the dead man. He bent to examine an overturned chair, a big chair of mahogany. Beside it was a round mahogany table and the fragments of a big china lamp. Two other smaller chairs lay nearby, also the smashed fragments of a decanter and two glasses, a heavy glass paperweight was unbroken, some miscellaneous books, a big Japanese vase smashed in pieces, and a bronze statuette of a naked girl completed the debris.

Poirot bent over all these exhibits, studying them gravely, but without touching them. He frowned to himself as though perplexed.

The chief constable said:

‘Anything strike you, Poirot?’

Hercule Poirot sighed. He murmured:

‘Such a frail shrunken old man – and yet – all this.’

Johnson looked puzzled. He turned away and said to the sergeant, who was busy at his work:

‘What about prints?’

‘Plenty of them, sir, all over the room.’ 

‘What about the safe?’

‘No good. Only prints on that are those of the old gentleman himself.’

Johnson turned to the doctor.

‘What about bloodstains?’ he asked. ‘Surely whoever killed him must have got blood on him.’

The doctor said doubtfully:

‘Not necessarily. Bleeding was almost entirely from the jugular vein. That wouldn’t spout like an artery.’

‘No, no. Still, there seems a lot of blood about.’

Poirot said:

‘Yes, there is a lot of blood – it strikes one, that. A lot of blood.’

Superintendent Sugden said respectfully:

‘Do you – er – does that suggest anything to you, Mr Poirot?’

Poirot looked about him. He shook his head perplexedly.

He said:

‘There is something here – some violence…’ He stopped a minute, then went on: ‘Yes, that is it – violence… And blood – an insistence on blood…There is – how shall I put it? – there is too much blood. Blood on the chairs, on the tables, on the carpet…The blood ritual? Sacrificial blood? Is that it? Perhaps. Such a frail old man, so thin, so shrivelled, so dried up – and yet – in his death – so much blood…’ 

His voice died away. Superintendent Sugden, staring at him with round, startled eyes, said in an awed voice:

‘Funny – that’s what she said – the lady…’

Poirot said sharply:

‘What lady? What was it she said?’

Sugden answered: ‘Mrs Lee – Mrs Alfred. Stood over there by the door and half whispered it. It didn’t make sense to me.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Something about who would have thought the old gentleman had so much blood in him…’

Poirot said softly:

‘ “Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”The words of Lady Macbeth. She said that…Ah, that is interesting…’

VIII

Alfred Lee and his wife came into the small study where Poirot, Sugden and the chief constable were standing waiting. Colonel Johnson came forward.

‘How do you do, Mr Lee? We’ve never actually met, but as you know, I’m chief constable of the county. Johnson’s my name. I can’t tell you how distressed I am by this.’ 

Alfred, his brown eyes like those of a suffering dog, said hoarsely:

‘Thank you. It’s terrible – quite terrible. I – this is my wife.’

Lydia said in her quiet voice:

‘It has been a frightful shock to my husband – to all of us – but particularly to him.’

Her hand was on her husband’s shoulder.

Colonel Johnson said:

‘Won’t you sit down, Mrs Lee? Let me introduce M. Hercule Poirot.’

Hercule Poirot bowed. His eyes went interestedly from husband to wife.

Lydia’s hands pressed gently on Alfred’s shoulder.

‘Sit down, Alfred.’

Alfred sat. He murmured:

‘Hercule Poirot. Now, who – who – ?’

He passed his hand in a dazed fashion over his forehead.

Lydia Lee said:

‘Colonel Johnson will want to ask you a lot of questions, Alfred.’

The chief constable looked at her with approval. He was thankful that Mrs Alfred Lee was turning out to be such a sensible and competent woman.

Alfred said:

‘Of course. Of course…’ 

Johnson said to himself:

‘Shock seems to have knocked him out completely. Hope he can pull himself together a bit.’

Aloud he said:

‘I’ve got a list here of everybody who was in the house tonight. Perhaps you’ll tell me, Mr Lee, if it is correct.’

He made a slight gesture to Sugden and the latter pulled out his note-book and once more recited the list of names.

The businesslike procedure seemed to restore Alfred Lee to something more like his normal self. He had regained command of himself, his eyes no longer looked dazed and staring. When Sugden finished, he nodded in agreement.

‘That’s quite right,’ he said.

‘Do you mind telling me a little more about your guests? Mr and Mrs George Lee and Mr and Mrs David Lee are, I gather, relatives?’

‘They are my two younger brothers and their wives.’

‘They are staying here only?’

‘Yes, they came to us for Christmas.’

‘Mr Henry Lee is also a brother?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your two other guests? Miss Estravados and Mr Farr?’

‘Miss Estravados is my niece. Mr Farr is the son of my father’s one-time partner in South Africa.’ 

‘Ah, an old friend.’

Lydia intervened.

‘No, actually we have never seen him before.’

‘I see. But you invited him to stay with you for Christmas?’

Alfred hesitated, then looked towards his wife. She said clearly: