The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘That remark depresses me, Madame. But then, it seems to me (though you will probably not agree) that it is madly unlikely — not that Major Rich should kill Arnold Clayton — but that he should kill him in just the way he did.’

‘Stiletto stuff? Yes, definitely not in character. More likely the blunt instrument. Or he might have strangled him, perhaps?’

Poirot sighed.

‘We are back at Othello. Yes, Othello… you have given me there a little idea…’

‘Have I? What —’ There was the sound of a latchkey and an opening door. ‘Oh, here's Jeremy. Do you want to talk to him, too?’

Jeremy Spence was a pleasant looking man of thirty-odd, well groomed, and almost ostentatiously discreet. Mrs Spence said that she had better go and have a look at a casserole in the kitchen and went off, leaving the two men together.

Jeremy Spence displayed none of the engaging candour of his wife. He was clearly disliking very much being mixed up in the case at all, and his remarks were carefully non-informative. They had known the Claytons some time, Rich not so well. Had seemed a pleasant fellow. As far as he could remember, Rich had seemed absolutely as usual on the evening in question. Clayton and Rich always seemed on good terms. The whole thing seemed quite unaccountable.

Throughout the conversation Jeremy Spence was making it clear that he expected Poirot to take his departure. He was civil, but only just so.

‘I am afraid,’ said Poirot, ‘that you do not like these questions?’

‘Well, we've had quite a session of this with the police. I rather feel that's enough. We've told all we know or saw. Now — I'd like to forget it.’

‘You have my sympathy. It is most unpleasant to be mixed up in this. To be asked not only what you know or what you saw but perhaps even what you think?’

‘Best not to think.’

‘But can one avoid it? Do you think, for instance, that Mrs Clayton was in it, too. Did she plan the death of her husband with Rich?’

‘Good lord, no.’ Spence sounded shocked and dismayed. ‘I'd no idea that there was any question of such a thing?’

‘Has your wife not suggested such a possibility?’

‘Oh Linda! You know what women are — always got their knife into each other. Margharita never gets much of a show from her own sex — a darned sight too attractive. But surely this theory about Rich and Margharita planning murder — that's fantastic!’

‘Such things have been known. The weapon, for instance. It is the kind of weapon a woman might possess, rather than a man.’

‘Do you mean the police have traced it to her — They can't have! I mean —’

‘I know nothing,’ said Poirot truthfully, and escaped hastily.

From the consternation on Spence's face, he judged that he had left that gentleman something to think about!

VI

‘You will forgive my saying, M. Poirot, that I cannot see how you can be of assistance to me in any way.’

Poirot did not answer. He was looking thoughtfully at the man who had been charged with the murder of his friend, Arnold Clayton.

He was looking at the firm jaw, the narrow head. A lean brown man, athletic and sinewy. Something of the greyhound about him. A man whose face gave nothing away, and who was receiving his visitor with a marked lack of cordiality.

‘I quite understand that Mrs Clayton sent you to see me with the best intentions. But quite frankly, I think she was unwise. Unwise both for her own sake and mine.’

‘You mean?’

Rich gave a nervous glance over his shoulder. But the attendant warder was the regulation distance away. Rich lowered his voice.

‘They've got to find a motive for this ridiculous accusation. They'll try to bring that there was an — association between Mrs Clayton and myself. That, as I know Mrs Clayton will have told you, is quite untrue. We are friends, nothing more. But surely it is advisable that she should make no move on my behalf?’

Hercule Poirot ignored the point. Instead he picked out a word.

‘You said this “ridiculous” accusation. But it is not that, you know.’

‘I did

not

kill Arnold Clayton.’

‘Call it then a false accusation. Say the accusation is not true. But it is not ridiculous. On the contrary, it is highly plausible. You must know that very well.’

‘I can only tell you that to me it seems fantastic.’

‘Saying that will be of very little use to you. We must think of something more useful than that.’

‘I am represented by solicitors. They have briefed, I understand, eminent counsel to appear for my defence. I cannot accept your use of the word “we.”’

Unexpectedly Poirot smiled.

‘Ah,’ he said, in his most foreign manner, ‘that is the flea in the ear you give me. Very well. I go. I wanted to see you. I have seen you. Already I have looked up your career. You passed high up into Sandhurst. You passed into the Staff College. And so on and so on. I have made my own judgement of you today. You are not a stupid man.’

‘And what has all that got to do with it?’