‘Is that all?’ cried Colin, disgusted. ‘How simple!’
‘Is it not?’ said Hercule Poirot, smiling. ‘You see? You are disappointed.’
‘Oh well,’ said Michael, ‘at any rate we know everything now.’
‘Do we?’ murmured Hercule Poirot to himself. ‘I do not. I, whose business it is to know things.’
He walked out into the hall, shaking his head a little. For perhaps the twentieth time he drew from his pocket a rather dirty piece of paper. ‘DON'T EAT NONE OF THE PLUM PUDDING. ONE AS WISHES YOU WELL.’
Hercule Poirot shook his head reflectively. He who could explain everything could not explain this! Humiliating. Who had written it? Why had it been written? Until he found that out he would never know a moment's peace. Suddenly he came out of his reverie to be aware of a peculiar gasping noise. He looked sharply down. On the floor, busy with a dustpan and brush was a tow-headed creature in a flowered overall. She was staring at the paper in his hand with large round eyes.
‘Oh sir,’ said this apparition. ‘Oh, sir. Please, sir.’
‘And who may you be, mon enfant?’ inquired M. Poirot genially.
‘Annie Bates, sir, please sir. I come here to help Mrs Ross. I didn't mean, sir, I didn't mean to — to do anything what I shouldn't do. I did mean it well, sir. For your good, I mean.’
Enlightenment came to Poirot. He held out the dirty piece of paper.
‘Did you write that, Annie?’
‘I didn't mean any harm, sir. Really I didn't.’
‘Of course you didn't, Annie.’ He smiled at her. ‘But tell me about it. Why did you write this?’
‘Well, it was them two, sir. Mr Lee-Wortley and his sister. Not that she was his sister, I'm sure. None of us thought so! And she wasn't ill a bit. We could all tell that. We thought — we all thought — something queer was going on. I'll tell you straight, sir. I was in her bathroom taking in the clean towels, and I listened at the door. He was in her room and they were talking together. I heard what they said plain as plain. “This detective,” he was saying. “This fellow Poirot who's coming here. We've got to do something about it. We've got to get him out of the way as soon as possible.” And then he says to her in a nasty, sinister sort of way, lowering his voice, “Where did you put it?” And she answered him “In the pudding.” Oh, sir, my heart gave such a leap I thought it would stop beating. I thought they meant to poison you in the Christmas pudding. I didn't know what to do! Mrs Ross, she wouldn't listen to the likes of me. Then the idea came to me as I'd write you a warning. And I did and I put it on your pillow where you'd find it when you went to bed.’ Annie paused breathlessly.
Poirot surveyed her gravely for some minutes.
‘You see too many sensational films, I think, Annie,’ he said at last, ‘or perhaps it is the television that affects you? But the important thing is that you have the good heart and a certain amount of ingenuity. When I return to London I will send you a present.’
‘Oh thank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir.’
‘What would you like, Annie, as a present?’
‘Anything I like, sir? Could I have anything I like?’
‘Within reason,’ said Hercule Poirot prudently, ‘yes.’
‘Oh sir, could I have a vanity box? A real posh slap up vanity box like the one Mr Lee-Wortley's sister, wot wasn't his sister, had?’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘yes, I think that could be managed.’
‘It is interesting,’ he mused. ‘I was in a museum the other day observing some antiquities from Babylon or one of those places, thousands of years old — and among them were cosmetics boxes. The heart of women does not change.’
‘Beg your pardon, sir?’ said Annie.
‘It is nothing,’ said Poirot, ‘I reflect. You shall have your vanity box, child.’
‘Oh thank you, sir. Oh thank you very much indeed, sir.’
Annie departed ecstatically. Poirot looked after her, nodding his head in satisfaction.
‘Ah,’ he said to himself. ‘And now — I go. There is nothing more to be done here.’
A pair of arms slipped round his shoulders unexpectedly.
‘If you will stand just under the mistletoe —’ said Bridget.
Hercule Poirot enjoyed it. He enjoyed it very much. He said to himself that he had had a very good Christmas.
The Mystery of the Spanish Chest
Punctual to the moment, as always, Hercule Poirot entered the small room where Miss Lemon, his efficient secretary, awaited her instructions for the day.
At first sight Miss Lemon seemed to be composed entirely of angles — thus satisfying Poirot's demand for symmetry.
Not that where women were concerned Hercule Poirot carried his passion for geometrical precision so far. He was, on the contrary, old-fashioned. He had a continental prejudice for curves — it might he said for voluptuous curves. He liked women to be women. He liked them lush, highly coloured, exotic. There had been a certain Russian countess — but that was long ago now. A folly of earlier days.
But Miss Lemon he had never considered as a woman. She was a human machine — an instrument of precision. Her efficiency was terrific. She was forty-eight years of age, and was fortunate enough to have no imagination whatever.
‘Good morning, Miss Lemon.’
‘Good morning, M. Poirot.’
Poirot sat down and Miss Lemon placed before him the morning's mail, neatly arranged in categories.
She resumed her seat and sat with pad and pencil at the ready.
But there was to be this morning a slight change in routine. Poirot had brought in with him the morning newspaper, and his eyes were scanning it with interest. The headlines were big and bold.
‘SPANISH CHEST MYSTERY. LATEST DEVELOPMENTS.’
‘You have read the morning papers, I presume, Miss Lemon?’
‘Yes, M. Poirot. The news from Geneva is not very good.’
Poirot waved away the news from Geneva in a comprehensive sweep of the arm.
‘A Spanish chest,’ he mused. ‘Can you tell me, Miss Lemon, what exactly is a Spanish chest?’
‘I suppose, M. Poirot, that it is a chest that came originally from Spain.’
‘One might reasonably suppose so. You have then, no expert knowledge?’
‘They are usually of the Elizabethan period, I believe. Large, and with a good deal of brass decoration on them. They look very nice when well kept and polished. My sister bought one at a sale. She keeps household linen in it. It looks very nice.’
‘I am sure that in the house of any sister of yours, all the furniture would be well kept,’ said Poirot, bowing gracefully.
Miss Lemon replied sadly that servants did not seem to know what elbow grease was nowadays. Poirot looked a little puzzled, but decided not to inquire into the inward meaning of the mysterious phrase ‘elbow grease.’
He looked down again at the newspaper, conning over the names: Major Rich, Mr and Mrs Clayton, Commander McLaren, Mr and Mrs Spence. Names, nothing but names to him; yet all possessed of human personalities, hating, loving, fearing. A drama, this, in which he, Hercule Poirot, had no part. And he would have liked to have a part in it! Six people at an evening party, in a room with a big Spanish chest against the wall, six people, five of them talking, eating a buffet supper, putting records on the gramophone, dancing, and the sixth dead, in the Spanish chest…