The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘Well, well,’ said Colonel Lacey, ‘Christmas comes but once a year and Mrs Ross is a great woman. A great woman and a great cook.’

‘She is indeed,’ said Colin. ‘Smashing plum pudding, this. Mmmm.’ He filled an appreciative mouth.

Gently, almost gingerly, Hercule Poirot attacked his portion of pudding. He ate a mouthful. It was delicious! He ate another. Something tinkled faintly on his plate. He investigated with a fork. Bridget, on his left, came to his aid.

‘You've got something, M. Poirot,’ she said. ‘I wonder what it is.’

Poirot detached a little silver object from the surrounding raisins that clung to it.

‘Oooh,’ said Bridget, ‘it's the bachelor's button! M. Poirot's got the bachelor's button!’

Hercule Poirot dipped the small silver button into the finger-glass of water that stood by his plate, and washed it clear of pudding crumbs.

‘It is very pretty,’ he observed.

‘That means you're going to be a bachelor, M. Poirot,’ explained Colin helpfully.

‘That is to be expected,’ said Poirot gravely. ‘I have been a bachelor for many long years and it is unlikely that I shall change that status now.’

‘Oh, never say die,’ said Michael. ‘I saw in the paper that someone of ninety-five married a girl of twenty-two the other day.’

‘You encourage me,’ said Hercule Poirot.

Colonel Lacey uttered a sudden exclamation. His face became purple and his hand went to his mouth.

‘Confound it, Emmeline,’ he roared, ‘why on earth do you let the cook put glass in the pudding?’

‘Glass!’ cried Mrs Lacey, astonished.

Colonel Lacey withdrew the offending substance from his mouth. ‘Might have broken a tooth,’ he grumbled. ‘Or swallowed the damn' thing and had appendicitis.’

He dropped the piece of glass into the finger-bowl, rinsed it and held it up.

‘God bless my soul,’ he ejaculated, ‘It's a red stone out of one of the cracker brooches.’ He held it aloft.

‘You permit?’

Very deftly M. Poirot stretched across his neighbour, took it from Colonel Lacey's fingers and examined it attentively. As the squire had said, it was an enormous red stone the colour of a ruby. The light gleamed from its facets as he turned it about. Somewhere around the table a chair was pushed sharply back and then drawn in again.

‘Phew!’ cried Michael. ‘How wizard it would be if it was real.’

‘Perhaps it is real,’ said Bridget hopefully.

‘Oh, don't be an ass, Bridget. Why a ruby of that size would be worth thousands and thousands of pounds. Wouldn't it, M. Poirot?’

‘It would indeed,’ said Poirot.

‘But what I can't understand,’ said Mrs Lacey, ‘is how it got into the pudding.’

‘Oooh,’ said Colin, diverted by his last mouthful, ‘I've got the pig. It isn't fair.’

Bridget chanted immediately, ‘Colin's got the pig! Colin's got the pig! Colin is the greedy guzzling pig!’

‘I've got the ring,’ said Diana in a clear, high voice.

‘Good for you, Diana. You'll be married first, of us all.’

‘I've got the thimble,’ wailed Bridget.

‘Bridget's going to be an old maid,’ chanted the two boys. ‘Yah, Bridget's going to be an old maid.’

‘Who's got the money?’ demanded David. ‘There's a real ten shilling piece, gold, in this pudding. I know. Mrs Ross told me so.’

‘I think I'm the lucky one,’ said Desmond Lee-Wortley.

Colonel Lacey's two next door neighbours heard him mutter, ‘Yes, you would be.’

‘I've got a ring, too,’ said David. He looked across at Diana. ‘Quite a coincidence, isn't it?’

The laughter went on. Nobody noticed that M. Poirot carelessly, as though thinking of something else, had dropped the red stone into his pocket.

Mince-pies and Christmas dessert followed the pudding. The older members of the party then retired for a welcome siesta before the tea-time ceremony of the lighting of the Christmas tree. Hercule Poirot, however, did not take a siesta. Instead, he made his way to the enormous old-fashioned kitchen.

‘It is permitted,’ he asked, looking round and beaming, ‘that I congratulate the cook on this marvellous meal that I have just eaten?’

There was a moment's pause and then Mrs Ross came forward in a stately manner to meet him. She was a large woman, nobly built with all the dignity of a stage duchess. Two lean grey-haired women were beyond in the scullery washing up and a tow-haired girl was moving to and fro between the scullery and the kitchen. But these were obviously mere myrmidons. Mrs Ross was the queen of the kitchen quarters.

‘I am glad to hear you enjoyed it, sir,’ she said graciously.

‘Enjoyed it!’ cried Hercule Poirot. With an extravagant foreign gesture he raised his hand to his lips, kissed it, and wafted the kiss to the ceiling. ‘But you are a genius, Mrs Ross! A genius! Never have I tasted such a wonderful meal. The oyster soup —’ he made an expressive noise with his lips ‘— and the stuffing. The chestnut stuffing in the turkey, that was quite unique in my experience.’