The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘I think — M. Poirot, could you help us? Something rather awful has happened.’

‘Something has happened? But what?’

‘It's — it's Bridget. She's out there in the snow. I think — she doesn't move or speak and — oh, you'd better come and look for yourself. I'm terribly afraid — she may be dead.’

‘What?’ Poirot cast aside his bed covers. ‘Mademoiselle Bridget — dead!’

‘I think — I think somebody's killed her. There's — there's blood and — oh do come!’

‘But certainly. But certainly. I come on the instant.’

With great practicality Poirot inserted his feet into his outdoor shoes and pulled a fur-lined overcoat over his pyjamas.

‘I come,’ he said. ‘I come on the moment. You have aroused the house?’

‘No. No, so far I haven't told anyone but you. I thought it would be better. Grandfather and Gran aren't up yet. They're laying breakfast downstairs, but I didn't say anything to Peverell. She — Bridget — she's round the other side of the house, near the terrace and the library window.’

‘I see. Lead the way. I will follow.’

Turning away to hide his delighted grin, Colin led the way downstairs. They went out through the side door. It was a clear morning with the sun not yet high over the horizon. It was not snowing now, but it had snowed heavily during the night and everywhere around was an unbroken carpet of thick snow. The world looked very pure and white and beautiful.

‘There!’ said Colin breathlessly. ‘I — it's — there!’ He pointed dramatically.

The scene was indeed dramatic enough. A few yards away Bridget lay in the snow. She was wearing scarlet pyjamas and a white wool wrap thrown round her shoulders. The white wool wrap was stained with crimson. Her head was turned aside and hidden by the mass of her outspread black hair. One arm was under her body, the other lay flung out, the fingers clenched, and standing up in the centre of the crimson stain was the hilt of a large curved Kurdish knife which Colonel Lacey had shown to his guests only the evening before.

‘Mon Dieu!’ ejaculated M. Poirot. ‘It is like something on the stage!’

There was a faint choking noise from Michael. Colin thrust himself quickly into the breach.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘It — it doesn't seem real somehow, does it? Do you see those footprints — I suppose we mustn't disturb them?’

‘Ah yes, the footprints. No, we must be careful not to disturb those footprints.’

‘That's what I thought,’ said Colin. ‘That's why I wouldn't let anyone go near her until we got you. I thought you'd know what to do.’

‘All the same,’ said Hercule Poirot briskly, ‘first, we must see if she is still alive? Is not that so?’

‘Well — yes — of course,’ said Michael, a little doubtfully, ‘but you see, we thought, I mean, we didn't like —’

‘Ah, you have the prudence! You have read the detective stories. It is most important that nothing should be touched and that the body should be left as it is. But we cannot be sure as yet if it is a body, can we? After all, though prudence is admirable, common humanity comes first. We must think of the doctor, must we not, before we think of the police?’

‘Oh yes. Of course,’ said Colin, still a little taken aback.

‘We only thought — I mean — we thought we'd better get you before we did anything,’ said Michael hastily.

‘Then you will both remain here,’ said Poirot. ‘I will approach from the other side so as not to disturb these footprints. Such excellent footprints, are they not — so very clear? The footprints of a man and a girl going out together to the place where she lies. And then the man's footsteps come back but the girl's — do not.’

‘They must be the footprints of the murderer,’ said Colin, with bated breath.

‘Exactly,’ said Poirot. ‘The footprints of the murderer. A long narrow foot with rather a peculiar type of shoe. Very interesting. Easy, I think, to recognise. Yes, those footprints will be very important.’

At that moment Desmond Lee-Wortley came out of the house with Sarah and joined them.

‘What on earth are you all doing here?’ he demanded in a somewhat theatrical manner. ‘I saw you from my bedroom window. What's up? Good lord, what's this? It — it looks like —’

‘Exactly,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘It looks like murder, does it not?’

Sarah gave a gasp, then shot a quick suspicious glance at the two boys.

‘You mean someone's killed the girl — what's-her-name — Bridget?’ demanded Desmond. ‘Who on earth would want to kill her? It's unbelievable!’

‘There are many things that are unbelievable,’ said Poirot. ‘Especially before breakfast, is it not? That is what one of your classics says. Six impossible things before breakfast.’ He added: ‘Please wait here, all of you.’

Carefully making a circuit, he approached Bridget and bent for a moment down over the body. Colin and Michael were now both shaking with suppressed laughter. Sarah joined them, murmuring ‘What have you two been up to?’

‘Good old Bridget,’ whispered Colin. ‘Isn't she wonderful? Not a twitch!’

‘I've never seen anything look so dead as Bridget does,’ whispered Michael.