The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

Hercule Poirot straightened up again.

‘This is a terrible thing,’ he said. His voice held an emotion it had not held before.

Overcome by mirth, Michael and Colin both turned away. In a choked voice Michael said:

‘What — what must we do?’

‘There is only one thing to do,’ said Poirot. ‘We must send for the police. Will one of you telephone or would you prefer me to do it?’

‘I think,’ said Colin, ‘I think — what about it, Michael?’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, ‘I think the jig's up now.’ He stepped forward. For the first time he seemed a little unsure of himself. ‘I'm awfully sorry,’ he said, ‘I hope you won't mind too much. It — er — it was a sort of joke for Christmas and all that, you know. We thought we'd — well, lay on a murder for you.’

‘You thought you would lay on a murder for me? Then this — then this —’

‘It's just a show we put on,’ explained Colin, ‘to — to make you feel at home, you know.’

‘Aha,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘I understand. You make of me the April fool, is that it? But today is not April the first, it is December the twenty-sixth.’

‘I suppose we oughtn't to have done it really,’ said Colin, ‘but — but — you don't mind very much, do you, M. Poirot? Come on, Bridget,’ he called, ‘get up. You must be half-frozen to death already.’

The figure in the snow, however, did not stir.

‘It is odd,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘she does not seem to hear you.’ He looked thoughtfully at them. ‘It is a joke, you say? You are sure this is a joke?’

‘Why, yes.’ Colin spoke uncomfortably. ‘We — we didn't mean any harm.’

‘But why then does Mademoiselle Bridget not get up?’

‘I can't imagine,’ said Colin.

‘Come on, Bridget,’ said Sarah impatiently. ‘Don't go on lying there playing the fool.’

‘We really are very sorry, M. Poirot,’ said Colin apprehensively. ‘We do really apologise.’

‘You need not apologise,’ said Poirot, in a peculiar tone.

‘What do you mean?’ Colin stared at him. He turned again. ‘Bridget! Bridget! What's the matter? Why doesn't she get up? Why does she go on lying there?’

Poirot beckoned to Desmond. ‘You, Mr Lee-Wortley. Come here —’

Desmond joined him.

‘Feel her pulse,’ said Poirot.

Desmond Lee-Wortley bend down. He touched the arm — the wrist.

‘There's no pulse…’ he stared at Poirot. ‘Her arm's stiff. Good God, she really is dead!’

Poirot nodded. ‘Yes, she is dead,’ he said. ‘Someone has turned the comedy into a tragedy.’

‘Someone — who?’

‘There is a set of footprints going and returning. A set of footprints that bears a strong resemblance to the footprints you have just made, Mr Lee-Wortley, coming from the path to this spot.’

Desmond Lee-Wortley wheeled round.

‘What on earth… Are you accusing me? ME? You're crazy! Why on earth should I want to kill the girl?’

‘Ah — why? I wonder… Let us see… ’

He bent down and very gently prised open the stiff fingers of the girl's clenched hand.

Desmond drew a sharp breath. He gazed down unbelievingly. In the palm of the dead girl's hand was what appeared to be a large ruby.

‘It's that damn' thing out of the pudding!’ he cried.

‘Is it?’ said Poirot. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course it is.’

With a swift movement Desmond bent down and plucked the red stone out of Bridget's hand.

‘You should not do that,’ said Poirot reproachfully. ‘Nothing should have been disturbed.’

‘I haven't disturbed the body, have I? But this thing might — might get lost and it's evidence. The great thing is to get the police here as soon as possible. I'll go at once and telephone.’

He wheeled round and ran sharply towards the house. Sarah came swiftly to Poirot's side.

‘I don't understand,’ she whispered. Her face was dead white. ‘I don't understand.’ She caught at Poirot's arm. ‘What did you mean about — about the footprints?’

‘Look for yourself, Mademoiselle.’

The footprints that led to the body and back again were the same as the ones just made accompanying Poirot to the girl's body and back.

‘You mean — that it was Desmond? Nonsense!’

Suddenly the noise of a car came through the clear air. They wheeled round. They saw the car clearly enough driving at a furious pace down the drive and Sarah recognised what car it was.

‘It's Desmond,’ she said. ‘It's Desmond's car. He — he must have gone to fetch the police instead of telephoning.’

Diana Middleton came running out of the house to join them.

‘What's happened?’ she cried in a breathless voice. ‘Desmond just came rushing into the house. He said something about Bridget being killed and then he rattled the telephone but it was dead. He couldn't get an answer. He said the wires must have been cut. He said the only thing was to take a car and go for the police. Why the police?…’

Poirot made a gesture.

‘Bridget?’ Diana stared at him. ‘But surely — isn't it a joke of some kind? I heard something — something last night. I thought that they were going to play a joke on you, M. Poirot?’