The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

Poirot sighed and looked down at a photographed face. Reproductions in newsprint were never very good, and this was decidedly smudgy — but what a face! Mrs Clayton, the wife of the murdered man…

On an impulse, he thrust the paper at Miss Lemon.

‘Look,’ he demanded. ‘Look at that face.’

Miss Lemon looked at it obediently, without emotion.

‘What do you think of her, Miss Lemon? That is Mrs Clayton.’

Miss Lemon took the paper, glanced casually at the picture, and remarked:

‘She's a little like the wife of our bank manager when we lived at Croydon Heath.’

‘Interesting,’ said Poirot. ‘Recount to me, if you will be so kind, the history of your bank manager's wife.’

‘Well, it's not really a very pleasant story, M. Poirot.’

‘It was in my mind that it might not be. Continue.’

‘There was a good deal of talk — about Mrs Adams and a young artist. Then Mr Adams shot himself. But Mrs Adams wouldn't marry the other man and he took some kind of poison — but they pulled him through all right; and finally Mrs Adams married a young solicitor. I believe there was more trouble after that, only of course we'd left Croydon Heath by then so I didn't hear very much more about it.’

Hercule Poirot nodded gravely. ‘She was beautiful?’

‘Well — not really what you'd call beautiful — But there seemed to be something about her —’

‘Exactly. What is that something that they possess — the sirens of this world! The Helens of Troy, the Cleopatras —?’

Miss Lemon inserted a piece of paper vigorously into her typewriter.

‘Really, M. Poirot, I've never thought about it. It seems all very silly to me. If people would just go on with their jobs and didn't think about such things it would be much better.’

Having thus disposed of human frailty and passion, Miss Lemon let her fingers hover over the keys of the typewriter, waiting impatiently to be allowed to begin her work.

‘That is your view,’ said Poirot. ‘And at this moment it is your desire that you should be allowed to get on with your job. But your job, Miss Lemon, is not only to take down my letters, to file my papers, to deal with my telephone calls, to typewrite my letters — All these things you do admirably. But me, I deal not only with documents but with human beings. And there, too, I need assistance.’

‘Certainly, M. Poirot,’ said Miss Lemon patiently. ‘What is it you want me to do?’

‘This case interests me. I should be glad if you would make a study of this morning's report of it in all the papers and also of any additional reports in the evening papers — Make me a précis of the facts.’

‘Very good, M. Poirot.’

Poirot withdrew to his sitting room, a rueful smile on his face.

‘It is indeed the irony,’ he said to himself, ‘that after my dear friend Hastings I should have Miss Lemon. What greater contrast can one imagine? Ce cher Hastings — how he would have enjoyed himself. How he would have walked up and down talking about it, putting the most romantic construction on every incident, believing as gospel truth every word the papers have printed about it. And my poor Miss Lemon, what I have asked her to do, she will not enjoy at all!’

Miss Lemon came to him in due course with a typewritten sheet.

‘I've got the information you wanted, M. Poirot. I'm afraid though, it can't be regarded as reliable. The papers vary a good deal in their accounts. I shouldn't like to guarantee that the facts as stated are more than sixty per cent accurate.’

‘That is probably a conservative estimate,’ murmured Poirot. ‘Thank you, Miss Lemon, for the trouble you have taken.’

The facts were sensational, but clear enough. Major Charles Rich, a well-to-do bachelor, had given an evening party to a few of his friends, at his apartment. These friends consisted of Mr and Mrs Clayton, Mr and Mrs Spence, and a Commander McLaren. Commander McLaren was a very old friend of both Rich and the Claytons. Mr and Mrs Spence, a younger couple, were fairly recent acquaintances. Arnold Clayton was in the Treasury. Jeremy Spence was a junior civil servant. Major Rich was forty-eight, Arnold Clayton was fifty-five, Commander McLaren was forty-six, Jeremy Spence was thirty-seven. Mrs Clayton was said to be ‘some years younger than her husband.’ One person was unable to attend the party. At the last moment, Mr Clayton was called away to Scotland on urgent business, and was supposed to have left King's Cross by the 8.15 train.

The party proceeded as such parties do. Everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. It was neither a wild party nor a drunken one. It broke up about 11.45. The four guests left together and shared a taxi. Commander McLaren was dropped first at his club and then the Spences dropped Margharita Clayton at Cardigan Gardens just off Sloane Street and went on themselves to their house in Chelsea.