The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘M. Poirot?’

‘Speaking!’

‘Oh how splendid.’ Poirot blinked slightly at the fervour of the charming female voice. ‘It's Abbie Chatterton.’

‘Ah, Lady Chatterton. How can I serve you?’

‘By coming over as quickly as you can right away to a simply frightful cocktail party I am giving. Not just for the cocktail party — it's for something quite different really. I need you. It's absolutely vital. Please, please, please don't let me down! Don't say you can't manage it.’

Poirot had not been going to say anything of the kind. Lord Chatterton, apart from being a peer of the realm and occasionally making a very dull speech in the House of Lords, was nobody in particular. But Lady Chatterton was one of the brightest jewels in what Poirot called le haut monde. Everything she did or said was news. She had brains, beauty, originality, and enough vitality to activate a rocket to the moon.

She said again: ‘I need you. Just give that wonderful moustache of yours a lovely twirl, and come!’

It was not quite so quick as that. Poirot had first to make a meticulous toilet. The twirl to the moustaches was added and he then set off.

The door of Lady Chatterton's delightful house in Cheriton Street was ajar and a noise as of animals mutinying at the zoo sounded from within. Lady Chatterton who was holding two ambassadors, an international rugger player and an American evangelist in play, neatly jettisoned them with the rapidity of sleight of hand and was at Poirot's side.

‘M. Poirot, how wonderful to see you! No, don't have that nasty Martini. I've got something special for you — a kind of sirop that the sheikhs drink in Morocco. It's in my own little room upstairs.’

She led the way upstairs and Poirot followed her. She paused to say over her shoulder:

‘I didn't put these people off, because it's absolutely essential that no one should know there's anything special going on here, and I've promised the servants enormous bonuses if not a word leaks out. After all, one doesn't want one's house besieged by reporters. And, poor darling, she's been through so much already.’

Lady Chatterton did not stop at the first-floor landing, instead she swept on up to the floor above.

Gasping for breath and somewhat bewildered, Hercule Poirot followed.

Lady Chatterton paused, gave a rapid glance downwards over the banisters, and then flung open a door, exclaiming as she did so:

‘I've got him, Margharita! I've got him! Here he is!’

She stood aside in triumph to let Poirot enter, then performed a rapid introduction.

‘This is Margharita Clayton. She's a very, very dear friend of mine. You'll help her, won't you? Margharita, this is that wonderful Hercule Poirot. He'll do just everything you want — you will, won't you, dear M. Poirot?’

And without waiting for the answer which she obviously took for granted (Lady Chatterton had not been a spoilt beauty all her life for nothing), she dashed out of the door and down the stairs, calling back rather indiscreetly, ‘I've got to go back to all these awful people…’

The woman who had been sitting in a chair by the window rose and came towards him. He would have recognized her even if Lady Chatterton had not mentioned her name. Here was that wide, that very wide brow, the dark hair that sprang away from it like wings, the grey eyes set far apart. She wore a close-fitting, high-necked gown of dull black that showed up the beauty of her body and the magnolia-whiteness of her skin. It was an unusual face, rather than a beautiful one — one of those oddly proportioned faces that one sometimes sees in an Italian primitive. There was about her a kind of medieval simplicity — a strange innocence that could be, Poirot thought, more devastating than any voluptuous sophistication. When she spoke it was with a kind of childlike candour.

‘Abbie says you will help me…’

She looked at him gravely and inquiringly.

For a moment he stood quite still, scrutinizing her closely. There was nothing ill-bred in his manner of doing it. It was more the kind but searching look that a famous consultant gives a new patient.

‘Are you sure, Madame,’ he said at last, ‘that I can help you?’

A little flush rose to her cheeks.

‘I don't know what you mean.’

‘What is it, Madame, that you want me to do?’

‘Oh,’ she seemed surprised. ‘I thought — you knew who I was?’

‘I know who you are. Your husband was killed — stabbed, and a Major Rich has been arrested and charged with his murder.’

The flush heightened.

‘Major Rich did not kill my husband.’

Quick as a flash Poirot said:

‘Why not?’

She stared, puzzled. ‘I — I beg your pardon?’

‘I have confused you — because I have not asked the question that everybody asks — the police — the lawyers… “Why should Major Rich kill Arnold Clayton?” But I ask the opposite. I ask you, Madame, why you are sure that Major Rich did not kill him?’

‘Because,’ she paused a moment — ‘because I know Major Rich so well.’

‘You know Major Rich so well,’ repeated Poirot tonelessly.

He paused and then said sharply:

‘How well?’