The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘No,’ said Lady Astwell, ‘he is not like Victor.’

‘M. Victor Astwell is, I should say, explosive.’

‘That is a splendid word for him,’ said Lady Astwell. ‘He explodes all over the house, like one of those thingimyjig firework things.’

‘A somewhat quick temper, I should imagine?’ suggested Poirot.

‘Oh, he's a perfect devil when roused,’ said Lady Astwell, ‘but bless you, I'm not afraid of him. All bark and no bite to Victor.’

Poirot looked at the ceiling.

‘And you can tell me nothing about the secretary that evening?’ he murmured gently.

‘I tell you, M. Poirot, I know. It's intuition. A woman's intuition —’

‘Will not hang a man,’ said Poirot, ‘and what is more to the point, it will not save a man from being hanged. Lady Astwell, if you sincerely believe that M. Leverson is innocent, and that your suspicions of the secretary are well-founded, will you consent to a little experiment?’

‘What kind of an experiment?’ demanded Lady Astwell suspiciously.

‘Will you permit yourself to be put into a condition of hypnosis?’

‘Whatever for?’

Poirot leaned forward.

‘If I were to tell you, Madame, that your intuition is based on certain facts recorded subconsciously, you would probably be sceptical. I will only say, then, that this experiment I propose may be of great importance to that unfortunate young man, Charles Leverson. You will not refuse?’

‘Who is going to put me into a trance?’ demanded Lady Astwell suspiciously. ‘You?’

‘A friend of mine, Lady Astwell, arrives, if I mistake not, at this very minute. I hear the wheels of the car outside.’

‘Who is he?’

‘A Doctor Cazalet of Harley Street.’

‘Is he — all right?’ asked Lady Astwell apprehensively.

‘He is not a quack, Madame, if that is what you mean. You can trust yourself in his hands quite safely.’

‘Well,’ said Lady Astwell with a sigh, ‘I think it is all bunkum, but you can try if you like. Nobody is going to say that I stood in your way.’

‘A thousand thanks, Madame.’

Poirot hurried from the room. In a few minutes he returned ushering in a cheerful, round-faced little man, with spectacles, who was very upsetting to Lady Astwell's conception of what a hypnotist should look like. Poirot introduced them.

‘Well,’ said Lady Astwell good-humouredly, ‘how do we start this tomfoolery?’

‘Quite simple, Lady Astwell, quite simple,’ said the little doctor. ‘Just lean back, so — that's right, that's right. No need to be uneasy.’

‘I am not in the least uneasy,’ said Lady Astwell. ‘I should like to see anyone hypnotizing me against my will.’

Doctor Cazalet smiled broadly.

‘Yes, but if you consent, it won't be against your will, will it?’ he said cheerfully. ‘That's right. Turn off that other light, will you, M. Poirot? Just let yourself go to sleep, Lady Astwell.’

He shifted his position a little.

‘It's getting late. You are sleepy — very sleepy. Your eyelids are heavy, they are closing — closing — closing. Soon you will be asleep…’

His voice droned on, low, soothing, and monotonous. Presently he leaned forward and gently lifted Lady Astwell's right eyelid. Then he turned to Poirot, nodding in a satisfied manner.

‘That's all right,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Shall I go ahead?’

‘If you please.’

The doctor spoke out sharply and authoritatively: ‘You are asleep, Lady Astwell, but you hear me, and you can answer my questions.’

Without stirring or raising an eyelid, the motionless figure on the sofa replied in a low, monotonous voice:

‘I hear you. I can answer your questions.’

‘Lady Astwell, I want you to go back to the evening on which your husband was murdered. You remember that evening?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are at the dinner table. Describe to me what you saw and felt.’

The prone figure stirred a little restlessly.

‘I am in great distress. I am worried about Lily.’

‘We know that; tell us what you saw.’

‘Victor is eating all the salted almonds; he is greedy. Tomorrow I shall tell Parsons not to put the dish on that side of the table.’

‘Go on. Lady Astwell.’

‘Reuben is in a bad humour tonight. I don't think it is altogether about Lily. It is something to do with business. Victor looks at him in a queer way.’

‘Tell us about Mr Trefusis, Lady Astwell.’

‘His left shirt cuff is frayed. He puts a lot of grease on his hair. I wish men didn't, it ruins the covers in the drawing-room.’

Cazalet looked at Poirot; the other made a motion with his head.

‘It is after dinner, Lady Astwell, you are having coffee. Describe the scene to me.’