The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘There would be just room, I think.’

‘Then there seems at least a possibility,’ said the doctor slowly, ‘that someone was concealed in the room, but if so it could not be the secretary, since they both saw him leave the room. It could not be Victor Astwell, for Trefusis met him going out, and it could not be Lily Margrave. Whoever it was must have been concealed there before Sir Reuben entered the room that evening. You have told me pretty well how the land lies. Now what about Captain Naylor? Could it have been he who was concealed there?’

‘It is always possible,’ admitted Poirot. ‘He certainly dined at the hotel, but how soon he went out afterwards is difficult to fix exactly. He returned about half-past twelve.’

‘Then it might have been he,’ said the doctor, ‘and if so, he committed the crime. He had the motive, and there was a weapon near at hand. You don't seem satisfied with the idea, though?’

‘Me, I have other ideas,’ confessed Poirot. ‘Tell me now, M. le Docteur, supposing for one minute that Lady Astwell herself had committed this crime, would she necessarily betray the fact in the hypnotic state?’

The doctor whistled.

‘So that's what you are getting at? Lady Astwell is the criminal, eh? Of course — it is possible; I never thought of it till this minute. She was the last to be with him, and no one saw him alive afterwards. As to your question, I should be inclined to say — no. Lady Astwell would go into the hypnotic state with a strong mental reservation to say nothing of her own part in the crime. She would answer my questions truthfully, but she would be dumb on that one point. Yet I should hardly have expected her to be so insistent on Mr Trefusis's guilt.’

‘I comprehend,’ said Poirot. ‘But I have not said that I believe Lady Astwell to be the criminal. It is a suggestion, that is all.’

‘It is an interesting case,’ said the doctor after a minute or two. ‘Granting Charles Leverson is innocent, there are so many possibilities, Humphrey Naylor, Lady Astwell, and even Lily Margrave.’

‘There is another you have not mentioned,’ said Poirot quietly, ‘Victor Astwell. According to his own story, he sat in his room with the door open waiting for Charles Leverson's return, but we have only his own word for it, you comprehend?’

‘He is the bad-tempered fellow, isn't he?’ asked the doctor. ‘The one you told me about?’

‘That is so,’ agreed Poirot.

The doctor rose to his feet.

‘Well, I must be getting back to town. You will let me know how things shape, won't you?’

After the doctor had left, Poirot pulled the bell for George.

‘A cup of tisane, George. My nerves are much disturbed.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said George. ‘I will prepare it immediately.’

Ten minutes later he brought a steaming cup to his master. Poirot inhaled the noxious fumes with pleasure. As he sipped it, he soliloquized aloud.

‘The chase is different all over the world. To catch the fox you ride hard with the dogs. You shout, you run, it is a matter of speed. I have not shot the stag myself, but I understand that to do so you crawl for many long, long hours upon your stomach. My friend Hastings has recounted the affair to me. Our method here, my good George, must be neither of these. Let us reflect upon the household cat. For many long, weary hours, he watches the mouse hole, he makes no movement, he betrays no energy, but — he does not go away.’

He sighed and put the empty cup down on its saucer.

‘I told you to pack for a few days. Tomorrow, my good George, you will go to London and bring down what is necessary for a fortnight.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said George. As usual he displayed no emotion.

The apparently permanent presence of Hercule Poirot at Mon Repos was disquieting to many people. Victor Astwell remonstrated with his sister-in-law about it.

‘It's all very well, Nancy. You don't know what fellows of that kind are like. He has found jolly comfortable quarters here, and he is evidently going to settle down comfortably for about a month, charging you several guineas a day all the while.’

Lady Astwell's reply was to the effect that she could manage her own affairs without interference.

Lily Margrave tried earnestly to conceal her perturbation. At the time, she had felt sure that Poirot believed her story. Now she was not so certain.

Poirot did not play an entirely quiescent game. On the fifth day of his sojourn he brought down a small thumbograph album to dinner. As a method of getting the thumbprints of the household, it seemed a rather clumsy device, yet not perhaps so clumsy as it seemed, since no one could afford to refuse his thumbprints. Only after the little man had retired to bed did Victor Astwell state his views.

‘You see what it means, Nancy. He is out after one of us.’

‘Don't be absurd, Victor.’

‘Well, what other meaning could that blinking little book of his have?’

‘M. Poirot knows what he is doing,’ said Lady Astwell complacently, and looked with some meaning at Owen Trefusis.