The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

Hercule Poirot sat up. His green eyes flashed.

‘Indeed?’ he said. ‘Indeed?’

Bonnington said:

‘D'you remember I suggested he'd been to a doctor and been put on a diet? Diet's nonsense of course — but I shouldn't wonder if he had consulted a doctor about his health and what the doctor said gave him a bit of a jolt. That would account for him ordering things off the menu without noticing what he was doing. Quite likely the jolt he got hurried him out of the world sooner than he would have gone otherwise. Doctors ought to be careful what they tell a chap.’

‘They usually are,’ said Hercule Poirot.

‘This is my station,’ said Mr Bonnington. ‘Bye, bye. Don't suppose we shall ever know now who the old boy was — not even his name. Funny world!’

He hurried out of the carriage.

Hercule Poirot, sitting frowning, looked as though he did not think it was such a funny world.

He went home and gave certain instructions to his faithful valet, George.

Hercule Poirot ran his finger down a list of names. It was a record of deaths within a certain area.

Poirot's finger stopped.

‘Henry Gascoigne. Sixty-nine. I might try him first.’

Later in the day, Hercule Poirot was sitting in Dr MacAndrew's surgery just off the King's Road. MacAndrew was a tall red-haired Scotsman with an intelligent face.

‘Gascoigne?’ he said. ‘Yes, that's right. Eccentric old bird. Lived alone in one of those derelict old houses that are being cleared away in order to build a block of modern flats. I hadn't attended him before, but I'd seen him about and I knew who he was. It was the dairy people got the wind up first. The milk bottles began to pile up outside. In the end the people next door sent word to the police and they broke the door in and found him. He'd pitched down the stairs and broken his neck. Had on an old dressing-gown with a ragged cord — might easily have tripped himself up with it.’

‘I see,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘It was quite simple — an accident.’

‘That's right.’

‘Had he any relations?’

‘There's a nephew. Used to come along and see his uncle about once a month. Lorrimer, his name is, George Lorrimer. He's a medico himself. Lives at Wimbledon.’

‘Was he upset at the old man's death?’

‘I don't know that I'd say he was upset. I mean, he had an affection for the old man, but he didn't really know him very well.’

‘How long had Mr Gascoigne been dead when you saw him?’

‘Ah!’ said Dr MacAndrew. ‘This is where we get official. Not less than forty-eight hours and not more than seventy-two hours. He was found on the morning of the sixth. Actually, we got closer than that. He'd got a letter in the pocket of his dressing-gown — written on the third — posted in Wimbledon that afternoon — would have been delivered somewhere around nine-twenty p.m. That puts the time of death at after nine-twenty on the evening of the third. That agrees with the contents of the stomach and the processes of digestion. He had had a meal about two hours before death. I examined him on the morning of the sixth and his condition was quite consistent with death having occurred about sixty hours previously — round about ten p.m. on the third.’

‘It all seems very consistent. Tell me, when was he last seen alive?’

‘He was seen in the King's Road about seven o'clock that same evening, Thursday the third, and he dined at the Gallant Endeavour restaurant at seven-thirty. It seems he always dined there on Thursdays. He was by way of being an artist, you know. An extremely bad one.’

‘He had no other relations? Only this nephew?’

‘There was a twin brother. The whole story is rather curious. They hadn't seen each other for years. It seems the other brother, Anthony Gascoigne, married a very rich woman and gave up art — and the brothers quarrelled over it. Hadn't seen each other since, I believe. But oddly enough, they died on the same day. The elder twin passed away at three o'clock on the afternoon of the third. Once before I've known a case of twins dying on the same day — in different parts of the world! Probably just a coincidence — but there it is.’

‘Is the other brother's wife alive?’

‘No, she died some years ago.’

‘Where did Anthony Gascoigne live?’

‘He had a house on Kingston Hill. He was, I believe, from what Dr Lorrimer tells me, very much of a recluse.’

Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

The Scotsman looked at him keenly.

‘What exactly have you got in your mind, M. Poirot?’ he asked bluntly. ‘I've answered your questions — as was my duty seeing the credentials you brought. But I'm in the dark as to what it's all about.’

Poirot said slowly:

‘A simple case of accidental death, that's what you said. What I have in mind is equally simple — a simple push.’

Dr MacAndrew looked startled.

‘In other words, murder! Have you any grounds for that belief?’

‘No,’ said Poirot. ‘It is a mere supposition.’

‘There must be something —’ persisted the other.

Poirot did not speak. MacAndrew said: