The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

When it was finally produced he studied it with some care. It was written in a slightly cramped handwriting with a stylographic pen.

It ran as follows:

Dear Uncle Henry,

I am sorry to tell you that I have had no success as regards Uncle Anthony. He showed no enthusiasm for a visit from you and would give me no reply to your request that he would let bygones be bygones. He is, of course, extremely ill, and his mind is inclined to wander. I should fancy that the end is very near. He seemed hardly to remember who you were.

I am sorry to have failed you, but I can assure you that I did my best.

Your affectionate nephew,

George Lorrimer

The letter itself was dated 3rd November. Poirot glanced at the envelope's postmark — 4.30 p.m. 3 Nov.

He murmured:

‘It is beautifully in order, is it not?’

Kingston Hill was his next objective. After a little trouble, with the exercise of good-humoured pertinacity, he obtained an interview with Amelia Hill, cook-housekeeper to the late Anthony Gascoigne.

Mrs Hill was inclined to be stiff and suspicious at first, but the charming geniality of this strange-looking foreigner would have had its effect on a stone. Mrs Amelia Hill began to unbend.

She found herself, as had so many other women before her, pouring out her troubles to a really sympathetic listener.

For fourteen years she had had charge of Mr Gascoigne's household — not an easy job! No, indeed! Many a woman would have quailed under the burdens she had had to bear! Eccentric the poor gentleman was and no denying it. Remarkably close with his money — a kind of mania with him it was — and he as rich a gentleman as might be! But Mrs Hill had served him faithfully, and put up with his ways, and naturally she'd expected at any rate a remembrance. But no — nothing at all! Just an old will that left all his money to his wife and if she predeceased him then everything to his brother, Henry. A will made years ago. It didn't seem fair!

Gradually Hercule Poirot detached her from her main theme of unsatisfied cupidity. It was indeed a heartless injustice! Mrs Hill could not be blamed for feeling hurt and surprised. It was well known that Mr Gascoigne was tight-fisted about money. It had even been said that the dead man had refused his only brother assistance. Mrs Hill probably knew all about that.

‘Was it that that Dr Lorrimer came to see him about?’ asked Mrs Hill. ‘I knew it was something about his brother, but I thought it was just that his brother wanted to be reconciled. They'd quarrelled years ago.’

‘I understand,’ said Poirot, ‘that Mr Gascoigne refused absolutely?’

‘That's right enough,’ said Mrs Hill with a nod. ‘“Henry?” he says, rather weak like. “What's this about Henry? Haven't seen him for years and don't want to. Quarrelsome fellow, Henry.” Just that.’

The conversation then reverted to Mrs Hill's own special grievances, and the unfeeling attitude of the late Mr Gascoigne's solicitor.

With some difficulty Hercule Poirot took his leave without breaking off the conversation too abruptly.

And so, just after the dinner hour, he came to Elmcrest, Dorset Road, Wimbledon, the residence of Dr George Lorrimer.

The doctor was in. Hercule Poirot was shown into the surgery and there presently Dr George Lorrimer came to him, obviously just risen from the dinner table.

‘I'm not a patient, Doctor,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘And my coming here is, perhaps, somewhat of an impertinence — but I'm an old man and I believe in plain and direct dealing. I do not care for lawyers and their long-winded roundabout methods.’

He had certainly aroused Lorrimer's interest. The doctor was a clean-shaven man of middle height. His hair was brown, but his eyelashes were almost white which gave his eyes a pale, boiled appearance. His manner was brisk and not without humour.

‘Lawyers?’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Hate the fellows! You rouse my curiosity, my dear sir. Pray sit down.’

Poirot did so and then produced one of his professional cards which he handed to the doctor.

George Lorrimer's white eyelashes blinked.

Poirot leaned forward confidentially. ‘A good many of my clients are women,’ he said.

‘Naturally,’ said Dr George Lorrimer, with a slight twinkle.