The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

He paused for a moment outside on the landing. It was a spacious one. Directly facing him was a big old oak settle with a refectory table in front of it. On the table were magazines. There were also two arm-chairs and a table with flowers. It reminded him a little of a dentist's waiting-room.

The butler was in the hall below waiting to let him out.

‘Can I get you a taxi, sir?’

‘No, I thank you. The night is fine. I will walk.’

Hercule Poirot paused a moment on the pavement waiting for a lull in the traffic before crossing the busy street.

A frown creased his forehead.

‘No,’ he said to himself. ‘I do not understand at all. Nothing makes sense. Regrettable to have to admit it, but I, Hercule Poirot, am completely baffled.’

That was what might be termed the first act of the drama. The second act followed a week later. It opened with a telephone call from one John Stillingfleet, MD.

He said with a remarkable lack of medical decorum:

‘That you, Poirot, old horse? Stillingfleet here.’

‘Yes, my friend. What is it?’

‘I'm speaking from Northway House — Benedict Farley's.’

‘Ah, yes?’ Poirot's voice quickened with interest. ‘What of — Mr Farley?’

‘Farley's dead. Shot himself this afternoon.’

There was a pause, then Poirot said:

‘Yes…’

‘I notice you're not overcome with surprise. Know something about it, old horse?’

‘Why should you think that?’

‘Well, it isn't brilliant deduction or telepathy or anything like that. We found a note from Farley to you making an appointment about a week ago.’

‘I see.’

‘We've got a tame police inspector here — got to be careful, you know, when one of these millionaire blokes bumps himself off. Wondered whether you could throw any light on the case. If so, perhaps you'd come round?’

‘I will come immediately.’

‘Good for you, old boy. Some dirty work at the crossroads — eh?’

Poirot merely repeated that he would set forth immediately.

‘Don't want to spill the beans over the telephone? Quite right. So long.’

A quarter of an hour later Poirot was sitting in the library, a low long room at the back of Northway House on the ground floor. There were five other persons in the room. Inspector Barnett, Dr Stillingfleet, Mrs Farley, the widow of the millionaire, Joanna Farley, his only daughter, and Hugo Cornworthy, his private secretary.

Of these, Inspector Barnett was a discreet soldierly-looking man. Dr Stillingfleet, whose professional manner was entirely different from his telephonic style, was a tall, long-faced young man of thirty. Mrs Farley was obviously very much younger than her husband. She was a handsome dark-haired woman. Her mouth was hard and her black eyes gave absolutely no clue to her emotions. She appeared perfectly self-possessed. Joanna Farley had fair hair and a freckled face. The prominence of her nose and chin was clearly inherited from her father. Her eyes were intelligent and shrewd. Hugo Cornworthy was a good-looking young fellow, very correctly dressed. He seemed intelligent and efficient.

After greetings and introductions, Poirot narrated simply and clearly the circumstances of his visit and the story told him by Benedict Farley. He could not complain of any lack of interest.

‘Most extraordinary story I've ever heard!’ said the inspector. ‘A dream, eh? Did you know anything about this, Mrs Farley?’

She bowed her head.

‘My husband mentioned it to me. It upset him very much. I — I told him it was indigestion — his diet, you know, was very peculiar — and suggested his calling in Dr Stillingfleet.’

That young man shook his head.

‘He didn't consult me. From M. Poirot's story, I gather he went to Harley Street.’

‘I would like your advice on that point, doctor,’ said Poirot. ‘Mr Farley told me that he consulted three specialists. What do you think of the theories they advanced?’

Stillingfleet frowned.

‘It's difficult to say. You've got to take into account that what he passed on to you wasn't exactly what had been said to him. It was a layman's interpretation.’

‘You mean he had got the phraseology wrong?’

‘Not exactly. I mean they would put a thing to him in professional terms, he'd get the meaning a little distorted, and then recast it in his own language.’

‘So that what he told me was not really what the doctors said.’

‘That's what it amounts to. He's just got it all a little wrong, if you know what I mean.’

Poirot nodded thoughtfully. ‘Is it known whom he consulted?’ he asked.

Mrs Farley shook her head, and Joanna Farley remarked:

‘None of us had any idea he had consulted anyone.’

‘Did he speak to you about his dream?’ asked Poirot.

The girl shook her head.

‘And you, Mr Cornworthy?’

‘No, he said nothing at all. I took down a letter to you at his dictation, but I had no idea why he wished to consult you. I thought it might possibly have something to do with some business irregularity.’

Poirot asked: ‘And now as to the actual facts of Mr Farley's death?’

Inspector Barnett looked interrogatively at Mrs Farley and at Dr Stillingfleet, and then took upon himself the role of spokesman.