Free While the Light Lasts by Agatha Christie Page A

originally intended for Christmas Day? It was funny that he should ask that. No, indeed! The Christmas pudding was always boiled in a big white china mould with a pattern of holly-leaves. But this very morning (the cook’s red face became wrathful) Gladys, the kitchen-maid, sent to fetch it down for the final boiling, had managed to drop and break it. ‘And of course, seeing that there might be splinters in it, I wouldn’t send it to table, but took the big aluminium one instead.’
    M. Poirot thanked her for her information. He went out of the kitchen, smiling a little to himself, as though satisfied with the information he had obtained. And the fingers of his right hand played with something in his pocket.
    II
    â€˜M. Poirot! M. Poirot! Do wake up! Something dreadful’s happened!’
    Thus Johnnie in the early hours of the following morning. M. Poirot sat up in bed. He wore a night-cap. The contrast between the dignity of his countenance and the rakish tilt of the night-cap was certainly droll; but its effect on Johnnie seemed disproportionate. But for his words, one might have fancied that the boy was violently amused about something. Curious sounds came from outside the door, too, suggesting soda-water syphons in difficulty.
    â€˜Come down at once, please,’ continued Johnnie, his voice shaking slightly. ‘Someone’s been killed.’ He turned away.
    â€˜Aha, that is serious!’ said M. Poirot.
    He arose, and, without unduly hurrying himself, made a partial toilet. Then he followed Johnnie down the stairs. The house-party was clustered round the door into the garden. Their countenances all expressed intense emotion. At sight of him Eric was seized with a violent choking fit.
    Jean came forward and laid her hand on M. Poirot’s arm.
    â€˜Look!’ she said, and pointed dramatically through the open door.
    â€˜ Mon Dieu! ’ ejaculated M. Poirot. ‘It is like a scene on the stage.’
    His remark was not inapposite. More snow had fallen during the night, the world looked white and ghostly in the faint light of the early dawn. The expanse of white lay unbroken save for what looked like on splash of vivid scarlet.
    Nancy Cardell lay motionless on the snow. She was clad in scarlet silk pyjamas, her small feet were bare, her arms were spread wide. Her head was turned aside and hidden by the mass of her clustering black hair. Deadly still she lay, and from her left side rose up the hilt of a dagger, whilst on the snow there was an ever-widening patch of crimson.
    Poirot went out into the snow. He did not go to where the girl’s body lay, but kept to the path. Two tracks of foot-marks, a man’s and a woman’s, led to where the tragedy had occurred. The man’s footprints went away in the opposite direction alone. Poirot stood on the path, stroking his chin reflectively.
    Suddenly Oscar Levering burst out of the house.
    â€˜Good God!’ he cried. ‘What’s this?’
    His excitement was a contrast to the other’s calm.
    â€˜It looks,’ said M. Poirot thoughtfully, ‘like murder.’
    Eric had another violent attack of coughing.
    â€˜But we must do something,’ cried the other. ‘What shall we do?’
    â€˜There is only one thing to be done,’ said M. Poirot. ‘Send for the police.’
    â€˜Oh!’ said everybody at once. M. Poirot looked inquiringly at them.
    â€˜Certainly,’ he said. ‘It is the only thing to be done. Who will go?’
    There was a pause, then Johnnie came forward.
    â€˜Rag’s over,’ he declared. ‘I say, M. Poirot, I hope you won’t be too mad with us. It’s all a joke, you know–got up between us–just to pull your leg. Nancy’s only shamming.’
    M. Poirot regarded him without visible emotion, save that his eyes twinkled a moment.
    â€˜You mock yourselves at me, is that it?’ he inquired placidly.
    â€˜I say, I’m