Free Thomas Godfrey (Ed) by Murder for Christmas

Poirot admitted, “but
you can tell me so little. Suggestion—suspicion—all that is not very much to go
upon.”
    “Come now, Monsieur Poirot, surely
it is not beyond your powers. Ah, come now.”
    “I do not always succeed.”
    But this was mock modesty. It was
clear enough from Poirot’s tone that for him to undertake a mission was almost
synonymous with succeeding in it.
    “His Highness is very young,” Mr.
Jesmond said. “It will be sad if his whole life is to be blighted for a mere
youthful indiscretion.”
    Poirot looked kindly at the downcast
young man. “It is the time for follies, when one is young,” he said
encouragingly, “and for the ordinary young man it does not matter so much. The
good papa, he pays up; the family lawyer, he helps to disentagle the
inconvenience; the young man, he learns by experience and all ends for the
best. In a position such as yours, it is hard indeed. Your approaching
marriage—”
    “That is it. That is it exactly.” For
the first time words poured from the young man. “You see she is very, very
serious. She takes life very seriously. She has acquired at Cambridge many very
serious ideas. There is to be education in my country. There are to be schools.
There are to be many things. All in the name of progress, you understand, of
democracy. It will not be, she says, like it was in my father’s time. Naturally
she knows that I will have diversions in London, but not the scandal. No! It is
the scandal that matters. You see it is very, very famous, this ruby. There is
a long trail behind it, a history. Much bloodshed—many deaths!”
    “Deaths,” said Hercule Poirot
thoughtfully. He looked at Mr. Jesmond. “One hopes,” he said, “it will not come
to that?”
    Mr. Jesmond made a peculiar noise
rather like a hen who has decided to lay an egg and then thought better of it.
    “No, no indeed,” he said, sounding
rather prim. “There is no question, I am sure, of anything of that kind.”
    “You cannot be sure,” said Hercule
Poirot. “Whoever has the ruby now, there may be others who want to gain
possession of it, and who will not stick at a trifle, my friend.”
    “I really don’t think,” said Mr.
Jesmond, sounding more prim than ever, “that we need enter into speculation of
that kind. Quite unprofitable.”
    “Me,” said Hercule Poirot, suddenly
becoming very foreign, “me, I explore all the avenues, like the politicians.”
    Mr. Jesmond looked at him
doubtfully. Pulling himself together, he said, “Well, I can take it that is
settled, M. Poirot? You will go to Kings Lacey?”
    “And how do I explain myself there?”
asked Hercule Poirot.
    Mr. Jesmond smiled with confidence.
    “That, I think, can be arranged very
easily,” he said. “I can assure you that it will all seem quite natural. You
will find the Laceys most charming. Delightful people.”
    “And you do not deceive me about the
oil-fired central heating?”
    “No, no, indeed.” Mr. Jesmond
sounded quite pained. “I assure you you will find every comfort.”
    “Tout confort moderne,” murmured Poirot to
himself, reminiscently. “Eh bien,” he said, “I accept.”
II
    The temperature in the long
drawing-room at Kings Lacey was a comfortable sixty-eight as Hercule Poirot sat
talking to Mrs. Lacey by one of the big mullioned windows. Mrs. Lacey was
engaged in needlework. She was not doing petit point or
embroidered flowers upon silk. Instead, she appeared to be engaged in the
prosaic task of hemming dishcloths. As she sewed she talked in a soft
reflective voice that Poirot found very charming.
    “I hope you will enjoy our Christmas
party here, M. Poirot. It’s only the family, you know. My granddaughter and a
grandson and a friend of his and Bridget who’s my great niece, and Diana who’s
a cousin and David Welwyn who is a very old friend. Just a family party. But
Edwina Morecombe said that that’s what you really wanted to see. An
old-fashioned Christmas. Nothing could be more