Hercule Poirot's Christmas: A Holiday Mystery by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, Detective, Police Procedural, Mystery fiction, England, Mystery & Detective, English Mystery & Suspense Fiction, Fiction - Mystery, Private investigators, Christmas stories, General, Hercule (Fictitious character), Suspense, Women Sleuths, Mystery & Detective - Series, Traditional British, Fiction, Religious, Poirot, Mystery & Detective - Traditional British
ISBN: 9781579127893
Publisher: Black Dog Publishing
Published: 2008-10-07T16:00:00+00:00

Part 4

December 25th

In the bright sun of Christmas noon, Poirot walked in the gardens of Gorston Hall. The Hall itself was a large solidly built house with no special architectural pretensions.

Here, on the south side, was a broad terrace flanked with a hedge of clipped yew. Little plants grew in the interstices of the stone flags and at intervals along the terrace there were stone sinks arranged as miniature gardens.

Poirot surveyed them with benign approval. He murmured to himself:

‘C’est bien imaginé, c¸a!’

In the distance he caught sight of two figures going towards an ornamental sheet of water some three hundred yards away. Pilar was easily recognizable as one of the figures, and he thought at first the other was Stephen Farr, then he saw that the man with Pilar was Harry Lee. Harry seemed very attentive to his attractive niece. At intervals he flung his head back and laughed, then bent once more attentively towards her.

‘Assuredly, there is one who does not mourn,’ Poirot murmured to himself.

A soft sound behind him made him turn. Magdalene Lee was standing there. She, too, was looking at the retreating figures of the man and girl. She turned her head and smiled enchantingly at Poirot. She said:

‘It’s such a glorious sunny day! One can hardly believe in all the horrors of last night, can one, M. Poirot?’

‘It is difficult, truly, madame.’

Magdalene sighed.

‘I’ve never been mixed up in tragedy before. I’ve—I’ve really only just grown up. I stayed a child too long, I think—That’s not a good thing to do.’

Again she sighed. She said:

‘Pilar, now, seems so extraordinarily self-possessed—I suppose it’s the Spanish blood. It’s all very odd, isn’t it?’

‘What is odd, madame?’

‘The way she turned up here, out of the blue!’

Poirot said:

‘I have learned that Mr Lee had been searching for her for some time. He had been in correspondence with the Consulate in Madrid and with the vice-consul at Aliquara, where her mother died.’

‘He was very secretive about it all,’ said Magdalene. ‘Alfred knew nothing about it. No more did Lydia.’

‘Ah!’ said Poirot.

Magdalene came a little nearer to him. He could smell the delicate perfume she used.

‘You know, M. Poirot, there’s some story connected with Jennifer’s husband, Estravados. He died quite soon after the marriage, and there’s some mystery about it. Alfred and Lydia know. I believe it was something—rather disgraceful…’

‘That,’ said Poirot, ‘is indeed sad.’

Magdalene said:

‘My husband feels—and I agree with him—that the family ought to have been told more about the girl’s antecedents. After all, if her father was a criminal—’

She paused, but Hercule Poirot said nothing. He seemed to be admiring such beauties of nature as could be seen in the winter season in the grounds of Gorston Hall.

Magdalene said:

‘I can’t help feeling that the manner of my father-in-law’s death was somehow significant. It—it was so very unEnglish.’

Hercule Poirot turned slowly. His grave eyes met hers in innocent inquiry.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The Spanish touch, you think?’

‘Well, they are cruel, aren’t they?’ Magdalene spoke with an effect of childish appeal. ‘All

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