Part 3 (1/2)
”Confound it, Emmeline,” he roared, ”why on earth do you let the cook put gla.s.s in the pudding?”
”Gla.s.s!” cried Mrs Lacey, astonished.
Colonel Lacey withdrew the offending substance from his mouth. ”Might have broken a tooth,” he grumbled. ”Or swallowed the d.a.m.n' thing and had appendicitis.”
He dropped the piece of gla.s.s into the finger-bowl, rinsed it and held it up.
”G.o.d bless my soul,” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, ”It's a red stone out of one of the cracker brooches.” He held it aloft.
”You permit?”
Very deftly M. Poirot stretched across his neighbour, took it from Colonel Lacey's fingers and examined it attentively. As the squire had said, it was an enormous red stone the colour of a ruby. The light gleamed from its facets as he turned it about. Somewhere around the table a chair was pushed sharply back and then drawn in again.
”Phew!” cried Michael. ”How wizard it would be if it was real.”
”Perhaps it is real,” said Bridget hopefully.
”Oh, don't be an a.s.s, Bridget. Why a ruby of that size would be worth thousands and thousands of pounds. Wouldn't it, M. Poirot?”
”It would indeed,” said Poirot.
”But what I can't understand,” said Mrs Lacey, ”is how it got into the pudding.”
”Oooh,” said Colin, diverted by his last mouthful, ”I've got the pig. It isn't fair.”
Bridget chanted immediately, ”Colin's got the pig! Colin's got the pig! Colin is the greedy guzzling pig!”
”I've got the ring,” said Diana in a clear, high voice.
”Good for you, Diana. You'll be married first, of us all.”
”I've got the thimble,” wailed Bridget.
”Bridget's going to be an old maid,” chanted the two boys. ”Yah, Bridget's going to be an old maid.”
”Who's got the money?” demanded David. ”There's a real ten s.h.i.+lling piece, gold, in this pudding. I know. Mrs Ross told me so.”
”I think I'm the lucky one,” said Desmond Lee-Wortley.
Colonel Lacey's two next door neighbours heard him mutter, ”Yes, you would be.”
”I've got a ring, too,” said David. He looked across at Diana. ”Quite a coincidence, isn't it?”
The laughter went on. n.o.body noticed that M. Poirot carelessly, as though thinking of something else, had dropped the red stone into his pocket.
Mince-pies and Christmas dessert followed the pudding. The older members of the party then retired for a welcome siesta before the tea-time ceremony of the lighting of the Christmas tree. Hercule Poirot, however, did not take a siesta. Instead, he made his way to the enormous old-fas.h.i.+oned kitchen.
”It is permitted,” he asked, looking round and beaming, ”that I congratulate the cook on this marvellous meal that I have just eaten?”
There was a moment's pause and then Mrs Ross came forward in a stately manner to meet him. She was a large woman, n.o.bly built with all the dignity of a stage d.u.c.h.ess. Two lean grey-haired women were beyond in the scullery was.h.i.+ng up and a tow-haired girl was moving to and fro between the scullery and the kitchen. But these were obviously mere myrmidons. Mrs Ross was the queen of the kitchen quarters.
”I am glad to hear you enjoyed it, sir,” she said graciously.
”Enjoyed it!” cried Hercule Poirot. With an extravagant foreign gesture he raised his hand to his lips, kissed it, and wafted the kiss to the ceiling. ”But you are a genius, Mrs Ross! A genius! Never have I tasted such a wonderful meal. The oyster soup...” he made an expressive noise with his lips. ”- and the stuffing. The chestnut stuffing in the turkey, that was quite unique in my experience.”
”Well, it's funny that you should say that, sir,” said Mrs Ross graciously. ”It's a very special recipe, that stuffing. It was given me by an Austrian chef that I worked with many years ago. But all the rest,” she added, ”is just good, plain English cooking.”
”And is there anything better?” demanded Hercule Poirot.
”Well, it's nice of you to say so, sir. Of course, you being a foreign gentleman might have preferred the continental style. Not but what I can't manage continental dishes too.”
”I am sure, Mrs Ross, you could manage anything! But you must know that English cooking - good English cooking, not the cooking one gets in the second-cla.s.s hotels or the restaurants - is much appreciated by gourmets on the continent, and I believe I am correct in saying that a special expedition was made to London in the early eighteen hundreds, and a report sent back to France of the wonders of the English puddings. 'We have nothing like that in France,' they wrote. 'It is worth making a journey to London just to taste the varieties and excellencies of the English puddings.' And above all puddings,” continued Poirot, well launched now on a kind of rhapsody, ”is the Christmas plum pudding, such as we have eaten today. That was a homemade pudding, was it not? Not a bought one?”
”Yes, indeed, sir. Of my own making and my own recipe such as I've made for many, many years. When I came here Mrs Lacey said that she'd ordered a pudding from a London store to save me the trouble. But no, Madam, I said, that may be kind of you but no bought pudding from a store can equal a homemade Christmas one. Mind you,” said Mrs Ross, warming to her subject like the artist she was, ”it was made too soon before the day. A good Christmas pudding should be made some weeks before and allowed to wait. The longer they're kept, within reason, the better they are. I mind now that when I was a child and we went to church every Sunday, we'd start listening for the collect that begins 'Stir up O Lord we beseech thee' because that collect was the signal, as it were, that the puddings should be made that week. And so they always were. We had the collect on the Sunday, and that week sure enough my mother would make the Christmas puddings. And so it should have been here this year. As it was, that pudding was only made three days ago, the day before you arrived, sir. However, I kept to the old custom. Everyone in the house had to come out into the kitchen and have a stir and make a wish. That's an old custom, sir, and I've always held to it.”
”Most interesting,” said Hercule Poirot. ”Most interesting. And so everyone came out into the kitchen?”
”Yes, sir. The young gentlemen, Miss Bridget and the London gentleman who's staying here, and his sister and Mr David and Miss Diana - Mrs Middleton, I should say... All had a stir, they did.”
”How many puddings did you make? Is this the only one?”
”No, sir, I made four. Two large ones and two smaller ones. The other large one I planned to serve on New Year's Day and the smaller ones were for Colonel and Mrs Lacey when they're alone like and not so many in the family.”
”I see, I see,” said Poirot.
”As a matter of fact, sir,” said Mrs Lacey, ”it was the wrong pudding you had for lunch today.”
”The wrong pudding?” Poirot frowned. ”How is that?”
”Well, sir, we have a big Christmas mould. A china mould with a pattern of holly and mistletoe on top and we always have the Christmas Day pudding boiled in that. But there was a most unfortunate accident. This morning, when Annie was getting it down from the shelf in the larder, she slipped and dropped it and it broke. Well, sir, naturally I couldn't serve that, could I? There might have been splinters in it. So we had to use the other one - the New Year's Day one, which was in a plain bowl. It makes a nice round but it's not so decorative as the Christmas mould. Really, where we'll get another mould like that I don't know. They don't make things in that size nowadays. All tiddly bits of things. Why, you can't even buy a breakfast dish that'll take a proper eight to ten eggs and bacon. Ah, things aren't what they were.”
”No, indeed,” said Poirot. ”But today that is not so. This Christmas Day has been like the Christmas Days of old, is that not true?”
Mrs Ross sighed. ”Well, I'm glad you say so, sir, but of course I haven't the help now that I used to have. Not skilled help, that is. The girls nowadays...” she lowered her voice slightly,” they mean very well and they're very willing but they've not been trained, sir, if you understand what I mean.”
”Times change, yes,” said Hercule Poirot. ”I too find it sad sometimes.”
”This house, sir,” said Mrs Ross, ”it's too large, you know, for the mistress and the colonel. The mistress, she knows that. Living in a corner of it as they do, it's not the same thing at all. It only comes alive, as you might say, at Christmas time when all the family come.”
”It is the first time, I think, that Mr Lee-Wortley and his sister have been here?”
”Yes, sir.” A note of slight reserve crept into Mrs Ross's voice. ”A very nice gentleman he is but, well - it seems a funny friend for Miss Sarah to have, according to our ideas. But there - London ways are different! It's sad that his sister's so poorly. Had an operation, she had. She seemed all right the first day she was here, but that very day, after we'd been stirring the puddings, she was took bad again and she's been in bed ever since. Got up too soon after her operation, I expect. Ah, doctors nowadays, they have you out of hospital before you can hardly stand on your feet. Why, my very own nephew's wife...” And Mrs Ross went into a long and spirited tale of hospital treatment as accorded to her relations, comparing it unfavourably with the consideration that had been lavished upon them in older times.
Poirot duly commiserated with her. ”It remains,” he said, ”to thank you for this exquisite and sumptuous meal. You permit a little acknowledgment of my appreciation?”
A crisp five pound note pa.s.sed from his hand into that of Mrs Ross who said perfunctorily: ”You really shouldn't do that, sir.”
”I insist. I insist.”
”Well, it's very kind of you indeed, sir.” Mrs Ross accepted the tribute as no more than her due. ”And I wish you, sir, a very happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year.”