Hercule Poirot’s Christmas. Агата Кристи

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      ‘What?’

      ‘I think your father has been bored lately. I think he is planning a little Christmas diversion for himself.’

      ‘By introducing two strangers into a family gathering?’

      ‘Oh! I don’t know what the details are—but I do fancy that your father is preparing to—amuse himself.’

      ‘I hope he will get some pleasure out of it,’ said Alfred gravely. ‘Poor old chap, tied by the leg, an invalid—after the adventurous life he has led.’

      Lydia said slowly:

      ‘After the—adventurous life he has led.’

      The pause she made before the adjective gave it some special though obscure significance. Alfred seemed to feel it. He flushed and looked unhappy.

      She cried out suddenly:

      ‘How he ever had a son like you, I can’t imagine! You two are poles apart. And he fascinates you—you simply worship him!’

      Alfred said with a trace of vexation:

      ‘Aren’t you going a little far, Lydia? It’s natural, I should say, for a son to love his father. It would be very unnatural not to do so.’

      Lydia said:

      ‘In that case, most of the members of this family are—unnatural! Oh, don’t let’s argue! I apologize. I’ve hurt your feelings, I know. Believe me, Alfred, I really didn’t mean to do that. I admire you enormously for your—your—fidelity. Loyalty is such a rare virtue in these days. Let us say, shall we, that I am jealous? Women are supposed to be jealous of their mothers-in-law—why not, then, of their fathers-in-law?’

      He put a gentle arm round her.

      ‘Your tongue runs away with you, Lydia. There’s no reason for you to be jealous.’

      She gave him a quick remorseful kiss, a delicate caress on the tip of his ear.

      ‘I know. All the same, Alfred, I don’t believe I should have been in the least jealous of your mother. I wish I’d known her.’

      ‘She was a poor creature,’ he said.

      His wife looked at him interestedly.

      ‘So that’s how she struck you…as a poor creature…That’s interesting.’

      He said dreamily:

      ‘I remember her as nearly always ill…Often in tears…’ He shook his head. ‘She had no spirit.’

      Still staring at him, she murmured very softly:

      ‘How odd…’

      But as he turned a questioning glance on her, she shook her head quickly and changed the subject.

      ‘Since we are not allowed to know who our mysterious guests are I shall go out and finish my garden.’

      ‘It’s very cold, my dear, a biting wind.’

      ‘I’ll wrap up warmly.’

      She left the room. Alfred Lee, left alone, stood for some minutes motionless, frowning a little to himself, then he walked over to the big window at the end of the room. Outside was a terrace running the whole length of the house. Here, after a minute or two, he saw Lydia emerge, carrying a flat basket. She was wearing a big blanket coat. She set down the basket and began to work at a square stone sink slightly raised above ground level.

      Her husband watched for some time. At last he went out of the room, fetched himself a coat and muffler, and emerged on to the terrace by a side door. As he walked along he passed various other stone sinks arranged as miniature gardens, all the products of Lydia’s agile fingers.

      One represented a desert scene with smooth yellow sand, a little clump of green palm trees in coloured tin, and a procession of camels with one or two little Arab figures. Some primitive mud houses had been constructed of plasticine. There was an Italian garden with terraces and formal beds with flowers in coloured sealing-wax. There was an Arctic one, too, with clumps of green glass for icebergs, and a little cluster of penguins. Next came a Japanese garden with a couple of beautiful little stunted trees, looking-glass arranged for water, and bridges modelled out of plasticine.

      He came at last to stand beside her where she was at work. She had laid down blue paper and covered it over with glass. Round this were lumps of rock piled up. At the moment she was pouring out coarse pebbles from a little bag and forming them into a beach. Between the rocks were some small cactuses.

      Lydia was murmuring to herself:

      ‘Yes, that’s exactly right—exactly what I want.’

      Alfred said:

      ‘What’s this latest work of art?’

      She started, for she had not heard him come up.

      ‘This? Oh, it’s the Dead Sea, Alfred. Do you like it?’

      He said, ‘It’s rather arid, isn’t it? Oughtn’t there to be more vegetation?’

      She shook her head.

      ‘It’s my idea of the Dead Sea. It is dead, you see—’

      ‘It’s not so attractive as some of the others.’

      ‘It’s not meant to be specially attractive.’

      Footsteps sounded on the terrace. An elderly butler, white-haired and slightly bowed, was coming towards them.

      ‘Mrs George Lee on the telephone, madam. She says will it be convenient if she and Mr George arrive by the five-twenty tomorrow?’

      ‘Yes, tell her that will be quite all right.’

      ‘Thank you, madam.’

      The butler hurried away. Lydia looked after him with a softened expression on her face.

      ‘Dear old Tressilian. What a standby he is! I can’t imagine what we should do without him.’

      Alfred agreed.

      ‘He’s one of the old school. He’s been with us nearly forty years. He’s devoted to us all.’

      Lydia nodded.

      ‘Yes. He’s like the faithful old retainers of fiction. I believe he’d lie himself blue in the face if it was necessary to protect one of the family!’

      Alfred said:

      ‘I believe he would…Yes, I believe he would.’

      Lydia smoothed over the last bit of her shingle.

      ‘There,’ she said. ‘That’s ready.’

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