Hercule Poirot’s Christmas. Agatha Christie

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      ‘Then he came to England and started in business and his fortune has actually doubled or trebled itself, I believe.’

      ‘What will happen when he dies?’ asked Magdalene.

      ‘Father’s never said much on the subject. Of course one can’t exactly ask. I should imagine that the bulk of his money will go to Alfred and myself. Alfred, of course, will get the larger share.’

      ‘You’ve got other brothers, haven’t you?’

      ‘Yes, there’s my brother David. I don’t fancy he will get much. He went off to do art or some tomfoolery of that kind. I believe Father warned him that he would cut him out of his will and David said he didn’t care.’

      ‘How silly!’ said Magdalene with scorn.

      ‘There was my sister Jennifer too. She went off with a foreigner—a Spanish artist—one of David’s friends. But she died just over a year ago. She left a daughter, I believe. Father might leave a little money to her, but nothing much. And of course there’s Harry—’

      He stopped, slightly embarrassed.

      ‘Harry?’ said Magdalene, surprised. ‘Who is Harry?’

      ‘Ah—er—my brother.’

      ‘I never knew you had another brother.’

      ‘My dear, he wasn’t a great—er—credit—to us. We don’t mention him. His behaviour was disgraceful. We haven’t heard anything of him for some years now. He’s probably dead.’

      Magdalene laughed suddenly.

      ‘What is it? What are you laughing at?’

      Magdalene said:

      ‘I was only thinking how funny it was that you—you, George, should have a disreputable brother! You’re so very respectable.’

      ‘I should hope so,’ said George coldly.

      Her eyes narrowed.

      ‘Your father isn’t—very respectable, George.’

      ‘Really, Magdalene!’

      ‘Sometimes the things he says make me feel quite uncomfortable.’

      George said:

      ‘Really, Magdalene, you surprise me. Does—er—does Lydia feel the same?’

      ‘He doesn’t say the same kind of things to Lydia,’ said Magdalene. She added angrily, ‘No, he never says them to her. I can’t think why not.’

      George glanced at her quickly and then glanced away.

      ‘Oh, well,’ he said vaguely. ‘One must make allowances. At Father’s age—and with his health being so bad—’

      He paused. His wife asked:

      ‘Is he really—pretty ill?’

      ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. He’s remarkably tough. All the same, since he wants to have his family round him at Christmas, I think we are quite right to go. It may be his last Christmas.’

      She said sharply:

      ‘You say that, George, but really, I suppose, he may live for years?’

      Slightly taken aback, her husband stammered:

      ‘Yes—yes, of course he may.’

      Magdalene turned away.

      ‘Oh, well,’ she said, ‘I suppose we’re doing the right thing by going.’

      ‘I have no doubt about it.’

      ‘But I hate it! Alfred’s so dull, and Lydia snubs me.’

      ‘Nonsense.’

      ‘She does. And I hate that beastly manservant.’

      ‘Old Tressilian?’

      ‘No, Horbury. Sneaking round like a cat and smirking.’

      ‘Really, Magdalene, I can’t see that Horbury can affect you in any way!’

      ‘He just gets on my nerves, that’s all. But don’t let’s bother. We’ve got to go, I can see that. Won’t do to offend the old man.’

      ‘No—no, that’s just the point. About the servants’ Christmas dinner—’

      ‘Not now, George, some other time. I’ll just ring up Lydia and tell her that we’ll come by the five-twenty tomorrow.’

      Magdalene left the room precipitately. After telephoning she went up to her own room and sat down in front of the desk. She let down the flap and rummaged in its various pigeon-holes. Cascades of bills came tumbling out. Magdalene sorted through them, trying to arrange them in some kind of order. Finally, with an impatient sigh, she bundled them up and thrust them back whence they had come. She passed a hand over her smooth platinum head.

      ‘What on earth am I to do?’ she murmured.

      VI

      On the first floor of Gorston Hall a long passage led to a big room overlooking the front drive. It was a room furnished in the more flamboyant of old-fashioned styles. It had heavy brocaded wallpaper, rich leather armchairs, large vases embossed with dragons, sculptures in bronze…Everything in it was magnificent, costly and solid.

      In a big grandfather armchair, the biggest and most imposing of all the chairs, sat the thin, shrivelled figure of an old man. His long clawlike hands rested on the arms of the chair. A gold-mounted stick was by his side. He wore an old shabby blue dressing-gown. On his feet were carpet slippers. His hair was white and the skin of his face was yellow.

      A shabby, insignificant figure, one might have thought. But the nose, aquiline and proud, and the eyes, dark and intensely alive, might cause an observer to alter his opinion. Here was fire and life and vigour.

      Old Simeon Lee cackled to himself, a sudden, high cackle of amusement.

      He said:

      ‘You gave my message to Mrs Alfred, hey?’

      Horbury was standing beside his chair. He replied in his soft deferential voice:

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Exactly in the words I told you? Exactly, mind?’

      ‘Yes, sir. I didn’t make a mistake, sir.’

      ‘No—you don’t make mistakes. You’d better not make mistakes either—or you’ll regret it! And what did she say, Horbury? What did Mr Alfred say?’

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