The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding: A Hercule Poirot Short Story. Agatha Christie

Mr Jesmond shifted his ground a little.

      ‘You can appreciate the terrible dilemma we are in,’ he said, in a confidential manner.

      Hercule Poirot nodded. The problem was, indeed, not a happy one. A young potentate-to-be, the only son of the ruler of a rich and important native State had arrived in London a few weeks ago. His country had been passing through a period of restlessness and discontent. Though loyal to the father whose way of life had remained persistently Eastern, popular opinion was somewhat dubious of the younger generation. His follies had been Western ones and as such looked upon with disapproval.

      Recently, however, his betrothal had been announced. He was to marry a cousin of the same blood, a young woman who, though educated at Cambridge, was careful to display no Western influence in her own country. The wedding day was announced and the young prince had made a journey to England, bringing with him some of the famous jewels of his house to be reset in appropriate modern settings by Cartier. These had included a very famous ruby which had been removed from its cumbersome old-fashioned necklace and had been given a new look by the famous jewellers. So far so good, but after this came the snag. It was not to be supposed that a young man possessed of much wealth and convivial tastes, should not commit a few follies of the pleasanter type. As to that there would have been no censure. Young princes were supposed to amuse themselves in this fashion. For the prince to take the girl friend of the moment for a walk down Bond Street and bestow upon her an emerald bracelet or a diamond clip as a reward for the pleasure she had afforded him would have been regarded as quite natural and suitable, corresponding in fact to the Cadillac cars which his father invariably presented to his favourite dancing girl of the moment.

      But the prince had been far more indiscreet than that. Flattered by the lady’s interest, he had displayed to her the famous ruby in its new setting, and had finally been so unwise as to accede to her request to be allowed to wear it – just for one evening!

      The sequel was short and sad. The lady had retired from their supper table to powder her nose. Time passed. She did not return. She had left the establishment by another door and since then had disappeared into space. The important and distressing thing was that the ruby in its new setting had disappeared with her.

      These were the facts that could not possibly be made public without the most dire consequences. The ruby was something more than a ruby, it was a historical possession of great significance, and the circumstances of its disappearance were such that any undue publicity about them might result in the most serious political consequences.

      Mr Jesmond was not the man to put these facts into simple language. He wrapped them up, as it were, in a great deal of verbiage. Who exactly Mr Jesmond was, Hercule Poirot did not know. He had met other Mr Jesmonds in the course of his career. Whether he was connected with the Home Office, the Foreign Secretary or some other discreet branch of public service was not specified. He was acting in the interests of the Commonwealth. The ruby must be recovered.

      M. Poirot, so Mr Jesmond delicately insisted, was the man to recover it.

      ‘Perhaps – yes,’ Hercule 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 disentangle 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.’

      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 old-fashioned than we are! My husband, you know, absolutely lives in the past. He likes everything to be just as it was when he was a boy of twelve years old, and used to come here for his holidays.’ She smiled to herself. ‘All the same old things, the Christmas tree and the stockings hung up and the oyster soup and the turkey – two turkeys, one boiled and one roast – and the plum pudding with the ring and the bachelor’s button and all the rest of it in it. We can’t have sixpences nowadays because they’re not pure silver any more. But all the old desserts, the Elvas plums and Carlsbad plums and almonds and raisins, and crystallized fruit and ginger. Dear me, I sound like a catalogue from Fortnum and Mason!’

      ‘You arouse my gastronomic juices, Madame.’

      ‘I expect we’ll all have frightful indigestion by tomorrow evening,’ said Mrs Lacey. ‘One isn’t used to eating so much nowadays, is one?’

      She