Hercule Poirot’s Christmas. Agatha Christie

      Alfred said slowly:

      ‘I don’t think I like her very much. She is very good-looking—but I sometimes think she is like one of those beautiful pears one gets—they have a rosy flush and a rather waxen appearance—’ He shook his head.

      ‘And they’re bad inside?’ said Lydia. ‘How funny you should say that, Alfred!’

      ‘Why funny?’

      She answered:

      ‘Because—usually—you are such a gentle soul. You hardly ever say an unkind thing about anyone. I get annoyed with you sometimes because you’re not sufficiently—oh, what shall I say?—sufficiently suspicious—not worldly enough!’

      Her husband smiled.

      ‘The world, I always think, is as you yourself make it.’

      Lydia said sharply:

      ‘No! Evil is not only in one’s mind. Evil exists! You seem to have no consciousness of the evil in the world. I have. I can feel it. I’ve always felt it—here in this house—’ She bit her lip and turned away.

      Alfred said, ‘Lydia—’

      But she raised a quick admonitory hand, her eyes looking past him at something over his shoulder. Alfred turned.

      A dark man with a smooth face was standing there deferentially.

      Lydia said sharply:

      ‘What is it, Horbury?’

      Horbury’s voice was low, a mere deferential murmur.

      ‘It’s Mr Lee, madam. He asked me to tell you that there would be two more guests arriving for Christmas, and would you have rooms prepared for them.’

      Lydia said, ‘Two more guests?’

      Horbury said smoothly, ‘Yes, madam, another gentleman and a young lady.’

      Alfred said wonderingly: ‘A young lady?’

      ‘That’s what Mr Lee said, sir.’

      Lydia said quickly:

      ‘I will go up and see him—’

      Horbury made one little step, it was a mere ghost of a movement but it stopped Lydia’s rapid progress automatically.

      ‘Excuse me, madam, but Mr Lee is having his afternoon sleep. He asked specifically that he should not be disturbed.’

      ‘I see,’ said Alfred. ‘Of course we won’t disturb him.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’ Horbury withdrew.

      Lydia said vehemently:

      ‘How I dislike that man! He creeps about the house like a cat! One never hears him going or coming.’

      ‘I don’t like him very much either. But he knows his job. It’s not so easy to get a good male nurse attendant. And Father likes him, that’s the main thing.’

      ‘Yes, that’s the main thing, as you say. Alfred, what is this about a young lady? What young lady?’

      Her husband shook his head.

      ‘I can’t imagine. I can’t even think of anyone it might be likely to be.’

      They stared at each other. Then Lydia said, with a sudden twist of her expressive mouth:

      ‘Do you know what I think, Alfred?’

      ‘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