‘Very interesting,’ murmured M. Poirot to himself. ‘And quite unexpected.’
He looked across to the fireplace. Evelyn Haworth had not gone out with the rest. She was sitting staring at the fire, absorbed in thought, nervously twisting a ring on the third finger of her left hand round and round.
‘You are lost in a dream, Mademoiselle,’ said the little man at last. ‘And the dream is not a happy one, eh?’
She started, and looked across at him uncertainly. He nodded reassuringly.
‘It is my business to know things. No, you are not happy. Me, too, I am not very happy. Shall we confide in each other? See you, I have the big sorrow because a friend of mine, a friend of many years, has gone away across the sea to the South America. Sometimes, when we were together, this friend made me impatient, his stupidity enraged me; but now that he is gone, I can remember only his good qualities. That is the way of life, is it not? And now, Mademoiselle, what is your trouble? You are not like me, old and alone—you are young and beautiful; and the man you love loves you—oh yes, it is so: I have been watching him for the last half-hour.’
The girl’s colour rose.
‘You mean Roger Endicott? Oh, but you have made a mistake; it is not Roger I am engaged to.’
‘No, you are engaged to Mr Oscar Levering. I know that perfectly. But why are you engaged to him, since you love another man?’
The girl did not seem to resent his words; indeed, there was something in his manner which made that impossible. He spoke with a mixture of kindliness and authority that was irresistible.
‘Tell me all about it,’ said Poirot gently; and he added the phrase he had used before, the sound of which was oddly comforting to the girl. ‘It is my business to know things.’
‘I am so miserable, M. Poirot—so very miserable. You see, once we were very well off. I was supposed to be an heiress, and Roger was only a younger son; and—and although I’m sure he cared for me, he never said anything, but went off to Australia.’
‘It is droll, the way they arrange the marriages over here,’ interpolated M. Poirot. ‘No order. No method. Everything left to chance.’ Evelyn continued.
‘Then suddenly we lost all our money. My mother and I were left almost penniless. We moved into a tiny house, and we could just manage. But my mother became very ill. The only chance for her was to have a serious operation and go abroad to a warm climate. And we hadn’t the money, M. Poirot—we hadn’t the money! It meant that she must die. Mr Levering had proposed to me once or twice already. He again asked me to marry him, and promised to do everything that could be done for my mother. I said yes—what else could I do? He kept his word. The operation was performed by the greatest specialist of the day, and we went to Egypt for the winter. That was a year ago. My mother is well and strong again; and I—I am to marry Mr Levering after Christmas.’
‘I see,’ said M. Poirot; ‘and in the meantime, M. Roger’s elder brother has died, and he has come home—to find his dream shattered. All the same, you are not yet married, Mademoiselle.’
‘A Haworth does not break her word, M. Poirot,’ said the girl proudly.
Almost as she spoke, the door opened, and a big man with a rubicund face, narrow, crafty eyes, and a bald head stood on the threshold.
‘What are you moping in here for, Evelyn? Come out for a stroll.’
‘Very well, Oscar.’
She rose listlessly. Poirot rose also and demanded politely:
‘Mademoiselle Levering, she is still indisposed?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry to say my sister is still in bed. Too bad, to be laid up on Christmas Day.’
‘It is indeed,’ agreed the detective politely.
A few minutes sufficed for Evelyn to put on her snow-boots and some wraps, and she and her fiancé went out into the snow-covered grounds. It was an ideal Christmas Day, crisp and sunny. The rest of the house-party were busy with the erection of the snowman. Levering and Evelyn paused to watch them.
‘Love’s young dream, yah!’ cried Johnnie, and threw a snowball at them.
‘What do you think of it, Evelyn?’ cried Jean. ‘M. Hercule Poirot, the great detective.’
‘Wait till the moustache goes on,’ said Eric. ‘Nancy’s going to clip off a bit of her hair for it. Vivent les braves Belges! Pom, pom!’
‘Fancy having a real-live detective in the house!’—this from Charlie—‘I wish there could be a murder, too.’
‘Oh, oh, oh!’ cried Jean, dancing about. ‘I’ve got an idea. Let’s get up a murder—a spoof one, I mean. And take him in. Oh, do let’s—it would be no end of a rag.’
Five voices began to talk at once.
‘How should we do it?’
‘Awful groans!’
‘No, you stupid, out here.’
‘Footprints in the snow, of course.’
‘Jean in her nightie.’
‘You do it with red paint.’
‘In your hand—and clap it to your head.’
‘I say, I wish we had a revolver.’
‘I tell you, Father and Aunt Em won’t hear. Their rooms are the other side of the house.’
‘No, he won’t mind a bit; he’s no end of a sport.’
‘Yes, but what kind of red paint? Enamel?’
‘We could get some in the village.’
‘Fat-head, not on Christmas Day.’
‘No, watercolour. Crimson lake.’
‘Jean can be it.’
‘Never mind if you are cold. It won’t be for long.’
‘No, Nancy can be it, Nancy’s got those posh pyjamas.’
‘Let’s see if Graves knows where there’s any paint.’
A stampede to the house.
‘In a brown study, Endicott?’ said Levering, laughing disagreeably.
Roger roused himself abruptly. He had heard little of what had passed.
‘I was just wondering,’ he said quietly.
‘Wondering?’
‘Wondering what M. Poirot
