Suddenly Oscar Levering burst out of the house.
‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘What’s this?’
His excitement was a contrast to the other’s calm.
‘It looks,’ said M. Poirot thoughtfully, ‘like murder.’
Eric had another violent attack of coughing.
‘But we must do something,’ cried the other. ‘What shall we do?’
‘There is only one thing to be done,’ said M. Poirot. ‘Send for the police.’
‘Oh!’ said everybody at once.
M. Poirot looked inquiringly at them.
‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘It is the only thing to be done. Who will go?’
There was a pause, then Johnnie came forward.
‘Rag’s over,’ he declared. ‘I say, M. Poirot, I hope you won’t be too mad with us. It’s all a joke, you know—got up between us—just to pull your leg. Nancy’s only shamming.’
M. Poirot regarded him without visible emotion, save that his eyes twinkled a moment.
‘You mock yourselves at me, is that it?’ he inquired placidly.
‘I say, I’m awfully sorry really. We shouldn’t have done it. Beastly bad taste. I apologize, I really do.’
‘You need not apologize,’ said the other in a peculiar voice.
Johnnie turned.
‘I say, Nancy, get up!’ he cried. ‘Don’t lie there all day.’
But the figure on the ground did not move.
‘Get up,’ cried Johnnie again.
Still Nancy did not move, and suddenly a feeling of nameless dread came over the boy. He turned to Poirot.
‘What—what’s the matter? Why doesn’t she get up?’
‘Come with me,’ said Poirot curtly.
He strode over the snow. He had waved the others back, and he was careful not to infringe on the other footmarks. The boy followed him, frightened and unbelieving. Poirot knelt down by the girl, then he signed to Johnnie.
‘Feel her hand and pulse.’
Wondering, the boy bent down, then started back with a cry. The hand and arm were stiff and cold, and no vestige of a pulse was to be found.
‘She’s dead!’ he gasped. ‘But how? Why?’
M. Poirot passed over the first part of the question.
‘Why?’ he said musingly. ‘I wonder.’ Then, suddenly leaning across the dead girl’s body, he unclasped her other hand, which was tightly clenched over something. Both he and the boy uttered an exclamation. In the palm of Nancy’s hand was a red stone that winked and flashed forth fire.
‘Aha!’ cried M. Poirot. Swift as a flash his hand flew to his pocket, and came away empty.
‘The cracker ruby,’ said Johnnie wonderingly. Then, as his companion bent to examine the dagger, and the stained snow, he cried out: ‘Surely it can’t be blood, M. Poirot. It’s paint. It’s only paint.’
Poirot straightened himself.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘You are right. It’s only paint.’
‘Then how—’ The boy broke off. Poirot finished the sentence for him.
‘How was she killed? That we must find out. Did she eat or drink anything this morning?’
He was retracing his steps to the path where the others waited as he spoke. Johnnie was close behind him.
‘She had a cup of tea,’ said the boy. ‘Mr Levering made it for her. He’s got a spirit-lamp in his room.’
Johnnie’s voice was loud and clear. Levering heard the words.
‘Always take a spirit-lamp about with me,’ he declared. ‘Most handy thing in the world. My sister’s been glad enough of it this visit—not liking to worry the servants all the time you know.’
M. Poirot’s eyes fell, almost apologetically as it seemed, to Mr Levering’s feet, which were encased in carpet slippers.
‘You have changed your boots, I see,’ he murmured gently.
Levering stared at him.
‘But, M. Poirot,’ cried Jean, ‘what are we to do?’
‘There is only one thing to be done, as I said just now, Mademoiselle. Send for the police.’
‘I’ll go,’ cried Levering. ‘It won’t take me a minute to put on my boots. You people had better not stay out here in the cold.’
He disappeared into the house.
‘He is so thoughtful, that Mr Levering,’ murmured Poirot softly. ‘Shall we take his advice?’
‘What about waking father and—and everybody?’
‘No,’ said M. Poirot sharply. ‘It is quite unnecessary. Until the police come, nothing must be touched out here; so shall we go inside? To the library? I have a little history to recount to you which may distract your minds from this sad tragedy.‘
He led the way, and they followed him.
‘The story is about a ruby,’ said M. Poirot, ensconcing himself in a comfortable arm-chair. ‘A very celebrated ruby which belonged to a very celebrated man. I will not tell you his name—but he is one of the great ones of the earth. Eh bien, this great man, he arrived in London, incognito. And since, though a great man, he was also a young and a foolish man, he became entangled with a pretty young lady. The pretty young lady, she did not care much for the man, but she did care for his possessions—so much so that she disappeared one day with the historic ruby which had belonged to his house for generations. The poor young man, he was in a quandary. He is shortly to be married to a noble Princess, and he does not want the scandal. Impossible to go to the police, he comes to me, Hercule Poirot, instead. ‘Recover for me my ruby,’ he says. Eh bien, I know something of this young lady. She has a brother, and between them they have put through many a clever coup. I happen to know where they are staying for Christmas. By the kindness of Mr Endicott, whom I chance to have met, I, too, become a guest. But when this pretty young lady hears that I am arriving, she is greatly alarmed. She is intelligent, and she knows that I am after the ruby. She must hide it immediately in a safe place; and figure to yourself where she hides it—in a plum-pudding! Yes, you may well say, oh! She is stirring with the rest, you see, and she pops it into a pudding-bowl of aluminium that is different from the
