Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (11 page)

“From all I have heard and been told,”
said Poirot, “that would indeed be a disaster.”

“Do you think it would be possible
for you to help us in any way?” asked Mrs. Lacey.

“I think it is possible, yes,” said
Hercule Poirot, “but I do not wish to promise too much. For the Mr. Desmond
Lee-Wortleys of this world are clever, Madame. But do not despair. One can,
perhaps, do a little something. I shall at any rate, put forth my best
endeavours, if only in gratitude for your kindness in asking me here for this
Christmas festivity.” He looked round him. “And it cannot be so easy these days
to have Christmas festivities.”

“No, indeed,” Mrs. Lacey sighed. She
leaned forward. “Do you know, M. Poirot, what I really dream of—what I would
love to have?”

“But tell me, Madame.”

“I simply long to have a small,
modern bungalow. No, perhaps not a bungalow exactly, but a small, modern, easy
to run house built somewhere in the park here, and live in it with an
absolutely up-to-date kitchen and no long passages. Everything easy and simple.”

“It is a very practical idea, Madame.”

“It’s not practical for me,” said
Mrs. Lacey. “My husband
adores
this place. He
loves
living here. He doesn’t mind being slightly uncomfortable, he doesn’t mind the
inconveniences and he would hate, simply
hate,
to live in a
small modern house in the park!”

“So you sacrifice yourself to his
wishes?”

Mrs. Lacey drew herself up. “I do
not consider it a sacrifice, M. Poirot,” she said. “I married my husband with
the wish to make him happy. He has been a good husband to me and made me very
happy all these years, and I wish to give happiness to him.”

“So you will continue to live here,”
said Poirot.

“It’s not really too uncomfortable,”
said Mrs. Lacey.

“No, no,” said Poirot, hastily. “On
the contrary, it is most comfortable. Your central heating and your bath water
are perfection.”

“We spent a lot of money in making
the house comfortable to live in,” said Mrs. Lacey. “We were able to sell some
land. Ripe for development, I think they call it. Fortunately right out of
sight of the house on the other side of the park. Really rather an ugly bit of
ground with no nice view, but we got a very good price for it. So that we have
been able to have as many improvements as possible.”

“But the service, Madame?”

“Oh, well, that presents less
difficulty than you might think. Of course, one cannot expect to be looked
after and waited upon as one used to be. Different people come in from the
village. Two women in the morning, another two to cook lunch and wash it up,
and different ones again in the evening. There are plenty of people who want to
come and work for a few hours a day. Of course for Christmas we are very lucky.
My dear Mrs. Ross always comes in every Christmas. She is a wonderful cook,
really first-class. She retired about ten years ago, but she comes in to help
us in any emergency. Then there is dear Peverell.”

“Your butler?”

“Yes. He is pensioned off and lives
in the little house near the lodge, but he is so devoted, and he insists on
coming to wait on us at Christmas. Really, I’m terrified, M. Poirot, because he’s
so old and shaky that I feel certain that if he carries anything heavy he will
drop it. It’s really an agony to watch him. And his heart is not good and I’m
afraid of his doing too much. But it would hurt his feelings dreadfully if I
did not let him come. He hems and hahs and makes disapproving noises when he
sees the state our silver is in and within three days of being here, it is all
wonderful again. Yes. He is a dear faithful friend.” She smiled at Poirot. “So
you see, we are all set for a happy Christmas. A white Christmas, too,” she
added as she looked out of the window. “See? It is beginning to snow. Ah, the
children are coming in. You must meet them, M. Poirot.”

Poirot was introduced with due
ceremony. First, to Colin and Michael, the schoolboy grandson and his friend,
nice polite lads of fifteen, one dark, one fair. Then to their cousin, Bridget,
a black-haired girl of about the same age with enormous vitality.

“And this is my granddaughter, Sarah,”
said Mrs. Lacey.

Poirot looked with some interest at
Sarah, an attractive girl with a mop of red hair; her manner seemed to him
nervy and a trifle defiant, but she showed real affection for her grandmother.

“And this is Mr. Lee-Wortley.”

Mr. Lee-Wortley wore a fisherman’s
jersey and tight black jeans; his hair was rather long and it seemed doubtful
whether he had shaved that morning. In contrast to him was a young man
introduced as David Welwyn, who was solid and quiet, with a pleasant smile, and
rather obviously addicted to soap and water. There was one other member of the
party, a handsome, rather intense-looking girl who was introduced as Diana
Middleton.

Tea was brought in. A hearty meal of
scones, crumpets, sandwiches and three kinds of cake. The younger members of
the party appreciated the tea. Colonel Lacey came in last, remarking in a
non-committal voice:

“Hey, tea? Oh yes, tea.”

He received his cup of tea from his
wife’s hand, helped himself to two scones, cast a look of aversion at Desmond
Lee-Wortley and sat down as far away from him as he could. He was a big man
with bushy eyebrows and a red, weather-beaten face. He might have been taken
for a farmer rather than the lord of the manor.

“Started to snow,” he said. “It’s
going to be a white Christmas all right.”

After tea the party dispersed.

“I expect they’ll go and play with
their tape recorders now,” said Mrs. Lacey to Poirot. She looked indulgently
after her grandson as he left the room. Her tone was that of one who says “The
children are going to play with their toy soldiers.”

“They’re frightfully technical, of
course,” she said, “and very grand about it all.”

The boys and Bridget, however,
decided to go along to the lake and see if the ice on it was likely to make
skating possible.

“I thought we could have skated on
it this morning,” said Colin. “But old Hodgkins said no. He’s always so
terribly careful.”

“Come for a walk, David,” said Diana
Middleton, softly.

David hesitated for half a moment,
his eyes on Sarah’s red head. She was standing by Desmond Lee-Wortley, her hand
on his arm, looking up into his face.

“All right,” said David Welwyn, “yes,
let’s.”

Diana slipped a quick hand through
his arm and they turned towards the door into the garden. Sarah said:

“Shall we go, too, Desmond? It’s
fearfully stuffy in the house.”

“Who wants to walk?” said Desmond. “I’ll
get my car out. We’ll go along to the Speckled Boar and have a drink.

Sarah hesitated for a moment before
saying:

“Let’s go to Market Ledbury to the
White Hart. It’s much more fun.”

Though for all the world she would
not have put it into words, Sarah had an instinctive revulsion from going down
to the local pub with Desmond. It was, somehow, not in the tradition of Kings
Lacey. The women of Kings Lacey had never frequented the bar of the Speckled
Boar. She had an obscure feeling that to go there would be to let old Colonel
Lacey and his wife down. And why not? Desmond Lee-Wortley would have said. For
a moment of exasperation Sarah felt that he ought to know why not! One didn’t
upset such old darlings as Grandfather and dear old Em unless it was necessary.
They’d been very sweet, really, letting her lead her own life, not
understanding in the least why she wanted to live in Chelsea in the way she
did, but accepting it. That was due to Em of course. Grandfather would have kicked
up no end of a row.

Sarah had no illusions about her
grandfather’s attitude. It was not his doing that Desmond had been asked to
stay at Kings Lacey. That was Em, and Em was a darling and always had been.

When Desmond had gone to fetch his
car, Sarah popped her head into the drawing-room again.

“We’re going over to Market Ledbury,”
she said. “We thought we’d have a drink there at the White Hart.”

There was a slight amount of
defiance in her voice, but Mrs. Lacey did not seem to notice it.

“Well, dear,” she said. “I’m sure
that will be very nice. David and Diana have gone for a walk, I see. I’m so
glad. I really think it was a brainwave on my part to ask Diana here. So sad
being left a widow so young— only twenty-two—I do hope she marries again
soon.”

Sarah looked at her sharply. “What
are you up to, Em?”

“It’s my little plan,” said Mrs.
Lacey gleefully. “I think she’s just right for David. Of course I know he was
terribly in love with
you
, Sarah dear, but you’d no use for him and I
realise that he isn’t your type. But I don’t want him to go on being unhappy,
and I think Diana will really suit him.”

“What a matchmaker you are, Em,” said
Sarah.

“I know,” said Mrs. Lacey. “Old
women always are. Diana’s quite keen on him already, I think. Don’t you think
she’d be just right for him?”

“I shouldn’t say so,” said Sarah. “I
think Diana’s far too—well, too intense, too serious. I should think David
would find it terribly boring being married to her.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said Mrs. Lacey. “Anyway,
you
don’t want him, do you, dear?”

“No, indeed,” said Sarah, very
quickly. She added, in a sudden rush, “You
do
like Desmond, don’t
you, Em?”

“I’m sure he’s very nice indeed,” said
Mrs. Lacey.

“Grandfather doesn’t like him,” said
Sarah.

“Well, you could hardly expect him
to, could you?” said Mrs. Lacey reasonably, “but I dare say he’ll come round
when he gets used to the idea. You mustn’t rush him, Sarah dear. Old people are
very slow to change their minds and your grandfather
is
rather obstinate.”

“I don’t care what Grandfather
thinks or says,” said Sarah. “I shall get married to Desmond whenever I like!”

“I know, dear, I know. But do try
and be realistic about it. Your grandfather could cause a lot of trouble, you
know. You’re not of age yet. In another year you can do as you please. I expect
Horace will have come round long before that.”

“You’re on my side aren’t you,
darling?” said Sarah. She flung her arms round her grandmother’s neck and gave
her an affectionate kiss.

“I want you to be happy,” said Mrs.
Lacey. “Ah! there’s your young man bringing his car round. You know, I like
these very tight trousers these young men wear nowadays. They look so
smart—only, of course, it does accentuate knock knees.”

Yes, Sarah thought, Desmond
had
got knock knees, she had never noticed it before....

“Go on, dear, enjoy yourself,” said
Mrs. Lacey.

She watched her go out to the car,
then, remembering her foreign guest, she went along to the library. Looking in,
however, she saw that Hercule Poirot was taking a pleasant little nap, and smiling
to herself, she went across the hall and out into the kitchen to have a
conference with Mrs. Ross.

“Come on, beautiful,” said Desmond. “Your
family cutting up rough because you’re coming out to a pub? Years behind the
times here, aren’t they?”

“Of course they’re not making a fuss,”
said Sarah sharply, as she got into the car.

“What’s the idea of having that
foreign fellow down? He’s a detective, isn’t he? What needs detecting here?”

“Oh, he’s not here professionally,” said
Sarah. “Edwina Morecombe, my grandmother, asked us to have him. I think he’s
retired from professional work long ago.”

“Sounds like a broken-down old cab
horse,” said Desmond.

“He wanted to see an old-fashioned
English Christmas, I believe,” said Sarah vaguely.

Desmond laughed scornfully. “Such a
lot of tripe, that sort of thing,” he said. “How you can stand it I don’t know.”

Sarah’s red hair was tossed back and
her aggressive chin shot up.

“I enjoy it!” she said defiantly.

“You can’t, baby. Let’s cut the
whole thing tomorrow. Go over to Scarborough or somewhere.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, it would hurt their feelings.”

“Oh, bilge! You know you don’t enjoy
this childish sentimental bosh.”

“Well, not really perhaps, but—”
Sarah broke off. She realised with a feeling of guilt that she was looking
forward a good deal to the Christmas celebration. She enjoyed the whole thing,
but she was ashamed to admit that to Desmond. It was not the thing to enjoy
Christmas and family life. Just for a moment she wished that Desmond had not
come down here at Christmas time. In fact, she almost wished that Desmond had
not come down here at all. It was much more fun seeing Desmond in London than
here at home.