While the Light Lasts (6 page)

‘That is easily said,' said Clare derisively.

‘You think I'm not in earnest? Listen, if you go on with this beastly business, I'll kill myself. Sooner than have Cyril brought into it and ruined, I'd do that.'

Clare remained unimpressed.

‘You don't believe me?' said Vivien, panting.

‘Suicide needs a lot of courage.'

Vivien flinched back as though she had been struck.

‘You've got me there. Yes, I've no pluck. If there were an easy way–'

‘There's an easy way in front of you,' said Clare. ‘You've only got to run straight down that green slope. It would be all over in a couple of minutes. Remember that child last year.'

‘Yes,' said Vivien thoughtfully. ‘That would be easy–quite easy–if one really wanted to–'

Clare laughed.

Vivien turned to her.

‘Let's have this out once more. Can't you see that by keeping silence as long as you have, you've–you've no right to go back on it now? I'll not see Cyril again.
I'll be a good wife to Gerald–I swear I will. Or I'll go away and never see him again? Whichever you like. Clare–'

Clare got up.

‘I advise you,' she said, ‘to tell your husband yourself…otherwise–I shall.'

‘I see,' said Vivien softly. ‘Well, I can't let Cyril suffer…'

She got up, stood still as though considering for a minute or two, then ran lightly down to the path, but instead of stopping, crossed it and went down the slope. Once she half turned her head and waved a hand gaily to Clare, then she ran on gaily, lightly, as a child might run, out of sight…

Clare stood petrified. Suddenly she heard cries, shouts, a clamour of voices. Then–silence.

She picked her way stiffly down to the path. About a hundred yards away a party of people coming up it had stopped. They were staring and pointing. Clare ran down and joined them.

‘Yes, Miss, someone's fallen over the cliff. Two men have gone down–to see.'

She waited. Was it an hour, or eternity, or only a few minutes?

A man came toiling up the ascent. It was the Vicar in his shirt sleeves. His coat had been taken off to cover what lay below.

‘Horrible,' he said, his face was very white. ‘Mercifully death must have been instantaneous.'

He saw Clare, and came over to her.

‘This must have been a terrible shock to you. You were taking a walk together, I understand?'

Clare heard herself answering mechanically.

Yes. They had just parted. No, Lady Lee's manner had been quite normal. One of the group interposed the information that the lady was laughing and waving her hand. A terribly dangerous place–there ought to be a railing along the path.

The Vicar's voice rose again.

‘An accident–yes, clearly an accident.'

And then suddenly Clare laughed–a hoarse, raucous laugh that echoed along the cliff.

‘
That's a damned lie
,' she said. ‘
I killed her
.'

She felt someone patting her shoulder, a voice spoke soothingly.

‘There, there. It's all right. You'll be all right presently.'

VI

But Clare was not all right presently. She was never all right again. She persisted in the delusion–certainly a delusion, since at least eight persons had witnessed the scene–that she had killed Vivien Lee.

She was very miserable till Nurse Lauriston came to take charge. Nurse Lauriston was very successful with mental cases.

‘Humour them, poor things,' she would say comfortably.

So she told Clare that she was a wardress from Pentonville Prison. Clare's sentence, she said, had been commuted to penal servitude for life. A room was fitted up as a cell.

‘And now, I think, we shall be quite happy and comfortable,' said Nurse Lauriston to the doctor. ‘Round-bladed knives if you like, doctor, but I don't think there's the least fear of suicide. She's not the type. Too self-centred. Funny how those are often the ones who go over the edge most easily.'

‘The Edge' was first published in
Pearson's Magazine
in February 1927, with the suggestive editorial comment that the story was ‘written just before this author's recent illness and mysterious disappearance'. Late on the evening of 3 December 1926, Agatha Christie left her home in Berkshire. Early on the morning of the following day, her car was found, empty, at Newlands Corner near Shere in Surrey. Policemen and volunteers searched the countryside in vain, but a week and a half elapsed before various members of staff at a hotel in Harrogate realized that the guest who had registered under the name of Theresa Neele was in fact the missing novelist.

After her return, Christie's husband announced to the press that she had suffered ‘the most complete loss of memory', but the circumstances surrounding this comparatively minor event in her life have given
rise to some speculation over the years. Even while Christie was missing, Edgar Wallace, the famous writer of thrillers, commented in a newspaper article that, if not dead, she ‘must be alive and in full possession of her faculties, probably in London. To put it vulgarly,' Wallace continued, ‘her first intention seems to have been to “spite” an unknown person.' Neele was the surname of the woman who went on to become the second wife of Archibald Christie and it has been suggested that, after abandoning her car in order to embarrass her husband, Christie spent the night of 3 December with friends in London before travelling to Harrogate. It has even been suggested that the disappearance was staged as some kind of bizarre publicity stunt. Nevertheless, although some aspects of the incident remain unclear, there is nothing to substantiate any of these various alternative ‘explanations' which therefore are little more than idle speculation.

I

The big logs crackled merrily in the wide, open fireplace, and above their crackling rose the babel of six tongues all wagging industriously together. The house-party of young people were enjoying their Christmas.

Old Miss Endicott, known to most of those present as Aunt Emily, smiled indulgently on the clatter.

‘Bet you you can't eat six mince-pies, Jean.'

‘Yes, I can.'

‘No, you can't.'

‘You'll get the pig out of the trifle if you do.'

‘Yes,
and
three helps of trifle,
and
two helps of plum-pudding.'

‘I hope the pudding will be good,' said Miss Endicott apprehensively. ‘But they were only made three days ago. Christmas puddings ought to be made a long time before Christmas. Why, I remember when I was a child, I thought the last Collect before Advent–“Stir
up, O Lord, we beseech Thee…”–referred in some way to stirring up the Christmas puddings!'

There was a polite pause while Miss Endicott was speaking. Not because any of the young people were in the least interested in her reminiscences of bygone days, but because they felt that some show of attention was due by good manners to their hostess. As soon as she stopped, the babel burst out again. Miss Endicott sighed, and glanced towards the only member of the party whose years approached her own, as though in search of sympathy–a little man with a curious egg-shaped head and fierce upstanding moustaches. Young people were not what they were, reflected Miss Endicott. In olden days there would have been a mute, respectful circle, listening to the pearls of wisdom dropped by their elders. Instead of which there was all this nonsensical chatter, most of it utterly incomprehensible. All the same, they were dear children! Her eyes softened as she passed them in review–tall, freckled Jean; little Nancy Cardell, with her dark, gipsy beauty; the two younger boys home from school, Johnnie and Eric, and their friend, Charlie Pease; and fair, beautiful Evelyn Haworth…At thought of the last, her brow contracted a little, and her eyes wandered to where her eldest nephew, Roger, sat morosely silent, taking no part in the fun, with his eyes fixed on the exquisite Northern fairness of the young girl.

‘Isn't the snow ripping?' cried Johnnie, approaching the window. ‘Real Christmas weather. I say, let's have a snowball fight. There's lots of time before dinner, isn't there, Aunt Emily?'

‘Yes, my dear. We have it at two o'clock. That reminds me, I had better see to the table.'

She hurried out of the room.

‘I tell you what. We'll make a snowman!' screamed Jean.

‘Yes, what fun! I know; we'll do a snow statue of M. Poirot. Do you hear, M. Poirot? The great detective, Hercule Poirot, modelled in snow, by six celebrated artists!'

The little man in the chair bowed his acknowledgements with a twinkling eye.

‘Make him very handsome, my children,' he urged. ‘I insist on that.'

‘Ra-ther!'

The troop disappeared like a whirlwind, colliding in the doorway with a stately butler who was entering with a note on a salver. The butler, his calm re-established, advanced towards Poirot.

Poirot took the note and tore it open. The butler departed. Twice the little man read the note through, then he folded it up and put it in his pocket. Not a muscle of his face had moved, and yet the contents of the note were sufficiently surprising. Scrawled in
an illiterate hand were the words: ‘
Don't eat any plum-pudding
.'

‘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 was doing down here at all.'

Levering seemed taken aback; but at that moment the big gong pealed out, and everybody went in to Christmas dinner. The curtains were drawn in the
dining-room, and the lights on, illuminating the long table piled high with crackers and other decorations. It was a real old-fashioned Christmas dinner. At one end of the table was the Squire, red-faced and jovial; his sister faced him at the other. M. Poirot, in honour of the occasion, had donned a red waistcoat, and his plumpness, and the way he carried his head on one side, reminded one irresistibly of a robin redbreast.

The Squire carved rapidly, and everyone fell to on turkey. The carcasses of two turkeys were removed, and there fell a breathless hush. Then Graves, the butler, appeared in state, bearing the plum-pudding aloft–a gigantic pudding wreathed in flames. A hullabaloo broke out.

‘Quick. Oh! my piece is going out. Buck up, Graves; unless it's still burning, I shan't get my wish.'

Nobody had leisure to notice a curious expression on the face of M. Poirot as he surveyed the portion of pudding on his plate. Nobody observed the lightning glance he sent round the table. With a faint, puzzled frown he began to eat his pudding. Everybody began to eat pudding. The conversation was more subdued. Suddenly the Squire uttered an exclamation. His face became purple and his hand went to his mouth.

‘Confound it, Emily!' he roared. ‘Why do you let the cook put glass in the puddings?'

‘Glass?' cried Miss Endicott, astonished.

The Squire withdrew the offending substance from his mouth.

‘Might have broken a tooth,' he grumbled. ‘Or swallowed it and had appendicitis.'

In front of each person was a small finger-bowl of water, designed to receive the sixpences and other matters found in the trifle. Mr Endicott dropped the piece of glass into this, rinsed it and held it up.

‘God bless my soul!' he ejaculated. ‘It's a red stone out of one of the cracker brooches.'

‘You permit?' Very deftly, M. Poirot took it from his fingers and examined it attentively. As the Squire had said, it was a big red stone, the colour of a ruby. The light gleamed from its facets as he turned it about.

‘Gee!' cried Eric. ‘Suppose it's real.'

‘Silly boy!' said Jean scornfully. ‘A ruby that size would be worth thousands and thousands and thousands–wouldn't it, M. Poirot?'

‘Extraordinary how well they get up these cracker things,' murmured Miss Endicott. ‘
But how did it get into the pudding?
'

Undoubtedly that wasthe question of the hour. Every hypothesis was exhausted. Only M. Poirot said nothing, but carelessly, as though thinking of something else, he dropped the stone into his pocket.

After dinner he paid a visit to the kitchen.

The cook was rather flustered. To be questioned by a
member of the house-party, and the foreign gentleman too! But she did her best to answer his questions. The puddings had been made three days ago–‘The day you arrived, Sir.' Everyone had come out into the kitchen to have a stir and wish. An old custom–perhaps they didn't have it abroad? After that the puddings were boiled, and then they were put in a row on the top shelf in the larder. Was there anything special to distinguish this pudding from the others? No, she didn't think so. Except that it was in an aluminium pudding-basin, and the others were in china ones. Was it the pudding originally intended for Christmas Day? It was funny that he should ask that. No, indeed! The Christmas pudding was always boiled in a big white china mould with a pattern of holly-leaves. But this very morning (the cook's red face became wrathful) Gladys, the kitchen-maid, sent to fetch it down for the final boiling, had managed to drop and break it. ‘And of course, seeing that there might be splinters in it, I wouldn't send it to table, but took the big aluminium one instead.'

M. Poirot thanked her for her information. He went out of the kitchen, smiling a little to himself, as though satisfied with the information he had obtained. And the fingers of his right hand played with something in his pocket.

II

‘M. Poirot! M. Poirot! Do wake up! Something dreadful's happened!'

Thus Johnnie in the early hours of the following morning. M. Poirot sat up in bed. He wore a night-cap. The contrast between the dignity of his countenance and the rakish tilt of the night-cap was certainly droll; but its effect on Johnnie seemed disproportionate. But for his words, one might have fancied that the boy was violently amused about something. Curious sounds came from outside the door, too, suggesting soda-water syphons in difficulty.