Hercule Poirot's Christmas by Agatha Christie Page A

betweenmaid. Sydney Horbury, valet attendant.’
    ‘That’s the lot, eh?’
    ‘That’s the lot, sir.’
    ‘Any idea where everybody was at the time of the murder?’
    ‘Only roughly. As I told you, I haven’t questioned anybody yet. According to Tressilian, the gentlemen were in the dining-room still. The ladies had gone to the drawing-room. Tressilian had served coffee. According to his statement, he had just got back to his pantry when he heard a noise upstairs. It was followed by a scream. He ran out into the hall and upstairs in the wake of the others.’
    Colonel Johnson said:
    ‘How many of the family live in the house, and who are just staying here?’
    ‘Mr and Mrs Alfred Lee live here. The others are just visiting.’
    Johnson nodded.
    ‘Where are they all?’
    ‘I asked them to stay in the drawing-room until I was ready to take their statements.’
    ‘I see. Well, we’d better go upstairs and take a look at the doings.’
    The superintendent led the way up the broad stairs and along the passage.
    As he entered the room where the crime had taken place, Johnson drew a deep breath.
    ‘Pretty horrible,’ he commented.
    He stood for a minute studying the overturned chairs, the smashed china, and the blood-bespattered débris.
    A thin elderly man stood up from where he had been kneeling by the body and gave a nod.
    ‘Evening, Johnson,’ he said. ‘Bit of a shambles, eh?’
    ‘I should say it was. Got anything for us, doctor?’
    The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He grinned.
    ‘I’ll let you have the scientific language at the inquest! Nothing complicated about it. Throat cut like a pig. He bled to death in less than a minute. No sign of the weapon.’
    Poirot went across the room to the windows. As the superintendent had said, one was shut and bolted. The other was open about four inches at the bottom. A thick patent screw of the kind known many years ago as an anti-burglar screw secured it in that position.
    Sugden said: ‘According to the butler, that window was never shut wet or fine. There’s a linoleum mat underneath it in case rain beat in, but it didn’t much, as the overhanging roof protects it.’
    Poirot nodded.
    He came back to the body and stared down at the old man.
    The lips were drawn back from the bloodless gums in something that looked like a snarl. The fingers were curved like claws.
    Poirot said:
    ‘He does not seem a strong man, no.’
    The doctor said:
    ‘He was pretty tough, I believe. He’d survived several pretty bad illnesses that would have killed most men.’
    Poirot said: ‘I do not mean that. I mean, he was not big, not strong physically.’
    ‘No, he’s frail enough.’
    Poirot turned from the dead man. He bent to examine an overturned chair, a big chair of mahogany. Beside it was a round mahogany table and the fragments of a big china lamp. Two other smaller chairs lay nearby, also the smashed fragments of a decanter and two glasses, a heavy glass paperweight was unbroken, some miscellaneous books, a big Japanese vase smashed in pieces, and a bronze statuette of a naked girl completed the débris.
    Poirot bent over all these exhibits, studying them gravely, but without touching them. He frowned to himself as though perplexed.
    The chief constable said:
    ‘Anything strike you, Poirot?’
    Hercule Poirot sighed. He murmured:
    ‘Such a frail shrunken old man—and yet—all this.’
    Johnson looked puzzled. He turned away and said to the sergeant, who was busy at his work:
    ‘What about prints?’
    ‘Plenty of them, sir, all over the room.’
    ‘What about the safe?’
    ‘No good. Only prints on that are those of the old gentleman himself.’
    Johnson turned to the doctor.
    ‘What about bloodstains?’ he asked. ‘Surely whoever killed him must have got blood on him.’
    The doctor said doubtfully:
    ‘Not necessarily. Bleeding was almost entirely from the jugular vein. That wouldn’t spout like an artery.’
    ‘No, no. Still, there seems a lot of blood