Hercule Poirot's Christmas: A Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot 20)

‘But why do you not have them cut and made beautiful?’

‘Because I prefer them like this.’ His face was set in a grim line. He turned away and began speaking to himself. ‘They take me back—the touch of them, the feel of them through my fingers…It all comes back to me, the sunshine, and the smell of the veldt, the oxen—old Eb—all the boys—the evenings…’

There was a soft tap on the door.

Simeon said: ‘Put ’em back in the safe and bang it to.’

Then he called: ‘Come in.’

Horbury came in, soft and deferential.

He said: ‘Tea is ready downstairs.’

III

Hilda said: ‘So there you are, David. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Don’t let’s stay in this room, it’s so frightfully cold.’

David did not answer for a minute. He was standing looking at a chair, a low chair with faded satin upholstery. He said abruptly:

‘That’s her chair…the chair she always sat in…just the same—it’s just the same. Only faded, of course.’

A little frown creased Hilda’s forehead. She said:

‘I see. Do let’s come out of here, David. It’s frightfully cold.’

David took no notice. Looking round, he said:

‘She sat in here mostly. I remember sitting on that stool there while she read to me. Jack the Giant Killer—that was it—Jack the Giant Killer. I must have been six years old then.’

Hilda put a firm hand through his arm.

‘Come back to the drawing-room, dear. There’s no heating in this room.’

He turned obediently, but she felt a little shiver go through him.

‘Just the same,’ he murmured. ‘Just the same. As though time had stood still.’

Hilda looked worried. She said in a cheerful determined voice:

‘I wonder where the others are? It must be nearly tea-time.’

David disengaged his arm and opened another door.

‘There used to be a piano in here…Oh, yes, here it is! I wonder if it’s in tune.’

He sat down and opened the lid, running his hands lightly over the keys.

‘Yes, it’s evidently kept tuned.’

He began to play. His touch was good, the melody flowed out from under his fingers.

Hilda asked: ‘What is that? I seem to know it, and I can’t quite remember.’

He said: ‘I haven’t played it for years. She used to play it. One of Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words.’

The sweet, over-sweet, melody filled the room. Hilda said:

‘Play some Mozart, do.’