“Why is she? She has no talent for cooking.”
Mother smiled. “You used to do this as a young boy—do you remember?”
“What?”
“If ever you wished to put something off or delay your bedtime, you would ask a series of ever more convoluted questions. I fell for it sometimes, but not often.”
I had no memory of what she was describing.
“And I shall not fall for it now. No more questions! Go and finish that tree.” She strutted away.
I considered leaving the tree in the hall unfinished, then decided against it. There was no point ruining something I was pleased with only to spite Mother.
I disobeyed her other instruction, however, and continued to ask questions, if only to myself: about something Vivienne had said that, as far as I could see, had only one possible meaning, and also about a remark Arnold Laurier had made before taking Poirot off for a private conference. I had only half noticed it at the time. Now that I came to think about it properly, it puzzled me. I resolved to ask Poirot for his view later, because to me it made no sense at all.
Chapter 20
Rules of the Morality Game
Once I had finished with the tree in the hall, I made my way to the library, trying not to look forward to the “tea and cakes” that Mother had forecast. Doubtless Enid Surtees’ definition of both was very different from mine.
When I arrived there, I saw that no refreshments had appeared yet, but there was a large notebook lying open on the long table that ran almost the full length of the room. The pages I could see were covered in small, neat handwriting. Moving closer, I saw the word “Morality” with a capital M. I sat down and started to read.
It soon became apparent that these notes must have been written in preparation for the playing of the Morality Game on Christmas Day. Somebody had jotted down a list of the game’s rules, then, beneath it, a list of six names. My eyes widened when I got to the last one. Beneath each of them, someone—almost definitely Maddie Laurier, I decided—had written a brief description of that person’s misdeeds, for example: “H. H. Holmes (real name Herman WebsterMudgett): owner of the ‘Murder Castle’ hotel, murdered employees and guests.” I smiled to myself. Had Poirot been with me, I might have quipped that, personally, I would have made sure to avoid any hotel that went by that name.
Having read the rules, I knew that each player had to come to the game with their chosen “worst person in the world” contender. The winner was the player who ended up, after several eliminatory rounds, with the most votes for their nominated evil-doer.
The list of names in front of me seemed to be Maddie Laurier’s shortlist of potential Most Evil Persons. Judging by the large tick beside the name, she had chosen Elizabeth Báthory, “The Blood Countess,” as her winner, who would now go forward to compete with everybody else’s worst people. Aside from the Blood Countess and the Murder Castle chap, the four other names on Maddie’s shortlist, all with crosses beside them, were Emperor Caligula of Rome, Maximilien Robespierre, Gilles de Rais and, finally, Janet Laurier. I was relieved to see that Maddie had retained at least some sense of proportion and ranked her sister lower on the evil scale than at least one of history’s most depraved and bloodthirsty killers.
The library door opened and Enid Surtees appeared with a tea tray, which she placed carefully on the table. Her eyes moved to the pages that lay in front of me. “Is that...?” she started to say, but did not finish the sentence. Leaning over, she pulled the notebook toward her and lifted it so that she could see its cover, which was white and had printed on it the words SUPPLIED FOR THE PUBLICSERVICE. Beneath these were the capital letters G. and R., for George Rex, the King, with the insignia of a large crown between them.
“The crown notebook,” she said, eyeing me with undisguised disapproval. “Where did you get this?”
“It was lying open on the table when I got here.”
“I’d put it somewhere out of sight if I were you. If Vivienne comes in and sees it... I’m surprised she didn’t burn it.”
Before I could ask her to explain these puzzling remarks, Enid Surtees had left the room and closed the door behind her.
I went through the notebook to see if there was anything in there apart from Maddie’s detailed scribblings about the Morality Game. There were only two more pages that had been written on, one in the middle and one near the back. The first was a list of Christmas preparations that needed to be done, including what presents should be bought for members of the household and one or two other people. This was in a different handwriting. Vivienne Laurier must have written this, I concluded, since she was the only person who lived at Frellingsloe House whose name did not appear on the list with a Christmas present idea next to it. I was pleased to see that my name and Poirot’s were not on the list, and chose to take this as a sign from Fate that we would be long gone by Christmas Day.
Two names on the Christmas presents list belonged to people who did not live at Frellingsloe House: Father Peter and Olga Woodruff. I wondered if both were expected for Christmas luncheon, and why Nurse Olga Woodruff hadbeen invited. Perhaps she was going to be the main nurse responsible for Arnold Laurier’s care at St. Walstan’s.
On a page toward the back of the notebook, someone had scribbled in pencil—big loops and messy zigzags—over a large and quite detailed drawing of a gravestone that had been done in pen and ink. The pencil scrawl looked as if it had been added by a careless child, and in no way obscured what was beneath it: a picture of a headstone—mainly square, but with curved flourishes at its top corners. At the very top of the stone, in handwriting I recognized from his letter to Poirot and me as Arnold Laurier’s, were the words: “In loving memory of beloved husband and father, Arnold Laurier, called to rest ?? 1932.”
The library door opened again and Mother appeared, carrying a small drink. “Don’t let your tea go cold, Edward, after Enid went to the trouble of making it for you. Here, I have broughtun siropfor Monsieur Poirot. I thought he would be here by now.”
“Never mind that.” I told her what Enid had said about Vivienne burning the crown notebook, and asked if she knew what it might have meant.
“Oh, that,” she said. “Enid is terribly melodramatic. A month or so ago, Arnold presented Vivienne with a sketch of the sort of headstone he wants. He thought it would make sense to order it as soon as possible and offered to do so himself, to save Vivienne the trouble. I’m afraid she reacted rather badly when she saw he had written ‘1932’ as the year of his death. She picked up a pencil and... well, she scrawled all over his drawing. She felt terribly ashamedafterwards, knowing Arnold had only been trying to help, but she also insisted it was a terrible thing for him to assume he would die in 1932 when he might last several more years. He won’t, of course,” Mother concluded. “But I would not advise that any of us say so to Vivienne. Now, you drink your tea,” Mother clapped her hands in front of my face, “and I shall go and find Poirot for you.”
“There is no need to...” I stopped and sighed. She was already gone and would have paid no attention anyway.
I looked down at the list Maddie Laurier had made (it could be no one but her, surely) of miscreants, historical and contemporary: Emperor Caligula, The Blood Countess, H. H. Holmes of the “Murder Castle” hotel... If Maddie could put her sister on the list for the crime of “unreasonable and vindictive hatred and vilification of the innocent,” then surely it would be acceptable for me to add “Cynthia Catchpool: determination to consider no one’s wishes or opinions but her own.”
If only I had been equipped with a pen or pencil in that moment...
Chapter 21
