Chapter Four

I joined Poirot by the fire immediately on our return to the chalet, thoroughly exhausted by the day's exercise and relieved to get inside. It had started snowing at some point during the afternoon and the occupation was far less pleasant when foggy than not. After a drink or two I felt revived enough to change out of my skiwear, and on returning downstairs I found that my place had been taken by Mrs Havelock. She seemed to be deep in discussion with my friend, but on noticing they were no longer the only two in the room cut the conversation off abruptly. With a nod in my direction, she rose and left the room.

"What was all that about?" I remarked, taking again my spot in the armchair by Poirot. My friend sighed.

"It seems she is concerned about her son." I followed his gaze to where Charlie Havelock was standing with a cigarette and talking to Mr Smithson, Miss Masters and Mrs Tavistock on the terrace. "She is worried about the company he is keeping." I was about to ask which of the three he was referring to when the door to outside opened and we were joined by the little smoking party. The conversation gravitated immediately to the day's skiing, with a rather unfortunate emphasis on "the many spectacular falls of Captain Hastings" with which my younger companions were apt to mock me. Poirot listened attentively to this list of humiliation (at which Smithson, I may say, laughed rather more than is considered polite) but did not comment, only smiling slightly when Charlie began to act out some of the more dramatic episodes. I could not help laughing with them in spite of myself, and when my friend saw that I was not offended, it seemed to me that he cheered up too.

"So, mon ami, you are not too injured by the day's activity?" he murmured to me in an aside as we prepared to go in for dinner. "Or by the tales of our young friends?" I assured him that it was all in good humour and part of the experience, adding with a smile that I was well used to being ridiculed after spending so much time with him. A sympathetic smile spread across his face.

"Ah yes!" he cried, "But who could not occasionally look somewhat trivial when compared with the great Hercule Poirot!"

That had not been my meaning at all.


After dinner, we again sat up later than we had done on the first night. It had stopped snowing, much to my relief. Someone produced a deck of cards and Major and Mrs Carter, Mr Smithson and Mrs Tavistock sat down to a rubber of bridge, watched by Mrs Havelock and Mr Tavistock. Miss Lucy Masters attempted to engage me again in an analysis of the day's sport but, somewhat to my relief, was distracted by Charlie Havelock who pressed upon her to join him for a cigarette and engaged her in discussion of her medical training, a subject which she was inclined to be very voluble about.

"You think it inappropriate that a young woman such as Miss Lucy Masters should train to be a doctor, my friend?" asked Poirot, when I frowned over at the pair as strands of their conversation drifted towards us.

"Not at all!" I cried. "Do you think me so old-fashioned, Poirot?"

"My apologies," Poirot demurred, "I did not mean to offend you, Hastings."

"That's quite alright, old chap. I suppose you saw me frowning.. I was actually remembering a conversation we had after lunch that suddenly came back to me.." I related what Miss Masters had told me about Mr Smithson and his inappropriate behaviour, and then remarked, "But it seems to me that Charlie is after the same thing, albeit in a more gentlemanly fashion!" Poirot regarded me.

"But not you, non?"

"Well, she's pretty enough, I suppose," I conceded, "But there's something missing.." I trailed off. Poirot was smiling again.

"That je-ne-sais-quoi, you do not feel it! It is a sad day when even Hastings does not feel something for a pretty lady!" I bristled and glared at Poirot, but he didn't seem even remotely abashed at his outrageous statement.

"Now look here Poirot," I started angrily, but he brushed me off with a wave of his hand.

"Ah Hastings, you are so quick to take offence! I will go up to bed now, and in the morning all will be forgiven." He smiled down on me as he rose, bade goodnight to all and ascended the stairs. I followed shortly afterwards as I was rather worn out, and in no mood to play bridge.


I joined Poirot at the breakfast table the following morning, where as the little man had predicted, all was as it usually was. Poirot ate his eggs with his usual precision while I tucked into a large plate of bacon and eggs. Poirot was, in fact, unusually tolerant of my breakfast habits and advised me cheerfully to eat as much as I could to keep my energy up for the day. I was a good way through my second plate when Mrs Carter suddenly exclaimed,

"Where has Marcus got to? It's not like him to be late for breakfast!" I looked up, and observed that she was right; there was only one empty seat at the table and it was past the usual hour when he would have arrived.

"I'll go and knock for him," said Charlie, wiping his mouth as he stood, "He won't want to sleep in too late when the snow's like this!" As he left the room, I looked out of the window. As I expected from Charlie's words and the blizzard (or so it had seemed to me) that I remembered from yesterday, there was a fresh coating of snow over the terrace that looked to be about six inches deep. I sighed, wondering how hard skiing through that much fresh snow would be. Miss Masters leaned across to me.

"Don't worry, Captain Hastings, I'll look after you," she said mischievously, inclining her head towards the door.

"He's not answering," Charlie said, coming back into the room. "I do hope he's not ill.." He trailed off, uncertainly.

"I'll go," said Miss Masters, standing up.

"I'll come too," I announced, not liking the thought of a young lady entering a man's bedchamber unaccompanied. "Just in case, well, you know.." I added, embarrassed. She smiled at me and we left the room, Poirot's eyes, alert as ever, following us.

"Mr Smithson?" Miss Masters called through the door, knocking loudly. Charlie had followed us and hovered nervously behind me. She knocked again. "Mr Smithson? It's Lucy Masters. Are you ill? Can I come in?" There was no response. She looked at me, unsure. I nodded, and turned the door handle. The door opened easily, and the room inside was dark, the curtains not having been opened. The room smelled familiar, an unpleasant scent I was sure I recognised. As our eyes adjusted, Miss Masters gasped and clutched my arm, pointing at the body of Mr Smithson who was lying face down, half slumped onto the bed with a ski pole sticking out of his back.