The Second Gong: A Hercule Poirot Short Story
Agatha Christie
A classic Agatha Christie short story, available individually for the first time as an ebook.Lytcham Close, one of the oldest stately homes in England is owned by the last remaining heir and is a house ruled by his intolerable whims. Old Hubert demands complete silence when he plays selected music and dinner is timed exactly by the resounding gong, no matter to trifle with. Rushing down at the hearing of the second, or is it the first gong, Joan Ashby is about to find out that not only is dinner delayed, but, she is about to hear a sound that no one can explain. Everyone is thrown into disarray when Old Hubert never materialises and instead a new guest is announced. The new guest is Hercule Poirot himself. What unfolds is a mystery of lovers, michalmas daisies and a death that is not as it appears.
The Second Gong
A Short Story
by Agatha Christie
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Copyrig© 2011 Agatha Christie Ltd.
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EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007452019
Version: 2017-04-19
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Title Page (#u98c16e23-b7c8-5609-b8c4-e027e38a3a49)
Copyright
The Second Gong
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The Second Gong (#ulink_68ac272e-6490-5fd9-8e3e-804feaabd80c)
‘The Second Gong’ was first published in the USA in Ladies’ Home Journal, June 1932, and then in Strand Magazine, July 1932. It was later expanded into ‘Dead Man’s Mirror’ for the book Murder in the Mews (Collins, March 1937).
Joan Ashby came out of her bedroom and stood a moment on the landing outside her door. She was half turning as if to go back into the room when, below her feet as it seemed, a gong boomed out.
Immediately Joan started forward almost at a run. So great was her hurry that at the top of the big staircase she collided with a young man arriving from the opposite direction.
‘Hullo, Joan! Why the wild hurry?’
‘Sorry, Harry. I didn’t see you.’
‘So I gathered,’ said Harry Dalehouse dryly. ‘But as I say, why the wild haste?’
‘It was the gong.’
‘I know. But it’s only the first gong.’
‘No, it’s the second.’
‘First.’
‘Second.’
Thus arguing they had been descending the stairs. They were now in the hall, where the butler, having replaced the gongstick, was advancing toward them at a grave and dignified pace.
‘It is the second,’ persisted Joan. ‘I know it is. Well, for one thing, look at the time.’
Harry Dalehouse glanced up at the grandfather clock. ‘Just twelve minutes past eight,’ he remarked. ‘Joan, I believe you’re right, but I never heard the first one. Digby,’ he addressed the butler, ‘is this the first gong or the second?’
‘The first, sir.’
‘At twelve minutes past eight? Digby, somebody will get the sack for this.’
A faint smile showed for a minute on the butler’s face.
‘Dinner is being served ten minutes later tonight, sir. The master’s orders.’
‘Incredible!’ cried Harry Dalehouse. ‘Tut, tut! Upon my word, things are coming to a pretty pass! Wonders will never cease. What ails my revered uncle?’
‘The seven o’clock train, sir, was half an hour late, and as –’ The butler broke off, as a sound like the crack of a whip was heard.
‘What on earth –’ said Harry. ‘Why, that sounded exactly like a shot.’
A dark, handsome man of thirty-five came out of the drawing room on their left.
‘What was that?’ he asked. ‘It sounded exactly like a shot.’
‘It must have been a car backfiring, sir,’ said the butler. ‘The road runs quite close to the house this side and the upstairs windows are open.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Joan doubtfully. ‘But that would be over there.’ She waved a hand to the right. ‘And I thought the noise came from here.’ She pointed to the left.
The dark man shook his head.
‘I don’t think so. I was in the drawing room. I came out here because I thought the noise came from this direction.’ He nodded his head in front of him in the direction of the gong and the front door.
‘East, west, and south, eh?’ said the irrepressible Harry. ‘Well, I’ll make it complete, Keene. North for me. I thought it came from behind us. Any solutions offered?’
‘Well, there’s always murder,’ said Geoffrey Keene, smiling. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Ashby.’
‘Only a shiver,’ said Joan. ‘It’s nothing. A what-do-you-call-it walking over my grave.’
‘A good thought – murder,’ said Harry. ‘But, alas! No groans, no blood. I fear the solution is a poacher after a rabbit.’
‘Seems tame, but I suppose that’s it,’ agreed the other. ‘But it sounded so near. However, let’s come into the drawing room.’
‘Thank goodness, we’re not late,’ said Joan fervently. ‘I was simply haring it down the stairs thinking that was the second gong.’
All laughing, they went into the big drawing room.
Lytcham Close was one of the most famous old houses in England. Its owner, Hubert Lytcham Roche, was the last of a long line, and his more distant relatives were apt to remark that ‘Old Hubert, you know, really ought to be certified. Mad as a hatter, poor old bird.’
Allowing for the exaggeration natural to friends and relatives, some truth remained. Hubert Lytcham Roche was certainly eccentric. Though a very fine musician, he was a man of ungovernable temper and had an almost abnormal sense of his own importance. People staying in the house had to respect his prejudices or else they were never asked again.
One such prejudice was his music. If he played to his guests, as he often did in the evening, absolute silence must obtain. A whispered comment, a rustle of a dress, a movement even – and he would turn round scowling fiercely, and goodbye to the unlucky guest’s chances of being asked again.
Another point was absolute punctuality for the crowning meal of the day. Breakfast was immaterial – you might come down at noon if you wished. Lunch also – a simple meal of cold meats and stewed fruit. But dinner was a rite, a festival, prepared by a cordon bleu whom he had tempted from a big hotel by the payment of a fabulous salary.
A first gong was sounded at five minutes past eight. At a quarter past eight a second gong was heard, and immediately after the door was flung open, dinner announced to the assembled guests, and a solemn procession wended its way to the dining room. Anyone who had the temerity to be late for the second gong was henceforth excommunicated – and Lytcham Close shut to the unlucky diner forever.
Hence the anxiety of Joan Ashby, and also the astonishment of Harry Dalehouse, at hearing that the sacred function was to be delayed ten minutes on this particular evening. Though not very intimate with his uncle, he had been to Lytcham Close often enough to know what a very unusual occurrence that was.
Geoffrey Keene, who was Lytcham Roche’s secretary, was also very much surprised.
‘Extraordinary,’ he commented. ‘I’ve never known such a thing to happen. Are you sure?’
‘Digby said so.’
‘He said something about a train,’ said Joan Ashby. ‘At least I think so.’
‘Queer,’ said Keene thoughtfully. ‘We shall hear all about it in due course, I suppose. But it’s very odd.’
Both men were silent for a moment or two, watching the girl. Joan Ashby was a charming creature, blue-eyed and golden-haired, with an impish glance. This was her first visit to Lytcham Close and her invitation was at Harry’s prompting.
The door opened and Diana Cleves, the Lytcham Roches’ adopted daughter, came into the room.
There was a daredevil grace about Diana, a witchery in her dark eyes and her mocking tongue. Nearly all men fell for Diana and she enjoyed her conquests. A strange creature, with her alluring suggestion of warmth and her complete coldness.
‘Beaten the Old Man for once,’ she remarked. ‘First time for weeks he hasn’t been here first, looking at his watch and tramping up and down like a tiger at feeding time.’
The young men had sprung forward. She smiled entrancingly at them both – then turned to Harry. Geoffrey Keene’s dark cheek flushed as he dropped back.
He recovered himself, however, a moment later as Mrs Lytcham Roche came in. She was a tall, dark woman, naturally vague in manner, wearing floating draperies of an indeterminate shade of green. With her was a middle-aged man with a beaklike nose and a determined chin – Gregory Barling. He was a somewhat prominent figure in the financial world and, well-bred on his mother’s side, he had for some years been an intimate friend of Hubert Lytcham Roche.
Boom!
The gong resounded imposingly. As it died away, the door was flung open and Digby announced:
‘Dinner is served.’
Then, well-trained servant though he was, a look of complete astonishment flashed over his impassive face. For the first time in his memory, his master was not in the room!
That his astonishment was shared by everybody was evident. Mrs Lytcham Roche gave a little uncertain laugh.
‘Most amazing. Really – I don’t know what to do.’
Everybody was taken aback. The whole tradition of Lytcham Close was undermined. What could have happened? Conversation ceased. There was a strained sense of waiting.
At last the door opened once more; a sigh of relief went round only tempered by a slight anxiety as to how to treat the situation. Nothing must be said to emphasize the fact that the host had himself transgressed the stringent rule of the house.
But the newcomer was not Lytcham Roche. Instead of the big, bearded, viking-like figure, there advanced into the long drawing room a very small man, palpably a foreigner, with an egg-shaped head, a flamboyant moustache, and most irreproachable evening clothes.
His eyes twinkling, the newcomer advanced toward Mrs Lytcham Roche.
‘My apologies, madame,’ he said. ‘I am, I fear, a few minutes late.’
‘Oh, not at all!’ murmured Mrs Lytcham Roche vaguely. ‘Not at all, Mr –’ She paused.
‘Poirot, madame. Hercule Poirot.’
He heard behind him a very soft ‘Oh’ – a gasp rather than an articulate word – a woman’s ejaculation. Perhaps he was flattered.
‘You knew I was coming?’ he murmured gently. ‘N’est ce pas, madame? Your husband told you.’
‘Oh – oh, yes,’ said Mrs Lytcham Roche, her manner unconvincing in the extreme. ‘I mean, I suppose so. I am so terribly unpractical, M. Poirot. I never remember anything. But fortunately Digby sees to everything.’
‘My train, I fear, was late,’ said M. Poirot. ‘An accident on the line in front of us.’
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