Agatha Christie

Dumb Witness

A Hercule Poirot Mystery

To dear Peter,
most faithful of friends
and dearest of companions,
a dog in a thousand

One

THE MISTRESS OF LITTLEGREEN HOUSE

Miss Arundell died on May 1st. Though her illness was short her death did not occasion much surprise in the little country town of Market Basing where she had lived since she was a girl of sixteen. For Emily Arundell was well over seventy, the last of a family of five, and she had been known to be in delicate health for many years and had indeed nearly died of a similar attack to the one that killed her some eighteen months before.

But though Miss Arundellâs death surprised no one, something else did. The provisions of her will gave rise to varying emotions, astonishment, pleasurable excitement, deep condemnation, fury, despair, anger and general gossip. For weeks and even months Market Basing was to talk of nothing else! Everyone had their own contribution to make to the subject from Mr. Jones the grocer, who held that âblood was thicker than water,â to Mrs. Lamphrey at the post office, who repeated ad nauseam that âthereâs something behind it, depend upon it! You mark my words.â

What added zest to the speculations on the subject was the fact that the will had been made as lately as April 21st. Add to this the further fact that Emily Arundellâs near relations had been staying with her just before that date over Easter Bank Holiday and it will be realized that the most scandalous theories could be propounded, pleasurably relieving the monotony of everyday life in Market Basing.

There was one person who was shrewdly suspected of knowing more about the matter than she was willing to admit. That was Miss Wilhelmina Lawson, Miss Arundellâs companion. Miss Lawson, however, professed herself just as much in the dark as everyone else. She, too, she declared, had been dumbfounded when the will was read out.

A lot of people, of course, did not believe this. Nevertheless, whether Miss Lawson was or was not as ignorant as she declared herself to be, only one person really knew the true facts. That person was the dead woman herself. Emily Arundell had kept her own counsel as she was in the habit of doing. Even to her lawyer she had said nothing of the motives underlying her action. She was content with making her wishes clear.

In that reticence could be found the keynote of Emily Arundellâs character. She was, in every respect, a typical product of her generation. She had both its virtues and its vices. She was autocratic and often overbearing, but she was also intensely warmhearted. Her tongue was sharp but her actions were kind. She was outwardly sentimental but inwardly shrewd. She had a succession of companions whom she bullied unmercifully, but treated with great generosity. She had a great sense of family obligation. On the Friday before Easter Emily Arundell was standing in the hall of Littlegreen House giving various directions to Miss Lawson.

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Emily Arundell had been a handsome girl and she was now a well-preserved handsome old lady with a straight back and a brisk manner. A faint yellowness in her skin was a warning that she could not eat rich food with impunity.

Miss Arundell was saying:

âNow then, Minnie, where have you put them all?â

âWell, I thoughtâI hope Iâve done rightâDr. and Mrs. Tanios in the Oak room and Theresa in the Blue room and Mr. Charles in the Old Nurseryââ

Miss Arundell interrupted:

âTheresa can have the Old Nursery and Charles will have the Blue room.â

âOh, yesâIâm sorryâI thought the Old Nursery being rather more inconvenientââ

âIt will do very nicely for Theresa.â

In Miss Arundellâs day, women took second place. Men were the important members of society.

âIâm so sorry the dear little children arenât coming,â murmured Miss Lawson, sentimentally.

She loved children and was quite incapable of managing them.

âFour visitors will be quite enough,â said Miss Arundell. âIn any case Bella spoils her children abominably. They never dream of doing what they are told.â

Minnie Lawson murmured:

âMrs. Tanios is a very devoted mother.â

Miss Arundell said with grave approval:

âBella is a good woman.â

Miss Lawson sighed and said:

âIt must be very hard for her sometimesâliving in an outlandish place like Smyrna.â

Emily Arundell replied:

âShe has made her bed and she must lie on it.â

And having uttered this final Victorian pronouncement she went on:

âI am going to the village now to speak about the orders for the weekend.â

âOh, Miss Arundell, do let me. I meanââ

âNonsense. I prefer to go myself. Rogers needs a sharp word. The trouble with you is, Minnie, that youâre not emphatic enough. Bob! Bob! Where is the dog?â

A wirehaired terrier came tearing down the stairs. He circled round and round his mistress uttering short staccato barks of delight and expectation.

Together mistress and dog passed out of the front door and down the short path to the gate.

Miss Lawson stood in the doorway smiling rather foolishly after them, her mouth a little open. Behind her a voice said tartly:

âThem pillowcases you gave me, miss, isnât a pair.â

âWhat? How stupid of meâ¦.â

Minnie Lawson plunged once more into household routine.

Emily Arundell, attended by Bob, made a royal progress down the main street of Market Basing.

It was very much of a royal progress. In each shop she entered the proprietor always hurried forward to attend to her.

She was Miss Arundell of Littlegreen House. She was âone of our oldest customers.â She was âone of the old school. Not many about like her nowadays.â

âGood morning, miss. What can I have the pleasure of doing for youâNot tender? Well, Iâm sorry to hear that. I thought myself it was as nice a little saddleâYes, of course, Miss Arundell. If you say so, it is soâNo, indeed I wouldnât think of sending Canterbury to you, Miss ArundellâYes, Iâll see to it myself, Miss Arundell.â

Bob and Spot, the butcherâs dog, circled slowly round each other, hackles raised, growling gently. Spot was a stout dog of nondescript breed. He knew that he must not fight with customersâ dogs, but he permitted himself to tell them, by subtle indication, just exactly what mincemeat he would make of them were he free to do so.

Bob, a dog of spirit, replied in kind.

Emily Arundell said âBob!â sharply and passed on.

In the greengrocerâs there was a meeting of heavenly bodies. Another old lady, spherical in outline, but equally distinguished by that air of royalty, said:

âMorninâ, Emily.â

âGood morning, Caroline.â

Caroline Peabody said:

âExpecting any of your young people down?â

âYes, all of them. Theresa, Charles and Bella.â

âSo Bellaâs home, is she? Husband too?â

âYes.â

It was a simple monosyllable, but underlying it was knowledge common to both ladies.

For Bella Biggs, Emily Arundellâs niece, had married a Greek. And Emily Arundellâs people, who were what is known as âall service people,â simply did not marry Greeks.

By way of being obscurely comforting (for of course such a matter could not be referred to openly) Miss Peabody said:

âBellaâs husbandâs got brains. And charming manners!â

âHis manners are delightful,â agreed Miss Arundell.

Moving out into the street Miss Peabody asked:

âWhatâs this about Theresa being engaged to young Donaldson?â

Miss Arundell shrugged her shoulders.

âYoung people are so casual nowadays. Iâm afraid it will have to be a rather long engagementâthat is, if anything comes of it. He has no money.â

âOf course Theresa has her own money,â said Miss Peabody.

Miss Arundell said stiffly:

âA man could not possibly wish to live on his wifeâs money.â

Miss Peabody gave a rich, throaty chuckle.

âThey donât seem to mind doing it, nowadays. You and I are out of date, Emily. What I canât understand is what the child sees in him. Of all the namby-pamby young men!â

âHeâs a clever doctor, I believe.â

âThose pince-nezâand that stiff way of talking! In my young days weâd have called him a poor stick!â

There was a pause while Miss Peabodyâs memory, diving into the past, conjured up visions of dashing, bewhiskered young menâ¦.

She said with a sigh:

âSend that young dog Charles along to see meâif heâll come.â

âOf course. Iâll tell him.â

The two ladies parted.

They had known each other for considerably over fifty years. Miss Peabody knew of certain regrettable lapses in the life of General Arundell, Emilyâs father. She knew just precisely what a shock Thomas Arundellâs marriage had been to his sisters. She had a very shrewd idea of certain troubles connected with the younger generation.

But no word had ever passed between the two ladies on any of these subjects. They were both upholders of family dignity, family solidarity, and complete reticence on family matters.

Miss Arundell walked home, Bob trotting sedately at her heels. To herself, Emily Arundell admitted what she would never have admitted to another human being, her dissatisfaction with the younger generation of her family.

Theresa, for instance. She had no control over Theresa since the latter had come into her own money at the age of twenty-one. Since then the girl had achieved a certain notoriety. Her picture was often in the papers. She belonged to a young, bright, go-ahead set in Londonâa set that had freak parties and occasionally ended up in the police courts. It was not the kind of notoriety that Emily Arundell approved of for an Arundell. In fact, she disapproved very much of Theresaâs way of living. As regards the girlâs engagement, her feelings were slightly confused. On the one hand she did not consider an upstart Dr. Donaldson good enough for an Arundell. On the other she was uneasily conscious that Theresa was a most unsuitable wife for a quiet country doctor.

With a sigh her thoughts passed on to Bella. There was no fault to find with Bella. She was a good womanâa devoted wife and mother, quite exemplary in behaviourâand extremely dull! But even Bella could not be regarded with complete approval. For Bella had married a foreignerâand not only a foreignerâbut a Greek. In Miss Arundellâs prejudiced mind a Greek was almost as bad as an Argentine or a Turk. The fact that Dr. Tanios had a charming manner and was said to be extremely able to his profession only prejudiced the old lady slightly more against him. She distrusted charm and easy compliments. For this reason, too, she found it difficult to be fond of the two children. They had both taken after their father in looksâthere was really nothing English about them.

And then Charlesâ¦.

Yes, Charlesâ¦.

It was no use blinding oneâs eyes to facts. Charles, charming though he was, was not to be trustedâ¦.

Emily Arundell sighed. She felt suddenly tired, old, depressedâ¦.

She supposed that she couldnât last much longerâ¦.

Her mind reverted to the will she had made some years ago.

Legacies to the servantsâto charitiesâand the main bulk of her considerable fortune to be divided equally between these, her three surviving relationsâ¦.

It still seemed to her that she had done the right and equitable thing. It just crossed her mind to wonder whether there might not be someway of securing Bellaâs share of the money so that her husband could not touch itâ¦.She must ask Mr. Purvis.

She turned in at the gate of Littlegreen House.

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Charles and Theresa Arundell arrived by carâthe Tanioses, by train.

The brother and sister arrived first. Charles, tall and good-looking, with his slightly mocking manner, said:

âHullo, Aunt Emily, howâs the girl? You look fine.â

And he kissed her.

Theresa put an indifferent young cheek against her withered one.

âHow are you, Aunt Emily?â

Theresa, her aunt thought, was looking far from well. Her face, beneath its plentiful makeup, was slightly haggard and there were lines round her eyes.

They had tea in the drawing room. Bella Tanios, her hair inclined to straggle in wisps from below the fashionable hat that she wore at the wrong angle, stared at her cousin Theresa with a pathetic eagerness to assimilate and memorize her clothes. It was poor Bellaâs fate in life to be passionately fond of clothes without having any clothes sense. Theresaâs clothes were expensive, slightly bizarre, and she herself had an exquisite figure.

Bella, when she arrived in England from Smyrna, had tried earnestly to copy Theresaâs elegance at an inferior price and cut.

Dr. Tanios, who was a big-bearded jolly-looking man, was talking to Miss Arundell. His voice was warm and fullâan attractive voice that charmed a listener almost against his or her will. Almost in spite of herself, it charmed Miss Arundell.

Miss Lawson was fidgeting a good deal. She jumped up and down, handing plates, fussing over the tea table. Charles, whose manners were excellent, rose more than once to help her, but she expressed no gratitude.

When, after tea, the party went out to make a tour of the garden Charles murmured to his sister:

âLawson doesnât like me. Odd, isnât it?â

Theresa said, mockingly:

âVery odd. So there is one person who can withstand your fatal fascination?â

Charles grinnedâan engaging grinâand said:

âLucky itâs only Lawsonâ¦.â

In the garden Miss Lawson walked with Mrs. Tanios and asked her questions about the children. Bella Taniosâ rather drab face lighted up. She forgot to watch Theresa. She talked eagerly and animatedly. Mary had said such a quaint thing on the boatâ¦.

She found Minnie Lawson a most sympathetic listener.

Presently a fair-haired young man with a solemn face and pince-nez was shown into the garden from the house. He looked rather embarrassed. Miss Arundell greeted him politely.

Theresa said:

âHullo, Rex!â

She slipped an arm through his. They wandered away.

Charles made a face. He slipped away to have a word with the gardener, an ally of his from old days.

When Miss Arundell reentered the house Charles was playing with Bob. The dog stood at the top of the stairs, his ball in his mouth, his tail gently wagging.

âCome on, old man,â said Charles.

Bob sank down on his haunches, nosed his ball slowly and slowly nearer the edge. As he finally bunted it over he sprang to his feet in great excitement. The ball bumped slowly down the stairs. Charles caught it and tossed it up to him. Bob caught it neatly in his mouth. The performance was repeated.

âRegular game of his,â said Charles.

Emily Arundell smiled.

âHeâll go on for hours,â she said.

She turned into the drawing room and Charles followed her. Bob gave a disappointed bark.

Glancing through the window Charles said:

âLook at Theresa and her young man. They are an odd couple!â

âYou think Theresa is really serious over this?â

âOh, sheâs crazy about him!â said Charles with confidence. âOdd taste, but there it is. I think it must be the way he looks at her as though she were a scientific specimen and not a live woman. Thatâs rather a novelty for Theresa. Pity the fellowâs so poor. Theresaâs got expensive tastes.â

Miss Arundell said drily:

âIâve no doubt she can change her way of livingâif she wants to! And after all she has her own income.â

âEh? Oh yes, yes, of course.â Charles shot an almost guilty look at her.

That evening, as the others were assembled in the drawing room waiting to go in to dinner, there was a scurry and a burst of profanity on the stairs. Charles entered with his face rather red.

âSorry, Aunt Emily, am I late? That dog of yours nearly made me take the most frightful toss. Heâd left that ball of his on the top of the stairs.â

âCareless little doggie,â cried Miss Lawson, bending down to Bob.

Bob looked at her contemptuously and turned his head away.

âI know,â said Miss Arundell. âItâs most dangerous. Minnie, fetch the ball and put it away.â

Miss Lawson hurried out.

Dr. Tanios monopolized the conversation at the dinner table most of the time. He told amusing stories of his life in Smyrna.

The party went to bed early. Miss Lawson carrying wool, spectacles, a large velvet bag and a book accompanied her employer to her bedroom chattering happily.

âReally most amusing, Dr. Tanios. He is such good company! Not that I should care for that kind of life myselfâ¦.One would have to boil the water, I expectâ¦.And goatâs milk, perhapsâsuch a disagreeable tasteââ

Miss Arundell snapped:

âDonât be a fool, Minnie. You told Ellen to call me at half past six?â

âOh, yes, Miss Arundell. I said no tea, but donât you think it might be wiserâYou know, the vicar at Southbridgeâa most conscientious man, told me distinctly that there was no obligation to come fastingââ

Once more Miss Arundell cut her short.

âIâve never yet taken anything before Early Service and Iâm not going to begin now. You can do as you like.â

âOh, noâI didnât meanâIâm sureââ

Miss Lawson was flustered and upset.

âTake Bobâs collar off,â said Miss Arundell.

The slave hastened to obey.

Still trying to please she said:

âSuch a pleasant evening. They all seem so pleased to be here.â

âHmph,â said Emily Arundell. âAll here for what they can get.â

âOh, dear Miss Arundellââ

âMy good Minnie, Iâm not a fool whatever else I am! I just wonder which of them will open the subject first.â

She was not long left in doubt on that point. She and Miss Lawson returned from attending Early Service just after nine. Dr. and Mrs. Tanios were in the dining room, but there were no signs of the two Arundells. After breakfast, when the others had left, Miss Arundell sat on, entering up some accounts in a little book.

Charles entered the room about ten.

âSorry Iâm late, Aunt Emily. But Theresaâs worse. Sheâs not unclosed an eyelid yet.â

âAt half past ten breakfast will be cleared away,â said Miss Arundell. âI know it is the fashion not to consider servants nowadays, but that is not the case in my house.â

âGood. Thatâs the true die-hard spirit!â

Charles helped himself to kidneys and sat down beside her.

His grin, as always, was very attractive. Emily Arundell soon found herself smiling indulgently at him. Emboldened by this sign of favour, Charles plunged.

âLook here, Aunt Emily, sorry to bother you, but Iâm in the devil of a hole. Can you possibly help me out? A hundred would do it.â

His auntâs face was not encouraging. A certain grimness showed itself in her expression.

Emily Arundell was not afraid of speaking her mind. She spoke it.

Miss Lawson hustling across the hall almost collided with Charles as he left the dining room. She glanced at him curiously. She entered the dining room to find Miss Arundell sitting very upright with a flushed face.

Two

THE RELATIONS

Charles ran lightly up the stairs and tapped on his sisterâs door. Her answering âCome inâ came promptly and he entered.

Theresa was sitting up in bed yawning.

Charles took a seat on the bed.

âWhat a decorative female you are, Theresa,â he remarked appreciatively.

Theresa said sharply:

âWhatâs the matter?â Charles grinned.

âSharp, arenât you? Well, I stole a march on you, my girl! Thought Iâd make my touch before you got to work.â

âWell?â

Charles spread his hands downwards in negation.

âNothing doing! Aunt Emily ticked me off good and proper. She intimated that she was under no illusions as to why her affectionate family had gathered round her! And she also intimated that the said affectionate family would be disappointed. Nothing being handed out but affectionâand not so much of that.â

âYou might have waited a bit,â said Theresa drily.

Charles grinned again.

âI was afraid you or Tanios might get in ahead of me. Iâm sadly afraid, Theresa my sweet, that thereâll be nothing doing this time. Old Emily is by no means a fool.â

âI never thought she was.â

âI even tried to put the wind up her.â

âWhat dâyou mean?â asked his sister sharply.

âTold her she was going about it the right way to get bumped off. After all she canât take the dibs to heaven with her. Why not loosen up a bit?â

âCharles, you are a fool!â

âNo, Iâm not. Iâm a bit of a psychologist in my way. Itâs never a bit of good sucking up to the old girl. She much prefers you to stand up to her. And after all, I was only talking sense. We get the money when she diesâshe might just as well part with a little beforehand! Otherwise the temptation to help her out of the way might become overwhelming.â

âDid she see your point?â asked Theresa, her delicate mouth curling up scornfully.

âIâm not sure. She didnât admit it. Just thanked me rather nastily for my advice and said she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. âWell,â I said, âIâve warned you.â âIâll remember it,â she said.â

Theresa said angrily:

âReally, Charles, you are an utter fool.â

âDamn it all, Theresa, I was a bit ratty myself! The old girlâs rollingâsimply rolling. I bet she doesnât spend a tenth part of her incomeâwhat has she got to spend it on, anyway? And here we areâyoung, able to enjoy lifeâand to spite us sheâs capable of living to a hundredâ¦.I want my fun nowâ¦.So do youâ¦.â

Theresa nodded.

She said in a low, breathless voice:

âThey donât understandâold people donâtâ¦.they canâtâ¦.They donât know what it is to live!â

Brother and sister were silent for some minutes.

Charles got up.

âWell, my love, I wish you better success than Iâve had. But I rather doubt it.â

Theresa said:

âIâm rather counting on Rex to do the trick. If I can make old Emily realize how brilliant he is, and how it matters terrifically that he should have his chance and not have to sink into a rut as a general practitionerâ¦ Oh, Charles, a few thousand of capital just at this minute would make all the difference in the world to our lives!â

âHope you get it, but I donât think you will. Youâve got through a bit too much capital in riotous living in your time. I say, Theresa, you donât think the dreary Bella or the dubious Tanios will get anything, do you?â

âI donât see that money would be any good to Bella. She goes about looking like a ragbag and her tastes are purely domestic.â

âOh, well,â said Charles, vaguely. âI expect she wants things for those unprepossessing children of hers, schools, and plates for their front teeth and music lessons. And anyway it isnât Bellaâitâs Tanios. I bet heâs got a nose for money all right! Trust a Greek for that. You know heâs got through most of Bellaâs? Speculated with it and lost it all.â

âDo you think heâll get something out of old Emily?â

âHe wonât if I can prevent him,â said Charles, grimly.

He left the room and wandered downstairs. Bob was in the hall. He fussed up to Charles agreeably. Dogs liked Charles.

He ran towards the drawing room door and looked back at Charles.

âWhatâs the matter?â said Charles, strolling after him.

Bob hurried into the drawing room and sat down expectantly by a small bureau.

Charles strolled over to him.

âWhatâs it all about?â

Bob wagged his tail, looked hard at the drawers of the bureau and uttered an appealing squeak.

âWant something thatâs in here?â

Charles pulled open the top drawer. His eyebrows rose.

âDear, dear,â he said.

At one side of the drawer was a little pile of treasury notes.

Charles picked up the bundle and counted them. With a grin he removed three one pound notes and two ten shilling ones and put them in his pocket. He replaced the rest of the notes carefully in the drawer where he had found them.

âThat was a good idea, Bob,â he said. âYour Uncle Charles will be able at any rate to cover expenses. A little ready cash always comes in handy.â

Bob uttered a faint reproachful bark as Charles shut the drawer.

âSorry old man,â Charles apologized. He opened the next drawer. Bobâs ball was in the corner of it. He took it out.

âHere you are. Enjoy yourself with it.â Bob caught the ball, trotted out of the room and presently bump, bump, bump, was heard down the stairs.

Charles strolled out into the garden. It was a fine sunny morning with a scent of lilac.

Miss Arundell had Dr. Tanios by her side. He was speaking of the advantage of an English educationâa good educationâfor children and how deeply he regretted that he could not afford such a luxury for his own children.

Charles smiled with satisfied malice. He joined in the conversation in a lighthearted manner, turning it adroitly into entirely different channels.

Emily Arundell smiled at him quite amiably. He even fancied that she was amused by his tactics and was subtly encouraging them.

Charlesâ spirits rose. Perhaps, after all, before he leftâ

Charles was an incurable optimist.

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Dr. Donaldson called for Theresa in his car that afternoon and drove her to Worthem Abbey, one of the local beauty spots. They wandered away from the Abbey itself into the woods.

There Rex Donaldson told Theresa at length about his theories and some of his recent experiments. She understood very little but listened in a spellbound manner, thinking to herself:

âHow clever Rex isâand how absolutely adorable!â

Her fiancÃ© paused once and said rather doubtfully:

âIâm afraid this is dull stuff for you, Theresa.â

âDarling, itâs too thrilling,â said Theresa, firmly. âGo on. You take some of the blood of the infected rabbitâ?â

Presently Theresa said with a sigh:

âYour work means a terrible lot to you, my sweet.â

âNaturally,â said Dr. Donaldson.

It did not seem at all natural to Theresa. Very few of her friends did any work at all, and if they did they made extremely heavy weather about it.

She thought as she had thought once or twice before, how singularly unsuitable it was that she should have fallen in love with Rex Donaldson. Why did these things, these ludicrous and amazing madnesses, happen to one? A profitless question. This had happened to her.

She frowned, wondered at herself. Her crowd had been so gayâso cynical. Love affairs were necessary to life, of course, but why take them seriously? One loved and passed on.

But this feeling of hers for Rex Donaldson was different, it went deeper. She felt instinctively that here there would be no passing onâ¦ Her need of him was simple and profound. Everything about him fascinated her. His calmness and detachment, so different from her own hectic, grasping life, the clear, logical coldness of his scientific mind, and something else, imperfectly understood, a secret force in the man masked by his unassuming slightly pedantic manner, but which she nevertheless felt and sensed instinctively.

In Rex Donaldson there was geniusâand the fact that his profession was the main preoccupation of his life and that she was only a partâthough a necessary partâof existence to him only heightened his attraction for her. She found herself for the first time in her selfish pleasure-loving life content to take second place. The prospect fascinated her. For Rex she would do anythingâanything!

âWhat a damned nuisance money is,â she said, petulantly. âIf only Aunt Emily were to die we could get married at once, and you could come to London and have a laboratory full of test tubes and guinea pigs, and never bother anymore about children with mumps and old ladies with livers.â

Donaldson said:

âThereâs no reason why your aunt shouldnât live for many years to comeâif sheâs careful.â

Theresa said despondently:

âI know thatâ¦.â

Â 

In the big double-bedded room with the old-fashioned oak furniture, Dr. Tanios said to his wife:

âI think that I have prepared the ground sufficiently. It is now your turn, my dear.â

He was pouring water from the old-fashioned copper can into the rose-patterned china basin.

Bella Tanios sat in front of the dressing table wondering why, when she combed her hair as Theresa did, it should not look like Theresaâs!

There was a moment before she replied. Then she said:

âI donât think I wantâto ask Aunt Emily for money.â

âItâs not for yourself, Bella, itâs for the sake of the children. Our investments have been so unlucky.â

His back was turned, he did not see the swift glance she gave himâa furtive, shrinking glance.

She said with mild obstinacy:

âAll the same, I think Iâd rather notâ¦ Aunt Emily is rather difficult. She can be generous but she doesnât like being asked.â Drying his hands, Tanios came across from the washstand.

âReally, Bella, it isnât like you to be so obstinate. After all, what have we come down here for?â

She murmured:

âI didnâtâI never meantâit wasnât to ask for moneyâ¦.â

âYet you agreed that the only hope if we are to educate the children properly is for your aunt to come to the rescue.â

Bella Tanios did not answer. She moved uneasily.

But her face bore the mild mulish look that many clever husbands of stupid wives know to their cost.

She said:

âPerhaps Aunt Emily herself may suggestââ

âIt is possible, but Iâve seen no signs of it so far.â

Bella said:

âIf we could have brought the children with us. Aunt Emily couldnât have helped loving Mary. And Edward is so intelligent.â

Tanios said, drily:

âI donât think your aunt is a great child lover. It is probably just as well the children arenât here.â

âOh, Jacob, butââ

âYes, yes, my dear. I know your feelings. But these desiccated English spinstersâbah, they are not human. We want to do the best we can, do we not, for our Mary and our Edward? To help us a little would involve no hardship to Miss Arundell.â

Mrs. Tanios turned, there was a flush in her cheeks.

âOh, please, please, Jacob, not this time. Iâm sure it would be unwise. I would so very very much rather not.â

Tanios stood close behind her, his arm encircled her shoulders. She trembled a little and then was stillâalmost rigid.

He said and his voice was still pleasant:

âAll the same, Bella, I thinkâI think you will do what I askâ¦ You usually do, you knowâin the endâ¦ Yes, I think you will do what I sayâ¦.â

Three

THE ACCIDENT

It was Tuesday afternoon. The side door to the garden was open. Miss Arundell stood on the threshold and threw Bobâs ball the length of the garden path. The terrier rushed after it.

âJust once more, Bob,â said Emily Arundell. âA good one.â

Once again the ball sped along the ground with Bob racing at full speed in pursuit.

Miss Arundell stooped down, picked up the ball from where Bob laid it at her feet and went into the house, Bob followed her closely. She shut the side door, went into the drawing room, Bob still at her heels, and put the ball away in the drawer.

She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was half past six.

âA little rest before dinner, I think, Bob.â

She ascended the stairs to her bedroom. Bob accompanied her. Lying on the big chintz-covered couch with Bob at her feet, Miss Arundell sighed. She was glad that it was Tuesday and that her guests would be going tomorrow. It was not that this weekend had disclosed anything to her that she had not known before. It was more the fact that it had not permitted her to forget her own knowledge.

She said to herself:

âIâm getting old, I supposeâ¦â And then, with a little shock of surprise: âI am oldâ¦.â

She lay with her eyes closed for half an hour, then the elderly house-parlourmaid, Ellen, brought hot water and she rose and prepared for dinner.

Dr. Donaldson was to dine with them that night. Emily Arundell wished to have an opportunity of studying him at close quarters. It still seemed to her a little incredible that the exotic Theresa should want to marry this rather stiff and pedantic young man. It also seemed a little odd that this stiff and pedantic young man should want to marry Theresa.

She did not feel as the evening progressed that she was getting to know Dr. Donaldson any better. He was very polite, very formal and, to her mind, intensely boring. In her own mind she agreed with Miss Peabodyâs judgement. The thought flashed across her brain, âBetter stuff in our young days.â

Dr. Donaldson did not stay late. He rose to go at ten oâclock. After he had taken his departure Emily Arundell herself announced that she was going to bed. She went upstairs and her young relations went up also. They all seemed somewhat subdued tonight. Miss Lawson remained downstairs performing her final duties, letting Bob out for his run, poking down the fire, putting the guard up and rolling back the hearth rug in case of fire.

She arrived rather breathless in her employerâs room about five minutes later.

âI think Iâve got everything,â she said, putting down wool, workbag, and a library book. âI do hope the book will be all right. She hadnât got any of the ones on your list but she said she was sure youâd like this one.â

âThat girlâs a fool,â said Emily Arundell. âHer taste in books is the worst Iâve ever come across.â

âOh, dear. Iâm so sorryâPerhaps I oughtââ

âNonsense, itâs not your fault.â Emily Arundell added kindly. âI hope you enjoyed yourself this afternoon.â

Miss Lawsonâs face lighted up. She looked eager and almost youthful.

âOh, yes, thank you very much. So kind of you to spare me. I had the most interesting time. We had the Planchette and reallyâit wrote the most interesting things. There were several messagesâ¦ Of course its not quite the same thing as the sittingsâ¦ Julia Tripp has been having a lot of success with the automatic writing. Several messages from Those who have Passed Over. Itâit really makes one feel so gratefulâthat such things should be permittedâ¦.â

Miss Arundell said with a slight smile:

âBetter not let the vicar hear you.â

âOh, but indeed, dear Miss Arundell, I am convincedâquite convincedâthere can be nothing wrong about it. I only wish dear Mr. Lonsdale would examine the subject. It seems to me so narrow-minded to condemn a thing that you have not even investigated. Both Julia and Isabel Tripp are such truly spiritual women.â

âAlmost too spiritual to be alive,â said Miss Arundell.

She did not care much for Julia and Isabel Tripp. She thought their clothes ridiculous, their vegetarian and uncooked fruit meals absurd, and their manner affected. They were women of no traditions, no rootsâin factâno breeding! But she got a certain amount of amusement out of their earnestness and she was at bottom kindhearted enough not to grudge the pleasure that their friendship obviously gave to poor Minnie.

Poor Minnie! Emily Arundell looked at her companion with mingled affection and contempt. She had had so many of these foolish, middle-aged women to minister to herâall much the same, kind, fussy, subservient and almost entirely mindless.

Really poor Minnie was looking quite excited tonight. Her eyes were shining. She fussed about the room vaguely touching things here and there without the least idea of what she was doing, her eyes all bright and shining.

She stammered out rather nervously:

âIâI do wish youâd been thereâ¦ I feel, you know, that youâre not quite a believer yet. But tonight there was a messageâfor E.A., the initials came quite definitely. It was from a man who had passed over many years agoâa very good-looking military manâIsabel saw him quite distinctly. It must have been dear General Arundell. Such a beautiful message, so full of love and comfort, and how through patience all could be attained.â

âThose sentiments sound very unlike papa,â said Miss Arundell.

âOh, but our Dear Ones change soâon the other side. Everything is love and understanding. And then the Planchette spelt out something about a keyâI think it was the key of the Boule cabinetâcould that be it?â

âThe key of the Boule cabinet?â Emily Arundellâs voice sounded sharp and interested.

âI think that was it. I thought perhaps it might be important papersâsomething of the kind. There was a well-authenticated case where a message came to look in a certain piece of furniture and actually a will was discovered there.â

âThere wasnât a will in the Boule cabinet,â said Miss Arundell. She added abruptly: âGo to bed, Minnie. Youâre tired. So am I. Weâll ask the Tripps in for an evening soon.â

âOh, that will be nice! Good night, dear. Sure youâve got everything? I hope you havenât been tired with so many people here. I must tell Ellen to air the drawing room very well tomorrow, and shake out the curtainsâall this smoking leaves such a smell. I must say I think itâs very good of you to let them all smoke in the drawing room!â

âI must make some concessions to modernity,â said Emily Arundell. âGood night, Minnie.â

As the other woman left the room, Emily Arundell wondered if this spiritualistic business was really good for Minnie. Her eyes had been popping out of her head, and she had looked so restless and excited.

Odd about the Boule cabinet, thought Emily Arundell as she got into bed. She smiled grimly as she remembered the scene of long ago. The key that had come to light after papaâs death, and the cascade of empty brandy bottles that had tumbled out when the cabinet had been unlocked! It was little things like that, things that surely neither Minnie Lawson nor Isabel and Julia Tripp could possibly know, which made one wonder whether, after all, there wasnât something in this spiritualistic businessâ¦.

She felt wakeful lying on her big four-poster bed. Nowadays she found it increasingly difficult to sleep. But she scorned Dr. Graingerâs tentative suggestion of a sleeping draught. Sleeping draughts were for weaklings, for people who couldnât bear a finger ache, or a little toothache, or the tedium of a sleepless night.

Often she would get up and wander noiselessly round the house, picking up a book, fingering an ornament, rearranging a vase of flowers, writing a letter or two. In those midnight hours she had a feeling of the equal liveliness of the house through which she wandered. They were not disagreeable, those nocturnal wanderings. It was as though ghosts walked beside her, the ghosts of her sisters, Arabella, Matilda and Agnes, the ghost of her brother Thomas, the dear fellow as he was before That Woman got hold of him! Even the ghost of General Charles Laverton Arundell, that domestic tyrant with the charming manners who shouted and bullied his daughters but who nevertheless was an object of pride to them with his experiences in the Indian Mutiny and his knowledge of the world. What if there were days when he was ânot quite so wellâ as his daughters put it evasively?

Her mind reverting to her nieceâs fiancÃ©, Miss Arundell thought, âI donât suppose heâll ever take to drink! Calls himself a man and drank barley water this evening! Barley water! And I opened papaâs special port.â

Charles had done justice to the port all right. Oh! if only Charles were to be trusted. If only one didnât know that with himâ

Her thoughts broke offâ¦ Her mind ranged over the events of the weekendâ¦.

Everything seemed vaguely disquietingâ¦.

She tried to put worrying thoughts out of her mind.

It was no good.

She raised herself on her elbow and by the light of the nightlight that always burned in a little saucer she looked at the time.

One oâclock and she had never felt less like sleep.

She got out of bed and put on her slippers and her warm dressing gown. She would go downstairs and just check over the weekly books ready for the paying of them the following morning.

Like a shadow she slipped from her room and along the corridor where one small electric bulb was allowed to burn all night.

She came to the head of the stairs, stretched out one hand to the baluster rail and then, unaccountably, she stumbled, tried to recover her balance, failed and went headlong down the stairs.

Â 

The sound of her fall, the cry she gave, stirred the sleeping house to wakefulness. Doors opened, lights flashed on.

Miss Lawson popped out of her room at the head of the staircase.

Uttering little cries of distress she pattered down the stairs. One by one the others arrivedâCharles, yawning, in a resplendent dressing gown. Theresa, wrapped in dark silk. Bella in a navy-blue kimono, her hair bristling with combs to âset the wave.â

Dazed and confused Emily Arundell lay in a crushed heap. Her shoulder hurt her and her ankleâher whole body was a confused mass of pain. She was conscious of people standing over her, of that fool Minnie Lawson crying and making ineffectual gestures with her hands, of Theresa with a startled look in her dark eyes, of Bella standing with her mouth open looking expectant, of the voice of Charles saying from somewhereâvery far away so it seemedâ

âItâs that damned dogâs ball! He must have left it here and she tripped over it. See? Here it is!â

And then she was conscious of authority, putting the others aside, kneeling beside her, touching her with hands that did not fumble but knew.

A feeling of relief swept over her. It would be all right now.

Dr. Tanios was saying in firm, reassuring tones:

âNo, itâs all right. No bones brokenâ¦ Just badly shaken and bruisedâand of course sheâs had a bad shock. But sheâs been very lucky that itâs no worse.â

Then he cleared the others off a little and picked her up quite easily and carried her up to her bedroom, where he had held her wrist for a minute, counting, then nodded his head, sent Minnie (who was still crying and being generally a nuisance) out of the room to fetch brandy and to heat water for a hot bottle.

Confused, shaken, and racked with pain, she felt acutely grateful to Jacob Tanios in that moment. The relief of feeling oneself in capable hands. He gave you just that feeling of assuranceâof confidenceâthat a doctor ought to give.

There was somethingâsomething she couldnât quite get hold ofâsomething vaguely disquietingâbut she wouldnât think of it now. She would drink this and go to sleep as they told her.

But surely there was something missingâsomeone.

Oh well, she wouldnât thinkâ¦ Her shoulder hurt herâShe drank down what she was given.

She heard Dr. Tanios sayâand in what a comfortable assured voiceââSheâll be all right, now.â

She closed her eyes.

Â 

She awoke to a sound that she knewâa soft, muffled bark.

She was wide awake in a minute.

Bobânaughty Bob! He was barking outside the front doorâhis own particular âout all night very ashamed of himselfâ bark, pitched in a subdued key but repeated hopefully.

Miss Arundell strained her ears. Ah, yes, that was all right. She could hear Minnie going down to let him in. She heard the creak of the opening front door, a confused low murmurâMinnieâs futile reproachesââOh, you naughty little doggieâa very naughty little Bobsieââ She heard the pantry door open. Bobâs bed was under the pantry table.

And at that moment Emily realized what it was she had subconsciously missed at the moment of her accident. It was Bob. All that commotionâher fall, people runningânormally Bob would have responded by a crescendo of barking from inside the pantry.

So that was what had been worrying her at the back of her mind. But it was explained nowâBob, when he had been let out last night, had shamelessly and deliberately gone off on pleasure bent. From time to time he had these lapses from virtueâthough his apologies afterwards were always all that could be desired.

So that was all right. But was it? What else was there worrying her, nagging at the back of her head. Her accidentâsomething to do with her accident.

Ah, yes, somebody had saidâCharlesâthat she had slipped on Bobâs ball which he had left on the top of the stairsâ¦.

The ball had been thereâhe had held it up in his handâ¦.

Emily Arundellâs head ached. Her shoulder throbbed. Her bruised body sufferedâ¦.

But in the midst of her suffering her mind was clear and lucid. She was no longer confused by shock. Her memory was perfectly clear.

She went over in her mind all the events from six oâclock yesterday eveningâ¦ She retraced every stepâ¦till she came to the moment when she arrived at the stairhead and started to descend the stairsâ¦.

A thrill of incredulous horror shot through herâ¦.

Surelyâsurely, she must be mistakenâ¦ One often had queer fancies after an event had happened. She triedâearnestly she triedâto recall the slippery roundness of Bobâs ball under her footâ¦.

But she could recall nothing of the kind.

Insteadâ

âSheer nerves,â said Emily Arundell. âRidiculous fancies.â

But her sensible, shrewd, Victorian mind would not admit that for a moment. There was no foolish optimism about the Victorians. They could believe the worst with the utmost ease.

Emily Arundell believed the worst.

Four

MISS ARUNDELL WRITES A LETTER

It was Friday.

The relations had left.

They left on the Wednesday as originally planned. One and all, they had offered to stay on. One and all they had been steadfastly refused. Miss Arundell explained that she preferred to be âquite quiet.â

During the two days that had elapsed since their departure, Emily Arundell had been alarmingly meditative. Often she did not hear what Minnie Lawson said to her. She would stare at her and curtly order her to begin all over again.

âItâs the shock, poor dear,â said Miss Lawson.

And she added with the kind of gloomy relish in disaster which brightens so many otherwise drab lives:

âI daresay sheâll never be quite herself again.â

Dr. Grainger, on the other hand, rallied her heartily.

He told her that sheâd be downstairs again by the end of the week, that it was a positive disgrace she had no bones broken, and what kind of patient was she for a struggling medical man? If all his patients were like her, he might as well take down his plate straight away.

Emily Arundell replied with spiritâshe and old Dr. Grainger were allies of long-standing. He bullied and she defiedâthey always got a good deal of pleasure out of each otherâs company!

But now, after the doctor had stumped away, the old lady lay with a frown on her face, thinkingâthinkingâresponding absentmindedly to Minnie Lawsonâs well-meant fussingâand then suddenly coming back to consciousness and rending her with a vitriolic tongue.

âPoor little Bobsie,â twittered Miss Lawson, bending over Bob who had a rug spread on the corner of his mistressâs bed. âWouldnât little Bobsie be unhappy if he knew what heâd done to his poor, poor Missus?â

Miss Arundell snapped:

âDonât be idiotic, Minnie. And whereâs your English sense of justice? Donât you know that everyone in this country is accounted innocent until he or she is proved guilty?â

âOh, but we do knowââ

Emily snapped:

âWe donât know anything at all. Do stop fidgeting, Minnie. Pulling this and pulling that. Havenât you any idea how to behave in a sickroom? Go away and send Ellen to me.â

Meekly Miss Lawson crept away.

Emily Arundell looked after her with a slight feeling of self-reproach. Maddening as Minnie was, she did her best.

Then the frown settled down again on her face.

She was desperately unhappy. She had all a vigorous strong-minded old ladyâs dislike of inaction in any given situation. But in this particular situation she could not decide upon her line of action.

There were moments when she distrusted her own faculties, her own memory of events. And there was no one, absolutely no one in whom she could confide.

Half an hour later, when Miss Lawson tiptoed creakingly into the room, carrying a cup of beef tea, and then paused irresolute at the view of her employer lying with closed eyes, Emily Arundell suddenly spoke two words with such force and decision that Miss Lawson nearly dropped the cup.

âMary Fox,â said Miss Arundell.

âA box, dear?â said Miss Lawson. âDid you say you wanted a box?â

âYouâre getting deaf, Minnie. I didnât say anything about a box. I said Mary Fox. The woman I met at Cheltenham last year. She was the sister of one of the Canons of Exeter Cathedral. Give me that cup. Youâve spilt it into the saucer. And donât tiptoe when you come into a room. You donât know how irritating it is. Now go downstairs and get me the London telephone book.â

âCan I find the number for you, dear? Or the address?â

âIf Iâd wanted you to do that Iâd have told you so. Do what I tell you. Bring it here, and put my writing things by the bed.â

Miss Lawson obeyed orders.

As she was going out of the room after having done everything required of her, Emily Arundell said unexpectedly:

âYouâre a good, faithful creature, Minnie. Donât mind my bark. Itâs a good deal worse than my bite. Youâre very patient and good to me.â

Miss Lawson went out of the room with her face pink and incoherent words burbling from her lips.

Sitting up in bed, Miss Arundell wrote a letter. She wrote it slowly and carefully, with numerous pauses for thought and copious underlining. She crossed and recrossed the pageâfor she had been brought up in a school that was taught never to waste notepaper. Finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, she signed her name and put it into an envelope. She wrote a name upon the envelope. Then she took a fresh sheet of paper. This time she made a rough draft and after having reread it and made certain alterations and erasures, she wrote out a fair copy. She read the whole thing through very carefully, then satisfied that she had expressed her meaning she enclosed it in an envelope and addressed it to William Purvis, Esq., Messrs Purvis, Purvis, Charlesworth and Purvis, Solicitors, Harchester.

She took up the first envelope again, which was addressed to M. Hercule Poirot, and opened the telephone directory. Having found the address she added it.

A tap sounded at the door.

Miss Arundell hastily thrust the letter she had just finished addressingâthe letter to Hercule Poirotâinside the flap of her writing case.

She had no intention of rousing Minnieâs curiosity. Minnie was a great deal too inquisitive.

She called âCome inâ and lay back on her pillows with a sigh of relief.

She had taken steps to deal with the situation.

Five

HERCULE POIROT RECEIVES A LETTER

The events which I have just narrated were not, of course, known to me until a long time afterwards. But by questioning various members of the family in detail, I have, I think, set them down accurately enough.

Poirot and I were only drawn into the affair when we received Miss Arundellâs letter.

I remember the day well. It was a hot, airless morning towards the end of June.

Poirot had a particular routine when opening his morning correspondence. He picked up each letter, scrutinized it carefully and neatly slit the envelope open with his paper cutter. Its contents were perused and then placed in one of four piles beyond the chocolate pot. (Poirot always drank chocolate for breakfastâa revolting habit.) All this with a machinelike regularity!

So much was this the case that the least interruption of the rhythm attracted oneâs attention.

I was sitting by the window, looking out at the passing traffic. I had recently returned from Argentina and there was something particularly exciting to me in being once more in the roar of London.

Turning my head, I said with a smile:

âPoirot, Iâthe humble Watsonâam going to hazard a deduction.â

âEnchanted, my friend. What is it?â

I struck an attitude and said pompously:

âYou have received this morning one letter of particular interest!â

âYou are indeed the Sherlock Holmes! Yes, you are perfectly right.â

I laughed.

âYou see, I know your methods, Poirot. If you read a letter through twice it must mean that it is of special interest.â

âYou shall judge for yourself, Hastings.â

With a smile my friend tendered me the letter in question.

I took it with no little interest, but immediately made a slight grimace. It was written in one of those old-fashioned spidery handwritings, and it was, moreover, crossed on two pages.

âMust I read this, Poirot?â I complained.

âAh, no, there is no compulsion. Assuredly not.â

âCanât you tell me what it says?â

âI would prefer you to form your own judgement. But do not trouble if it bores you.â

âNo, no, I want to know what itâs all about,â I protested.

My friend remarked drily:

âYou can hardly do that. In effect, the letter says nothing at all.â

Taking this as an exaggeration I plunged without more ado into the letter.

M. Hercule Poirot.

Dear Sir,

After much doubt and indecision, I am writing (the last word was crossed out and the letter went on) I am emboldened to write to you in the hope that you may be able to assist me in a matter of a strictly private nature. (The words strictly private were underlined three times.) I may say that your name is not unknown to me. It was mentioned to me by a Miss Fox of Exeter, and although Miss Fox was not herself acquainted with you, she mentioned that her brother-in-lawâs sister (whose name I cannot, I am sorry to say, recall) had spoken of your kindness and discretion in the highest terms (highest terms underlined once). I did not inquire, of course, as to the nature (nature underlined) of the inquiry you had conducted on her behalf, but I understood from Miss Fox that it was of a painful and confidential nature (last four words underlined heavily).

I broke off my difficult task of spelling out the spidery words.

âPoirot,â I said. âMust I go on? Does she ever get to the point?â

âContinue, my friend. Patience.â

âPatience!â I grumbled. âItâs exactly as though a spider had got into an inkpot and was walking over a sheet of notepaper! I remember my Great-Aunt Maryâs writing used to be much the same!â

Once more I plunged into the epistle.

In my present dilemma, it occurs to me that you might undertake the necessary investigations on my behalf. The matter is such, as you will readily understand, as calls for the utmost discretion and I may, in factâand I need hardly say how sincerely I hope and pray (pray underlined twice) that this may be the caseâI may, in fact, be completely mistaken. One is apt sometimes to attribute too much significance to facts capable of a natural explanation.

âI havenât left out a sheet?â I murmured in some perplexity.

Poirot chuckled.

âNo, no.â

âBecause this doesnât seem to make sense. What is it she is talking about?â

âContinuez toujours.â

âThe matter is such, as you will readily understandâNo, Iâd got past that. Oh! here we are. In the circumstances as I am sure you will be the first to appreciate, it is quite impossible for me to consult anyone in Market Basing (I glanced back at the heading of the letter. Littlegreen House, Market Basing, Berks), but at the same time you will naturally understand that I feel uneasy (uneasy underlined). During the last few days I have reproached myself with being unduly fanciful (fanciful underlined three times) but have only felt increasingly perturbed. I may be attaching undue importance to what is, after all, a trifle (trifle underlined twice) but my uneasiness remains. I feel definitely that my mind must be set at rest on the matter. It is actually preying on my mind and affecting my health, and naturally I am in a difficult position as I can say nothing to anyone (nothing to anyone underlined with heavy lines). In your wisdom you may say, of course, that the whole thing is nothing but a mareâs nest. The facts may be capable of a perfectly innocent explanation (innocent underlined). Nevertheless, however trivial it may seem, ever since the incident of the dogâs ball, I have felt increasingly doubtful and alarmed. I should therefore welcome your views and counsel on the matter. It would, I feel sure, take a great weight off my mind. Perhaps you would kindly let me know what your fees are and what you advise me to do in the matter?

I must impress on you again that nobody here knows anything at all. The facts are, I know, very trivial and unimportant, but my health is not too good and my nerves (nerves underlined three times) are not what they used to be. Worry of this kind, I am convinced, is very bad for me, and the more I think over the matter, the more I am convinced that I was quite right and no mistake was possible. Of course, I shall not dream of saying anything (underlined) to anyone (underlined).

Hoping to have your advice in the matter at an early date.

I remain, Yours faithfully,

Emily Arundell.â

I turned the letter over and scanned each page closely. âBut, Poirot,â I expostulated, âwhat is it all about?â

My friend shrugged his shoulders.

âWhat indeed?â

I tapped the sheets with some impatience.

âWhat a woman! Why canât Mrs.âor Miss Arundellââ

âMiss, I think. It is typically the letter of a spinster.â

âYes,â I said. âA real, fussy old maid. Why canât she say what sheâs talking about?â

Poirot sighed.

âAs you sayâa regrettable failure to employ order and method in the mental processes, and without order and method, Hastingsââ

âQuite so,â I interrupted hastily. âLittle grey cells practically nonexistent.â

âI would not say that, my friend.â

âI would. Whatâs the sense of writing a letter like that?â

âVery littleâthat is true,â Poirot admitted.

âA long rigmarole all about nothing,â I went on. âProbably some upset to her fat lapdogâan asthmatic pug or a yapping Pekinese!â I looked at my friend curiously. âAnd yet you read that letter through twice. I do not understand you, Poirot.â

Poirot smiled.

âYou, Hastings, you would have put it straight in the wastepaper basket?â

âIâm afraid I should.â I frowned down on the letter. âI suppose Iâm being dense, as usual, but I canât see anything of interest in this letter!â

âYet there is one point in it of great interestâa point that struck me at once.â

âWait,â I cried. âDonât tell me. Let me see if I canât discover it for myself.â

It was childish of me, perhaps. I examined the letter very thoroughly. Then I shook my head.

âNo, I donât see it. The old ladyâs got the wind up, I realize thatâbut then, old ladies often do! It may be about nothingâit may conceivably be about something, but I donât see that you can tell that that is so. Unless your instinctââ

Poirot raised an offended hand.

âInstinct! You know how I dislike that word. âSomething seems to tell meââthat is what you infer. Jamais de la vie! Me, I reason. I employ the little grey cells. There is one interesting point about that letter which you have overlooked utterly, Hastings.â

âOh, well,â I said wearily. âIâll buy it.â

âBuy it? Buy what?â

âAn expression. Meaning that I will permit you to enjoy yourself by telling me just where I have been a fool.â

âNot a fool, Hastings, merely unobservant.â

âWell, out with it. Whatâs the interesting point? I suppose, like the âincident of the dogâs ball,â the point is that there is no interesting point!â

Poirot disregarded this sally on my part. He said quietly and calmly:

âThe interesting point is the date.â

âThe date?â

I picked up the letter. On the top left-hand corner was written April 17th.

âYes,â I said slowly. âThat is odd. April 17th.â

âAnd we are today June 28th. Câest curieux, nâest ce pas? Over two months ago.â

I shook my head doubtfully.

âIt probably doesnât mean anything. A slip. She meant to put June and wrote April instead.â

âEven then it would be ten or eleven days oldâan odd fact. But actually you are in error. Look at the colour of the ink. That letter was written more than ten or eleven days ago. No, April 17th is the date assuredly. But why was the letter not sent?â

I shrugged my shoulders.

âThatâs easy. The old pussy changed her mind.â

âThen why did she not destroy the letter? Why keep it over two months and post it now?â

I had to admit that that was harder to answer. In fact I couldnât think of a really satisfactory answer. I merely shook my head and said nothing.

Poirot nodded.

âYou seeâit is a point! Yes, decidedly a curious point.â

âYou are answering the letter?â I asked.

âOui, mon ami.â

The room was silent except for the scratching of Poirotâs pen. It was a hot, airless morning. A smell of dust and tar came in through the window.

Poirot rose from his desk, the completed letter in his hand. He opened a drawer and drew out a little square box. From this he took out a stamp. Moistening this with a little sponge he prepared to affix it to the letter.

Then suddenly he paused, stamp in hand, shaking his head with vigour.

âNon!â he exclaimed. âThat is the wrong thing I do.â He tore the letter across and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

âNot so must we tackle this matter! We will go, my friend.â

âYou mean to go down to Market Basing?â

âPrecisely. Why not? Does not one stifle in London today? Would not the country air be agreeable?â

âWell, if you put it like that,â I said. âShall we go in the car?â

I had acquired a secondhand Austin.

âExcellent. A very pleasant day for motoring. One will hardly need the muffler. A light overcoat, a silk scarfââ

âMy dear fellow, youâre not going to the North Pole!â I protested.

âOne must be careful of catching the chill,â said Poirot sententiously.

âOn a day like this?â

Disregarding my protests, Poirot proceeded to don a fawn-coloured overcoat and wrap his neck up with a white silk handkerchief. Having carefully placed the wetted stamp face downwards on the blotting paper to dry, we left the room together.

Six

WE GO TO LITTLEGREEN HOUSE

I donât know what Poirot felt like in his coat and muffler but I myself felt roasted before we got out of London. An open car in traffic is far from being a refreshing place on a hot summerâs day.

Once we were outside London, however, and getting a bit of pace on the Great West Road my spirits rose.

Our drive took us about an hour and a half, and it was close upon twelve oâclock when we came into the little town of Market Basing. Originally on the main road, a modern bypass now left it some three miles to the north of the main stream of traffic and in consequence it had kept an air of old-fashioned dignity and quietude about it. Its one wide street and ample market square seemed to say, âI was a place of importance once and to any person of sense and breeding I am still the same. Let this modern speeding world dash along their newfangled road; I was built to endure in a day when solidarity and beauty went hand in hand.â

There was a parking area in the middle of the big square, though there were only a few cars occupying it. I duly parked the Austin, Poirot divested himself of his superfluous garments, assured himself that his moustaches were in their proper condition of symmetrical flamboyance and we were then ready to proceed.

For once in a way our first tentative inquiry did not meet with the usual response, âSorry, but Iâm a stranger in these parts.â It would seem indeed probable that there were no strangers in Market Basing! It had that effect! Already, I felt, Poirot and myself (and especially Poirot) were somewhat noticeable. We tended to stick out from the mellow background of an English market town secure in its traditions.

âLittlegreen House?â The man, a burly, ox-eyed fellow, looked us over thoughtfully. âYou go straight up the High Street and you canât miss it. On your left. Thereâs no name on the gate, but itâs the first big house after the bank.â He repeated again, âYou canât miss it.â

His eyes followed us as we started on our course.

âDear me,â I complained. âThere is something about this place that makes me feel extremely conspicuous. As for you, Poirot, you look positively exotic.â

âYou think it is noticed that I am a foreignerâyes?â

âThe fact cries aloud to heaven,â I assured him.

âAnd yet my clothes are made by an English tailor,â mused Poirot.

âClothes are not everything,â I said. âIt cannot be denied, Poirot, that you have a noticeable personality. I have often wondered that it has not hindered you in your career.â

Poirot sighed.

âThat is because you have the mistaken idea implanted in your head that a detective is necessarily a man who puts on a false beard and hides behind a pillar! The false beard, it is vieux jeu, and shadowing is only done by the lowest branch of my profession. The Hercule Poirots, my friend, need only to sit back in a chair and think.â

âWhich explains why we are walking along this exceedingly hot street on an exceedingly hot morning.â

âThat is very neatly replied, Hastings. For once, I admit, you have made the score off me.â

We found Littlegreen House easily enough, but a shock awaited usâa house agentâs board.

As we were staring at it, a dogâs bark attracted my attention.

The bushes were thin at that point and the dog could be easily seen. He was a wirehaired terrier, somewhat shaggy as to coat. His feet were planted wide apart, slightly to one side, and he barked with an obvious enjoyment of his own performance that showed him to be actuated by the most amiable motives.

âGood watchdog, arenât I?â he seemed to be saying. âDonât mind me! This is just my fun! My duty too, of course. Just have to let âem know thereâs a dog about the place! Deadly dull morning. Quite a blessing to have something to do. Coming into our place? Hope so. Itâs darned dull. I could do with a little conversation.â

âHallo, old man,â I said and shoved forward a fist.

Craning his neck through the railings he sniffed suspiciously, then gently wagged his tail, uttering a few short staccato barks.

âNot been properly introduced, of course, have to keep this up! But I see you know the proper advances to make.â

âGood old boy,â I said.

âWuff,â said the terrier amiably.

âWell, Poirot?â I said, desisting from this conversation and turning to my friend.

There was an odd expression on his faceâone that I could not quite fathom. A kind of deliberately suppressed excitement seems to describe it best.

âThe Incident of the Dogâs Ball,â he murmured. âWell, at least, we have here a dog.â

âWuff,â observed our new friend. Then he sat down, yawned widely and looked at us hopefully.

âWhat next?â I asked.

The dog seemed to be asking the same question.

âParbleu, to Messrsâwhat is itâMessrs Gabler and Stretcher.â

âThat does seem indicated,â I agreed.

We turned and retraced our steps, our canine acquaintance sending a few disgusted barks after us.

The premises of Messrs Gabler and Stretcher were situated in the Market Square. We entered a dim outer office where we were received by a young woman with adenoids and a lacklustre eye.

âGood morning,â said Poirot politely.

The young woman was at the moment speaking into a telephone but she indicated a chair and Poirot sat down. I found another and brought it forward.

âI couldnât say, Iâm sure,â said the young woman into the telephone vacantly. âNo, I donât know what the rates would beâ¦ Pardon? Oh, main water, I think, but, of course, I couldnât be certainâ¦ Iâm very sorry, Iâm sureâ¦ No, heâs outâ¦ No, I couldnât sayâ¦ Yes, of course Iâll ask himâ¦ Yesâ¦8135? Iâm afraid I havenât quite got it. Ohâ¦8935â¦39â¦ Oh, 5135â¦ Yes, Iâll ask him to ring youâ¦after sixâ¦ Oh, pardon, before sixâ¦ Thank you so much.â

She replaced the receiver, scribbled 5319 on the blotting pad and turned a mildly inquiring but uninterested gaze on Poirot.

Poirot began briskly.

âI observe that there is a house to be sold just on the outskirts of this town. Littlegreen House, I think is the name.â

âPardon?â

âA house to be let or sold,â said Poirot slowly and distinctly. âLittlegreen House.â

âOh, Littlegreen House,â said the young woman vaguely. âLittlegreen House, did you say?â

âThat is what I said.â

âLittlegreen House,â said the young woman, making a tremendous mental effort. âOh, well, I expect Mr. Gabler would know about that.â

âCan I see Mr. Gabler?â

âHeâs out,â said the young woman with a kind of faint, anaemic satisfaction as of one who says, âA point to me.â

âDo you know when he will be in?â

âI couldnât say, Iâm sure,â said the young woman.

âYou comprehend, I am looking for a house in this neighbourhood,â said Poirot.

âOh, yes,â said the young woman, uninterested.

âAnd Littlegreen House seems to me just what I am looking for. Can you give me particulars?â

âParticulars?â The young woman seemed startled.

âParticulars of Littlegreen House.â

Unwillingly she opened a drawer and took out an untidy file of papers.

Then she called, âJohn.â

A lanky youth sitting in a corner looked up.

âYes, miss.â

âHave we got any particulars ofâwhat did you say?â

âLittlegreen House,â said Poirot distinctly.

âYouâve got a large bill of it here,â I remarked, pointing to the wall.

She looked at me coldly. Two to one, she seemed to think, was an unfair way of playing the game. She called up her own reinforcements.

âYou donât know anything about Littlegreen House, do you, John?â

âNo, miss. Should be in the file.â

âIâm sorry,â said the young woman without looking so in the least. âI rather fancy we must have sent all the particulars out.â

âCâest dommage.â

âPardon?â

âA pity.â

âWeâve a nice bungalow at Hemel End, two bed., one sitt.â

She spoke without enthusiasm, but with the air of one willing to do her duty by her employer.

âI thank you, no.â

âAnd a semidetached with small conservatory. I could give you particulars of that.â

âNo, thank you. I desired to know what rent you were asking for Littlegreen House.â

âItâs not to be rented,â said the young woman, abandoning her position of complete ignorance of anything to do with Littlegreen House in the pleasure of scoring a point. âOnly to be sold outright.â

âThe board says, âTo be Let or Sold.ââ

âI couldnât say as to that, but itâs for sale only.â

At this stage in the battle the door opened and a grey-haired, middle-aged man entered with a rush. His eye, a militant one, swept over us with a gleam. His eyebrows asked a question of his employee.

âThis is Mr. Gabler,â said the young woman.

Mr. Gabler opened the door of an inner sanctum with a flourish.

âStep in here, gentlemen.â He ushered us in, an ample gesture swept us into chairs and he himself was facing us across a flat-topped desk.

âAnd now what can I do for you?â

Poirot began again perseveringly.

âI desired a few particulars of Littlegreen Houseââ

He got no further. Mr. Gabler took command.

âAh! Littlegreen Houseâthereâs a property! An absolute bargain. Only just come into the market. I can tell you gentlemen, we donât often get a house of that class going at the price. Tasteâs swinging round. People are fed up with jerry-building. They want sound stuff. Good, honest building. A beautiful propertyâcharacterâfeelingâGeorgian throughout. Thatâs what people want nowadaysâthereâs a feeling for period houses if you understand what I mean. Ah, yes, Littlegreen House wonât be long in the market. Itâll be snapped up. Snapped up! A member of parliament came to look at it only last Saturday. Liked it so much heâs coming down again this weekend. And thereâs a stock exchange gentleman after it too. People want quiet nowadays when they come to the country, want to be well away from main roads. Thatâs all very well for some people, but we attract class here. And thatâs what that house has got. Class! Youâve got to admit, they knew how to build for gentlemen in those days. Yes, we shanât have Littlegreen long on our books.â

Mr. Gabler, who, it occurred to me, lived up to his name very happily, paused for breath.

âHas it changed hands often in the last few years?â inquired Poirot.

âOn the contrary. Been in one family over fifty years. Name of Arundell. Very much respected in the town. Ladies of the old school.â

He shot up, opened the door and called:

âParticulars of Littlegreen House, Miss Jenkins. Quickly now.â

He returned to the desk.

âI require a house about this distance from London,â said Poirot. âIn the country, but not in the dead country, if you understand meââ

âPerfectlyâperfectly. Too much in the country doesnât do. Servants donât like it for one thing. Here, you have the advantages of the country but not the disadvantages.â Miss Jenkins flitted in with a typewritten sheet of paper which she placed in front of her employer who dismissed her with a nod.

âHere we are,â said Mr. Gabler, reading with practised rapidity. âPeriod House of character: four recep., eight bed and dressing, usual offices, commodious kitchen premises, ample outbuildings, stables, etc. Main water, old-world gardens, inexpensive upkeep, amounting in all to three acres, two summerhouses, etc., etc. Price Â£2,850 or near offer.â

âYou can give me an order to view?â

âCertainly, my dear sir.â Mr. Gabler began writing in a flourishing fashion. âYour name and address?â

Slightly to my surprise, Poirot gave his name as Mr. Parotti.

âWe have one or two other properties on our books which might interest you,â Mr. Gabler went on.

Poirot allowed him to add two further additions.

âLittlegreen House can be viewed anytime?â he inquired.

âCertainly, my dear sir. There are servants in residence. I might perhaps ring up to make certain. You will be going there immediately? Or after lunch?â

âPerhaps after lunch would be better.â

âCertainlyâcertainly. Iâll ring up and tell them to expect you about two oâclockâeh? Is that right?â

âThank you. Did you say the owner of the houseâa Miss Arundell, I think you said?â

âLawson. Miss Lawson. That is the name of the present owner. Miss Arundell, I am sorry to say, died a short time ago. That is how the place has come into the market. And I can assure you it will be snapped up. Not a doubt of it. Between you and me, just in confidence, if you do think of making an offer I should make it quickly. As Iâve told you, there are two gentlemen after it already, and I shouldnât be surprised to get an offer for it any day from one or other of them. Each of them knows the otherâs after it, you see. And thereâs no doubt that competition spurs a man on. Ha, ha! I shouldnât like you to be disappointed.â

âMiss Lawson is anxious to sell, I gather.â

Mr. Gabler lowered his voice confidentially.

âThatâs just it. The place is larger than she wantsâone middle-aged lady living by herself. She wants to get rid of this and take a house in London. Quite understandable. Thatâs why the place is going so ridiculously cheap.â

âShe would be open, perhaps, to an offer?â

âThatâs the idea, sir. Make an offer and set the ball rolling. But you can take it from me that there will be no difficulty in getting a price very near the figure named. Why, itâs ridiculous! To build a house like that nowadays would cost every penny of six thousand, let alone the land value and the valuable frontages.â

âMiss Arundell died very suddenly, didnât she?â

âOh, I wouldnât say that. Anno dominiâanno domini. She had passed her threescore and ten some time ago. And sheâd been ailing for a long time. The last of her familyâyou know something about the family, perhaps?â

âI know some people of the same name who have relations in this part of the world. I fancy it must be the same family.â

âVery likely. Four sisters there were. One married fairly late in life and the other three lived on here. Ladies of the old school. Miss Emily was the last of them. Very highly thought of in the town.â

He leant forward and handed Poirot the orders.

âYouâll drop in again and let me know what you think of it, eh? Of course, it may need a little modernizing here and there. Thatâs only to be expected. But I always say, âWhatâs a bathroom or two? Thatâs easily done.ââ

We took our leave and the last thing we heard was the vacant voice of Miss Jenkins saying:

âMrs. Samuels rang up, sir. Sheâd like you to ring herâHolland 5391.â

As far as I could remember that was neither the number Miss Jenkins had scribbled on her pad nor the number finally arrived at through the telephone.

I felt convinced that Miss Jenkins was having her revenge for having been forced to find the particulars of Littlegreen House.

Seven

LUNCH AT THE GEORGE

As we emerged into the market square, I remarked that Mr. Gabler lived up to his name! Poirot assented with a smile.

âHeâll be rather disappointed when you donât return,â I said. âI think he feels he has as good as sold you that house already.â

âIndeed, yes, I fear there is a deception in store for him.â

âI suppose we might as well have lunch here before returning to London, or shall we lunch at some more likely spot on our way back?â

âMy dear Hastings, I am not proposing to leave Market Basing so quickly. We have not yet accomplished that which we came to do.â

I stared.

âDo you meanâbut, my dear fellow, thatâs all a washout. The old lady is dead.â

âExactly.â

The tone of that one word made me stare at him harder than ever. It was evident that he had some bee in his bonnet over this incoherent letter.

âBut if sheâs dead, Poirot,â I said gently, âwhatâs the use? She canât tell you anything now. Whatever the trouble was, itâs over and finished with.â

âHow lightly and easily you put the matter aside! Let me tell you that no matter is finished with until Hercule Poirot ceases to concern himself with it!â

I should have known from experience that to argue with Poirot is quite useless. Unwarily I proceeded.

âBut since she is deadââ

âExactly, Hastings. Exactlyâexactlyâexactlyâ¦ You keep repeating the significant point with a magnificently obtuse disregard of its significance. Do you not see the importance of the point? Miss Arundell is dead.â

âBut my dear Poirot, her death was perfectly natural and ordinary! There wasnât anything odd or unexplained about it. We have old Gablerâs word for that.â

âWe have his word that Littlegreen House is a bargain at Â£2,850. Do you accept that as gospel also?â

âNo, indeed. It struck me that Gabler was all out to get the place soldâit probably needs modernizing from top to toe. Iâd swear heâor rather his clientâwill be willing to accept a very much lower figure than that. These large Georgian houses fronting right on the street must be the devil to get rid of.â

âEh bien, then,â said Poirot. âDo not say, âBut Gabler says so!â as though he were an inspired prophet who could not lie.â

I was about to protest further, but at this minute we passed the threshold of the George and with an emphatic âChut!â Poirot put a damper on further conversation.

We were directed to the coffee room, a room of fine proportions, tightly shut windows and an odour of stale food. An elderly waiter attended to us, a slow, heavy-breathing man. We appeared to be the only lunchers. We had some excellent mutton, large slabs of watery cabbage and some dispirited potatoes. Some rather tasteless stewed fruit and custard followed. After gorgonzola and biscuits the waiter brought us two cups of a doubtful fluid called coffee.

At this point Poirot produced his orders to view and invited the waiterâs aid.

âYes, sir. I know where most of these are. Hemel Down is three miles awayâon the Much Benham roadâquite a little place. Naylorâs Farm is about a mile away. Thereâs a kind of lane goes off to it not long after the Kingâs Head. Bisset Grange? No, Iâve never heard of that. Littlegreen House is just close by, not more than a few minutesâ walk.â

âAh, I think I have already seen it from the outside. That is the most possible one, I think. It is in good repairâyes?â

âOh, yes, sir. Itâs in good conditionâroof and drains and all that. Old-fashioned, of course. Itâs never been modernized in any way. The gardens are a picture. Very fond of her garden Miss Arundell was.â

âIt belongs, I see, to a Miss Lawson.â

âThatâs right, sir. Miss Lawson, she was Miss Arundellâs companion and when the old lady died everything was left to herâhouse and all.â

âIndeed? I suppose she had no relations to whom to leave it?â

âWell, it was not quite like that, sir. She had nieces and nephews living. But, of course, Miss Lawson was with her all the time. And, of course, she was an old lady andâwellâthatâs how it was.â

âIn any case I suppose there was just the house and not much money?â

I have often had occasion to notice how, where a direct question would fail to elicit a response, a false assumption brings instant information in the form of a contradiction.

âVery far from that, sir. Very far indeed. Everyone was surprised at the amount the old lady left. The will was in the paper and the amount and everything. It seems she hadnât lived up to her income for many a long year. Something like three or four hundred thousand pounds she left.â

âYou astonish me,â cried Poirot. âIt is like a fairy taleâeh? The poor companion suddenly becomes unbelievably wealthy. Is she still young, this Miss Lawson? Can she enjoy her newfound wealth?â

âOh, no, sir, sheâs a middle-aged person, sir.â

His enunciation of the word person was quite an artistic performance. It was clear that Miss Lawson, ex-companion, had cut no kind of a figure in Market Basing.

âIt must have been disappointing for the nephews and nieces,â mused Poirot.

âYes, sir, I believe it came as somewhat of a shock to them. Very unexpected. Thereâs been feeling over it here in Market Basing. There are those who hold it isnât right to leave things away from your own flesh and blood. But, of course, thereâs others as hold that everyoneâs got a right to do as they like with their own. Thereâs something to be said for both points of view, of course.â

âMiss Arundell had lived for many years here, had she not?â

âYes, sir. She and her sisters and old General Arundell, their father, before them. Not that I remember him, naturally, but I believe he was quite a character. Was in the Indian Mutiny.â

âThere were several daughters?â

âThree of them that I remember, and I believe there was one that married. Yes, Miss Matilda, Miss Agnes, and Miss Emily. Miss Matilda, she died first, and then Miss Agnes, and finally Miss Emily.â

âThat was quite recently?â

âBeginning of Mayâor it may have been the end of April.â

âHad she been ill some time?â

âOn and offâon and off. She was on the sickly side. Nearly went off a year ago with that there jaundice. Yellow as an orange she was for sometime after. Yes, sheâd had poor health for the last five years of her life.â

âI suppose you have some good doctors down here?â

âWell, thereâs Dr. Grainger. Been here close on forty years, he has, and folks mostly go to him. Heâs a bit crotchety and he has his fancies but heâs a good doctor, none better. Heâs got a young partner, Dr. Donaldson. Heâs more the newfangled kind. Some folk prefer him. Then, of course, thereâs Dr. Harding, but he doesnât do much.â

âDr. Grainger was Miss Arundellâs doctor, I suppose?â

âOh, yes. Heâs pulled her through many a bad turn. Heâs the kind that fair bullies you into living whether you want to or not.â

Poirot nodded.

âOne should learn a little about a place before one comes to settle in it,â he remarked. âA good doctor is one of the most important people.â

âThatâs very true, sir.â

Poirot then asked for his bill to which he added a substantial tip.

âThank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir. Iâm sure I hope youâll settle here, sir.â

âI hope so, too,â said Poirot mendaciously.

We set forth from the George.

âSatisfied yet, Poirot?â I asked as we emerged into the street.

âNot in the least, my friend.â

He turned in an unexpected direction.

âWhere are you off to now, Poirot?â

âThe church, my friend. It may be interesting. Some brassesâan old monument.â I shook my head doubtfully.

Poirotâs scrutiny of the interior of the church was brief. Though an attractive specimen of what the guidebook calls Early Perp., it had been so conscientiously restored in Victorian vandal days that little of interest remained.

Poirot next wandered seemingly aimlessly about the churchyard reading some of the epitaphs, commenting on the number of deaths in certain families, occasionally exclaiming over the quaintness of a name.

I was not surprised, however, when he finally halted before what I was pretty sure had been his objective from the beginning:

An imposing marble slab bore a partly effaced inscription:

SACRED

TO THE MEMORY OF

JOHN LAVERTON ARUNDELL

GENERAL 24TH SIKHS

WHO FELL ASLEEP IN CHRIST MAY 19TH 1888

AGED 69

âFIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT WITH ALL THY MIGHTâ

ALSO OF

MATILDA ANN ARUNDELL

DIED MARCH 10TH 1912

âI WILL ARISE AND GO TO MY FATHERâ

ALSO OF

AGNES GEORGINA MARY ARUNDELL

DIED NOVEMBER 20TH 1921

âASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVEâ

Then came a brand new piece of lettering, evidently just done:

ALSO OF

EMILY HARRIET LAVERTON ARUNDELL DIED MAY 1ST 1936

âTHY WILL BE DONEâ

Poirot stood looking for some time.

He murmured softly:

âMay 1stâ¦ May 1stâ¦ And today, June 28th, I receive her letter. You see, do you not, Hastings, that that fact has got to be explained?â

I saw that it had.

That is to say, I saw that Poirot was determined that it should be explained.

Eight

INTERIOR OF LITTLEGREEN HOUSE

On leaving the churchyard, Poirot led the way briskly in the direction of Littlegreen House. I gathered that his role was still that of the prospective purchaser. Carefully holding the various orders to view in his hand, with the Littlegreen House one uppermost, he pushed open the gate and walked up the path to the front door.

On this occasion our friend the terrier was not to be seen, but the sound of barking could be heard inside the house, though at some distanceâI guessed in the kitchen quarters.

Presently we heard footsteps crossing the hall and the door was opened by a pleasant-faced woman of between fifty and sixty, clearly the old-fashioned type of servant seldom seen nowadays.

Poirot presented his credentials.

âYes, sir, the house agent telephoned. Will you step this way, sir?â

The shutters which I had noticed were closed on our first visit to spy out the land, were now all thrown open in preparation for our visit. Everything, I observed, was spotlessly clean and well kept. Clearly our guide was a thoroughly conscientious woman.

âThis is the morning room, sir.â

I glanced round approvingly. A pleasant room with its long windows giving on the street. It was furnished with good, solid, old-fashioned furniture, mostly Victorian, but there was a Chippendale bookcase and a set of attractive Hepplewhite chairs.

Poirot and I behaved in the customary fashion of people being shown over houses. We stood stock-still, looking a little ill at ease, murmuring remarks such as âvery nice.â âA very pleasant room.â âThe morning room, you say?â

The maid conducted us across the hall and into the corresponding room on the other side. This was much larger.

âThe dining room, sir.â

This room was definitely Victorian. A heavy mahogany dining table, a massive sideboard of almost purplish mahogany with great clusters of carved fruit, solid leather-covered dining room chairs. On the wall hung what were obviously family portraits.

The terrier had continued to bark in some sequestered spot. Now the sound suddenly increased in volume. With a crescendo of barking he could be heard galloping across the hall.

âWhoâs come into the house? Iâll tear him limb from limb,â was clearly the âburden of his song.â

He arrived in the doorway, sniffing violently.

âOh, Bob, you naughty dog,â exclaimed our conductress. âDonât mind him, sir. He wonât do you no harm.â

Bob, indeed, having discovered the intruders, completely changed his manner. He fussed in and introduced himself to us in an agreeable manner.

âPleased to meet you, Iâm sure,â he observed as he sniffed round our ankles. âExcuse the noise, wonât you, but I have my job to do. Got to be careful who we let in, you know. But itâs a dull life and Iâm really quite pleased to see a visitor. Dogs of your own, I fancy?â

This last was addressed to me as I stooped and patted him.

âNice little fellow,â I said to the woman. âNeeds plucking a bit, though.â

âYes, sir, heâs usually plucked three times a year.â

âIs he an old dog?â

âOh, no, sir. Bobâs not more than six. And sometimes he behaves just like a puppy. Gets hold of cookâs slippers and prances about with them. And heâs very gentle though you wouldnât believe it to hear the noise he makes sometimes. The only person he goes for is the postman. Downright scared of him the postman is.â

Bob was now investigating the legs of Poirotâs trousers. Having learned all he could he gave vent to a prolonged sniff (âHâm, not too bad, but not really a doggy personâ) and returned to me cocking his head on one side and looking at me expectantly.

âI donât know why dogs always go for postmen, Iâm sure,â continued our guide.

âItâs a matter of reasoning,â said Poirot. âThe dog, he argues from reason. He is intelligent, he makes his deductions according to his point of view. There are people who may enter a house and there are people who may notâthat a dog soon learns. Eh bien, who is the person who most persistently tries to gain admission, rattling on the door twice or three times a dayâand who is never by any chance admitted? The postman. Clearly, then, an undesirable guest from the point of view of the master of the house. He is always sent about his business, but he persistently returns and tries again. Then a dogâs duty is clear, to aid in driving this undesirable man away, and to bite him if possible. A most reasonable proceeding.â

He beamed on Bob.

âAnd a most intelligent person, I fancy.â

âOh, he is, sir. Heâs almost human, Bob is.â

She flung open another door.

âThe drawing room, sir.â

The drawing room conjured up memories of the past. A faint fragrance of potpourri hung about it. The chintzes were worn, their pattern faded garlands of roses. On the walls were prints and water-colour drawings. There was a good deal of chinaâfragile shepherds and shepherdesses. There were cushions worked in crewel stitch. There were faded photographs in handsome silver frames. There were many inlaid workboxes and tea caddies. Most fascinating of all to me were two exquisitely cut tissue paper ladies under glass stands. One with a spinning wheel, one with a cat on her knee.

The atmosphere of a bygone day, a day of leisure, of refinement, of âladies and gentlemenâ closed round me. This was indeed a âwithdrawing room.â Here ladies sat and did their fancywork, and if a cigarette was ever smoked by a favoured member of the male sex, what a shaking out of curtains and general airing of the room there would be afterwards!

My attention was drawn by Bob. He was sitting in an attitude of rapt attention close beside an elegant little table with two drawers in it.

As he saw that I was noticing him, he gave a short, plaintive yelp, looking from me to the table.

âWhat does he want?â I asked.

Our interest in Bob was clearly pleasing to the maid, who obviously was very fond of him.

âItâs his ball, sir. It was always kept in that drawer. Thatâs why he sits there and asks.â

Her voice changed. She addressed Bob in a high falsetto.

âIt isnât there any longer, beautiful. Bobâs ball is in the kitchen. In the kitchen, Bobsie.â

Bob shifted his gaze impatiently to Poirot.

âThis womanâs a fool,â he seemed to be saying. âYou look a brainy sort of chap. Balls are kept in certain placesâthis drawer is one of those places. There always has been a ball here. Therefore there should be a ball there now. Thatâs obvious dog logic, isnât it?â

âItâs not there now, boy,â I said.

He looked at me doubtfully. Then, as we went out of the room he followed slowly in an unconvinced manner.

We were shown various cupboards, a downstairs cloakroom, and a small pantry place, âwhere the mistress used to do the flowers, sir.â

âYou were with your mistress a long time?â asked Poirot.

âTwenty-two years, sir.â

âYou are alone here caretaking?â

âMe and cook, sir.â

âShe was also a long time with Miss Arundell?â

âFour years, sir. The old cook died.â

âSupposing I were to buy the house, would you be prepared to stay on?â

She blushed a little.

âItâs very kind of you, sir, Iâm sure, but Iâm going to retire from service. The mistress left me a nice little sum, you see, and Iâm going to my brother. Iâm only remaining here as a convenience to Miss Lawson until the place is soldâto look after everything.â

Poirot nodded.

In the momentary silence a new sound was heard.

âBump, bump, BUMP.â

A monotonous sound increasing in volume and seeming to descend from above.

âItâs Bob, sir.â She was smiling. âHeâs got hold of his ball and heâs bumping it down the stairs. Itâs a little game of his.â

As we reached the bottom of the stairs a black rubber ball arrived with a thud on the last step. I caught it and looked up. Bob was lying on the top step, his paws splayed out, his tail gently wagging. I threw it up to him. He caught it neatly, chewed it for a minute or two with evident relish, then laid it between his paws and gently edged it forward with his nose till he finally bunted it over and it bumped once more down the stairs, Bob wagging his tail furiously as he watched its progress.

âHeâll stay like that for hours, sir. Regular game of his. Heâd go on all day at it. Thatâll do now, Bob. The gentlemen have got something else to do than play with you.â

A dog is a great promoter of friendly intercourse. Our interest and liking for Bob had quite broken down the natural stiffness of the good servant. As we went up to the bedroom floors, our guide was talking quite garrulously as she gave us accounts of Bobâs wonderful sagacity. The ball had been left at the foot of the stairs. As we passed him, Bob gave us a look of deep disgust and stalked down in a dignified fashion to retrieve it. As we turned to the right I saw him slowly coming up again with it in his mouth, his gait that of an extremely old man forced by unthinking persons to exert himself unduly.

As we went round the bedrooms, Poirot began gradually to draw our conductress out.

âThere were four Miss Arundells lived here, did they not?â he asked.

âOriginally, yes, sir, but that was before my time. There was only Miss Agnes and Miss Emily when I came and Miss Agnes died soon afterwards. She was the youngest of the family. It seemed odd she should go before her sister.â

âI suppose she was not so strong as her sister?â

âNo, sir, itâs odd that. My Miss Arundell, Miss Emily, she was always the delicate one. Sheâd had a lot to do with doctors all her life. Miss Agnes was always strong and robust and yet she went first and Miss Emily whoâd been delicate from a child outlived all the family. Very odd the way things happen.â

âAstonishing how often that is the case.â

Poirot plunged into (I feel sure) a wholly mendacious story of an invalid uncle which I will not trouble to repeat here. It suffices to say that it had its effect. Discussions of death and such matters do more to unlock the human tongue than any other subject. Poirot was in a position to ask questions that would have been regarded with suspicious hostility twenty minutes earlier.

âWas Miss Arundellâs illness a long and painful one?â

âNo, I wouldnât say that, sir. Sheâd been ailing, if you know what I mean, for a long timeâever since two winters before. Very bad she was thenâthis here jaundice. Yellow in the face they go and the whites of their eyesââ

âAh, yes, indeedââ (Anecdote of Poirotâs cousin who appeared to have been the Yellow Peril in person.)

âThatâs rightâjust as you say, sir. Terribly ill she was, poor dear. Couldnât keep anything down. If you ask me, Dr. Grainger hardly thought sheâd pull through. But heâd a wonderful way with herâbullying, you know. âMade up your mind to lie back and order your tombstone?â heâd say. And sheâd say, âIâve a bit of fight in me still, doctor,â and heâd say, âThatâs rightâthatâs what I like to hear.â A hospital nurse we had, and she made up her mind that it was all overâeven said to the doctor once that she supposed sheâd better not worry the old lady too much by forcing her to take foodâbut the doctor rounded on her. âNonsense,â he said, âWorry her? Youâve got to bully her into taking nourishment.â Valentineâs beef juice at such and such a time, Brandâs essenceâteaspoonfuls of brandy. And at the end he said something that Iâve never forgotten. âYouâre young, my girl,â he said to her, âyou donât realize what fine fighting material there is in age. Itâs young people who turn up their toes and die because theyâre not interested enough to live. You show me anyone whoâs lived to over seventy and you show me a fighterâsomeone whoâs got the will to live.â And itâs true, sirâweâre always saying how wonderful old people areâtheir vitality and the way theyâve kept their facultiesâbut as the doctor put it thatâs just why theyâve lived so long and got to be so old.â

âBut it is profound what you say thereâvery profound! And Miss Arundell was like that? Very alive. Very interested in life?â

âOh, yes, indeed, sir. Her health was poor, but her brain was as keen as anything. And as I was saying, she got over that illness of hersâsurprised the nurse, it did. A stuck-up young thing she was, all starched collars and cuffs and the waiting on she had to have and tea at all hours.â

âA fine recovery.â

âYes, indeed, sir. Of course, the mistress had to be very careful as to diet at first, everything boiled and steamed, no grease in the cooking, and she wasnât allowed to eat eggs either. Very monotonous it was for her.â

âStill the main thing is she got well.â

âYes, sir. Of course, she had her little turns. What Iâd call bilious attacks. She wasnât always very careful about her food after a timeâbut still they werenât very serious until the last attack.â

âWas it like her illness of two years before?â

âYes, just the same sort of thing, sir. That nasty jaundiceâan awful yellow colour againâand the terrible sickness and all the rest of it. Brought it on herself Iâm afraid she did, poor dear. Ate a lot of things she shouldnât have done. That very evening she was took bad sheâd had curry for supper and as you know, sir, curryâs rich and a bit oily.â

âHer illness came on suddenly, did it?â

âWell, it seemed so, sir, but Dr. Grainger he said it had been working up for some time. A chillâthe weather had been very changeableâand too rich feeding.â

âSurely her companionâMiss Lawson was her companion was she notâcould have dissuaded her from rich dishes?â

âOh, I donât think Miss Lawson would have much say. Miss Arundell wasnât one to take orders from anyone.â

âHad Miss Lawson been with her during her previous illness?â

âNo, she came after that. Sheâd been with her about a year.â

âI suppose sheâd had companions before that?â

âOh, quite a number, sir.â

âHer companions didnât stay as long as her servants,â said Poirot, smiling.

The woman flushed.

âWell, you see, sir, it was different. Miss Arundell didnât get out much and what with one thing and anotherââ she paused.

Poirot eyed her for a minute then he said:

âI understand a little the mentality of elderly ladies. They crave, do they not, for novelty. They get, perhaps, to the end of a person.â

âWell, now, thatâs very clever of you, sir. Youâve hit it exactly. When a new lady came Miss Arundell was always interested to start withâabout her life and her childhood and where sheâd been and what she thought about things, and then, when she knew all about her, well, sheâd getâwell, I suppose bored is the real word.â

âExactly. And between you and me, these ladies who go as companions, they are not usually very interestingâvery amusing, eh?â

âNo, indeed, sir. Theyâre poor-spirited creatures, most of them. Downright foolish, now and then. Miss Arundell soon got through with them, so to speak. And then sheâd make a change and have someone else.â

âShe must have been unusually attached to Miss Lawson, though.â

âOh, I donât think so, sir.â

âMiss Lawson was not in any way a remarkable woman?â

âI shouldnât have said so, sir. Quite an ordinary person.â

âYou liked her, yes?â

The woman shrugged her shoulders slightly.

âThere wasnât anything to like or dislike. Fussy she wasâa regular old maid and full of this nonsense about spirits.â

âSpirits?â Poirot looked alert.

âYes, sir, spirits. Sitting in the dark round a table and dead people came back and spoke to you. Downright irreligious I call itâas if we didnât know departed souls had their rightful place and arenât likely to leave it.â

âSo Miss Lawson was a spiritualist! Was Miss Arundell a believer too?â

âMiss Lawson would have liked her to be!â snapped the other. There was a spice of satisfied malice in her tone.

âBut she wasnât?â Poirot persisted.

âThe mistress had too much sense.â She snorted. âMind you, I donât say it didnât amuse her. âIâm willing to be convinced,â sheâd say. But sheâd often look at Miss Lawson as much as to say, âMy poor dear, what a fool you are to be so taken in!ââ

âI comprehend. She did not believe in it, but it was a source of amusement to her.â

âThatâs right, sir. I sometimes wondered if she didnâtâwell have a bit of quiet fun, so to speak, pushing the table and that sort of thing. And the others all as serious as death.â

âThe others?â

âMiss Lawson and the two Miss Tripps.â

âMiss Lawson was a very convinced spiritualist?â

âTook it all for gospel, sir.â

âAnd Miss Arundell was very attached to Miss Lawson, of course.â

It was the second time Poirot had made this certain remark and he got the same response.

âWell, hardly that, sir.â

âBut surely,â said Poirot. âIf she left her everything. She did, did she not?â

The change was immediate. The human being vanished. The correct maidservant returned. The woman drew herself up and said in a colourless voice that held reproof for familiarity in it:

âThe way the mistress left her money is hardly my business, sir.â

I felt that Poirot had bungled the job. Having got the woman in a friendly mood, he was now proceeding to throw away his advantage. He was wise enough to make no immediate attempt to recover lost ground. After a commonplace remark about the size and number of the bedrooms he went towards the head of the stairs.

Bob had disappeared, but as I came to the stairhead, I stumbled and nearly fell. Catching at the baluster to steady myself I looked down and saw that I had inadvertently placed my foot on Bobâs ball which he had left lying on the top of the stairs.

The woman apologized quickly.

âIâm sorry, sir. Itâs Bobâs fault. He leaves his ball there. And you canât see it against the dark carpet. Death of someone some day itâll be. The poor mistress had a nasty fall through it. Might easily have been the death of her.â

Poirot stopped suddenly on the stairs.

âShe had an accident you say?â

âYes, sir. Bob left his ball there, as he often did, and the mistress came out of her room and fell over it and went right down the stairs. Might have been killed.â

âWas she much hurt?â

âNot as much as youâd think. Very lucky she was, Dr. Grainger said. Cut her head a little, and strained her back, and of course there were bruises and it was a nasty shock. She was in bed for about a week, but it wasnât serious.â

âWas this long ago?â

âJust a week or two before she died.â

Poirot stooped to recover something he had dropped.

âPardonâmy fountain penâah, yes, there it is.â

He stood up again.

âHe is careless, this Master Bob,â he observed.

âAh well, he donât know no better, sir,â said the woman in an indulgent voice. âNearly human he may be, but you canât have everything. The mistress, you see, usednât to sleep well at night and often sheâd get up and wander downstairs and round and about the house.â

âShe did that often?â

âMost nights. But she wouldnât have Miss Lawson or anyone fussing after her.â

Poirot had turned into the drawing room again.

âA beautiful room this,â he observed. âI wonder, would there be space in this recess for my bookcase? What do you think, Hastings?â

Quite fogged I remarked cautiously that it would be difficult to say.

âYes, sizes are so deceptive. Take, I pray you, my little rule and measure the width of it and I will write it down.â

Obediently I took the folding rule that Poirot handed me and took various measurements under his direction whilst he wrote on the back of an envelope.

I was just wondering why he adopted such an untidy and uncharacteristic method instead of making a neat entry in his little pocketbook when he handed the envelope to me, saying:

âThat is right, is it not? Perhaps you had better verify it.â

There were no figures on the envelope. Instead was written: âWhen we go upstairs again, pretend to remember an appointment and ask if you can telephone. Let the woman come with you and delay her as long as you can.â

âThatâs all right,â I said, pocketing the envelope. âI should say both bookcases would go in perfectly.â

âIt is as well to be sure though. I think, if it is not too much trouble, I would like to look at the principal bedroom again. I am not quite sure of the wall space there.â

âCertainly, sir. Itâs no trouble.â

We went up again. Poirot measured a portion of wall, and was just commenting aloud on the respective possible positions of bed, wardrobe and writing table, when I looked at my watch, gave a somewhat exaggerated start and exclaimed:

âBy Jove, do you know itâs three oâclock already? What will Anderson think? I ought to telephone to him.â I turned to the woman. âI wonder if I might use your telephone if you have one.â

âWhy, certainly, sir. Itâs in the little room off the hall. Iâll show you.â

She bustled down with me, indicating the instrument, and then I got her to help me in finding a number in the telephone directory. In the end I made a callâto a Mr. Anderson in the neighbouring town of Harchester. Fortunately he was out and I was able to leave a message saying it was unimportant and that I would ring up later!

When I emerged Poirot had descended the staircase and was standing in the hall. His eyes had a slightly green tinge. I had no clue to his excitement but I realized that he was excited.

Poirot said:

âThat fall from the top of the stairs must have given your mistress a great shock. Did she seem perturbed about Bob and his ball after it?â

âItâs funny your saying that, sir. It worried her a lot. Why, just as she was dying, she was delirious and she rambled on a lot about Bob and his ball and something about a picture that was ajar.â

âA picture that was ajar,â said Poirot thoughtfully.

âOf course, it didnât make sense, sir, but she was rambling, you see.â

âOne momentâI must just go into the drawing room once more.â

He wandered round the room examining the ornaments. In especial, one big jar with a lid on it seemed to attract him. It was not, I fancy, a particularly good bit of china. A piece of Victorian humourâit had on it a rather crude picture of a bulldog sitting outside a front door with a mournful expression on its face. Below was written: Out all night and no key.

Poirot, whose taste I have always been convinced, is hopelessly Bourgeois, seemed lost in admiration.

âOut all night and no key,â he murmured. âIt is amusing, that! Is that true of our Master Bob? Does he sometimes stay out all night?â

âVery occasional, sir. Oh, very occasional. Heâs a very good dog, Bob is.â

âI am sure he is. But even the best of dogsââ

âOh, itâs quite true, sir. Once or twice heâs gone off and come home perhaps at four in the morning. Then he sits down on the step and barks till heâs let in.â

âWho lets him inâMiss Lawson?â

âWell, anyone who hears him, sir. It was Miss Lawson, sir, last time. It was the night of the mistressâs accident. And Bob came home about five. Miss Lawson hurried down to let him in before he could make a noise. She was afraid of waking up the mistress and hadnât told her Bob was missing for fear of worrying her.â

âI see. She thought it was better Miss Arundell shouldnât be told?â

âThatâs what she said, sir. She said, âHeâs sure to come back. He always does, but she might worry and that would never do.â So we didnât say anything.â

âWas Bob fond of Miss Lawson?â

âWell, he was rather contemptuous of her if you know what I mean, sir. Dogs can be. She was kind to him. Called him a good doggie and a nice doggie, but he used to look at her kind of scornful like and he didnât pay any attention at all to what she told him to do.â

Poirot nodded. âI see,â he said.

Suddenly he did something which startled me.

He pulled a letter from his pocketâthe letter he had received this morning.

âEllen,â he said, âdo you know anything about this?â

The change that came over Ellenâs face was remarkable.

Her jaw dropped and she stared at Poirot with an almost comical expression of bewilderment.

âWell,â she ejaculated. âI never did!â

The observation lacked coherency, perhaps, but it left no doubt of Ellenâs meaning.

Gathering her wits about her she said slowly:

âAre you the gentleman that letter was written to then?â

âI am. I am Hercule Poirot.â

Like most people, Ellen had not glanced at the name on the order Poirot had held out to her on his arrival. She nodded her head slowly.

âThat was it,â she said. âHercules Poirot.â She added an S to the Christian name and sounded the T of the surname.

âMy word!â she exclaimed. âCook will be surprised.â

Poirot said, quickly:

âWould it not be advisable, perhaps, for us to go to the kitchen and there in company with your friend, we could talk this matter over?â

âWellâif you donât mind, sir.â

Ellen sounded just a little doubtful. This particular social dilemma was clearly new to her. But Poirotâs matter-of-fact manner reassured her and we departed forthwith to the kitchen, Ellen elucidating the situation to a large, pleasant-faced woman who was just lifting a kettle from a gas ring.

âYouâll never believe it, Annie. This is actually the gentleman that letter was to. You know, the one I found in the blotter.â

âYou must remember I am in the dark,â said Poirot. âPerhaps you will tell me how the letter came to be posted so late in the day?â

âWell, sir, to tell the truth I didnât know what to do. Neither of us did, did we?â

âIndeed, we didnât,â the cook confirmed.

âYou see, sir, when Miss Lawson was turning out things after the mistressâs death a good lot of things were given away or thrown away. Among them was a little papier-mÃ¢chÃ©, I think they call it, blotter. Very pretty it was, with a lily of the valley on it. The mistress always used it when she wrote in bed. Well, Miss Lawson didnât want it so she gave it to me along with a lot of other little odds and ends that had belonged to the mistress. I put it away in a drawer, and it wasnât till yesterday that I took it out. I was going to put some new blotting paper in it so that it was ready for me to use. There was a sort of pocket inside and I just slipped my hand in it when what should I find but a letter in the mistressâs handwriting, tucked away.

âWell, as I say I didnât know rightly what to do about it. It was the mistressâs hand all right, and I saw as sheâd written it and slipped it in there waiting to post it the next day and then sheâd forgot, which is the kind of thing she did many a time, poor dear. Once it was a dividend warrant to her bank and no one could think where it had got to, and at last it was found pushed right back in the pigeonholes of the desk.â

âWas she untidy?â

âOh, no, sir, just the opposite. She was always putting things away and clearing them up. That was half the trouble. If sheâd left things about it would really have been better. It was their being tidied away and then forgotten that was always happening.â

âThings like Bobâs ball, for instance?â asked Poirot with a smile.

The sagacious terrier had just trotted in from outdoors and greeted us anew in a very friendly manner.

âYes, indeed, sir. As soon as Bob finished playing with his ball sheâd put it away. But that was all right because it had its own placeâin the drawer I showed you.â

âI see. But I interrupted you. Pray go on. You discovered the letter in the blotter?â

âYes, sir, that was the way of it, and I asked Annie what she thought Iâd better do. I didnât like to put it in the fireâand of course, I couldnât take upon myself to open it, and neither Annie nor I could see that it was any business of Miss Lawsonâs so after weâd talked it over a bit, I just put a stamp on it and ran out to the postbox and posted it.â

Poirot turned slightly to me.

âVoilÃ ,â he murmured.

I could not help saying, maliciously:

âAmazing how simple an explanation can be!â

I thought he looked a little crestfallen, and rather wished I hadnât been so quick to try and rub it in.

He turned again to Ellen.

âAs my friend says: How simple an explanation can be! You understand, when I received a letter dated over two months ago, I was somewhat surprised.â

âYes, I suppose you must have been, sir. We didnât think of that.â

âAlsoââ Poirot coughed. âI am in a little dilemma. That letter, you seeâit was a commission with which Miss Arundell wished to entrust me. A matter of a somewhat private character.â He cleared his throat importantly. âNow that Miss Arundell is dead I am in some doubt how to act. Would Miss Arundell have wished me to undertake the commission in these circumstances or not? It is difficultâvery difficult.â

Both women were looking at him respectfully.

âI shall have, I think, to consult Miss Arundellâs lawyer. She had a lawyer, did she not?â

Ellen answered, quickly.

âOh, yes, sir. Mr. Purvis from Harchester.â

âHe knew all her affairs?â

âI think so, sir. Heâs done everything for her ever since I can remember. It was him she sent for after the fall she had.â

âThe fall down the stairs?â

âYes, sir.â

âNow let me see when was that exactly?â

The cook broke in.

âDay after Bank Holiday it was. I remember that well. I stayed in to oblige on Bank Holiday seeing she had all those people staying and I had the day on Wednesday instead.â

Poirot whipped out his pocket almanac.

âPreciselyâprecisely. Easter Bank Holiday, I see, fell on the thirteenth this year. Then Miss Arundell had her accident on the fourteenth. This letter to me was written three days later. A pity it was never sent. However, it may still not be too lateââ he paused. âI rather fancy that theâerâcommission she wished me to perform was connected with one of theâerâguests you mentioned just now.â

This remark, which could only have been a pure shot in the dark, met with immediate response. A quick look of intelligence passed across Ellenâs face. She turned to the cook who gave her back an answering glance.

âThatâll be Mr. Charles,â she said.

âIf you would tell me just who was thereââ Poirot suggested.

âDr. Tanios and his wife, Miss Bella that was, and Miss Theresa and Mr. Charles.â

âThey were all nephews and nieces?â

âThatâs right, sir. Dr. Tanios, of course, is no relation. In fact heâs a foreigner, a Greek or something of the sort, I believe. He married Miss Bella, Miss Arundellâs niece, her sisterâs child. Mr. Charles and Miss Theresa are brother and sister.â

âAh, yes, I see. A family party. And when did they leave?â

âOn the Wednesday morning, sir. And Dr. Tanios and Miss Bella came down again the next weekend because they were worried about Miss Arundell.â

âAnd Mr. Charles and Miss Theresa?â

âThey came the weekend after. The weekend before she died.â

Poirotâs curiosity, I felt, was quite insatiable. I could see no point in these continued questions. He got the explanation of his mystery, and in my opinion the sooner he retired with dignity the better.

The thought seemed to go from my brain to his.

âEh bien,â he said. âThis information you have given me is very helpful. I must consult this Mr. Purvis, I think you said? Thank you very much for all your help.â

He stooped and patted Bob.

âBrave chien, va! You loved your mistress.â

Bob responded amiably to these overtures and, hopeful of a little play, went and fetched a large piece of coal. For this he was reproved and the coal removed from him. He sent me a glance in search of sympathy.

âThese women,â he seemed to say. âGenerous with the food, but not really sportsmen!â

Nine

RECONSTRUCTION OF THE DOGâS BALL INCIDENT

âWell, Poirot,â I said, as the gate of Littlegreen House closed behind us. âYou are satisfied now, I hope!â

âYes, my friend. I am satisfied.â

âThank heavens for that! All the mysteries explained! The Wicked Companion and the Rich Old Lady myth exploded. The delayed letter and even the famous incident of the dogâs ball shown in their true colours. Everything settled satisfactorily and according to Cocker!â

Poirot gave a dry little cough and said:

âI would not use the word satisfactorily, Hastings.â

âYou did a minute ago.â

âNo, no. I did not say the matter was satisfactory. I said that, personally, my curiosity was satisfied. I know the truth of the Dogâs Ball incident.â

âAnd very simple it was too!â

âNot quite so simple as you think.â He nodded his head several times. Then he went on: âYou see, I know one little thing which you do not.â

âAnd what is that?â I asked somewhat sceptically.

âI know that there is a nail driven into the skirting board at the top of the stairs.â

I stared at him. His face was quite grave.

âWell,â I said after a minute or two. âWhy shouldnât there be?â

âThe question is, Hastings, why should there be.â

âHow do I know. Some household reason, perhaps. Does it matter?â

âCertainly it matters. And I think of no household reason for a nail to be driven in at the top of the skirting board in that particular place. It was carefully varnished, too, so as not to show.â

âWhat are you driving at, Poirot? Do you know the reason?â

âI can imagine it quite easily. If you wanted to stretch a piece of strong thread or wire across the top of the stairs about a foot from the ground, you could tie it on one side to the balusters, but on the inner wall side you would need something like a nail to attach the thread to.â

âPoirot!â I cried. âWhat on earth are you driving at?â

âMon cher ami, I am reconstructing the incident of the Dogâs Ball! Would you like to hear my reconstruction?â

âGo ahead.â

âEh bien, here it is. Someone had noticed the habit Bob had of leaving his ball at the top of the stairs. A dangerous thing to doâit might lead to an accident.â Poirot paused a minute, then said in a slightly different tone. âIf you wished to kill someone, Hastings, how would you set about it?â

âIâwell reallyâI donât know. Fake up some alibi or something, I suppose.â

âA proceeding, I assure you, both difficult and dangerous. But then you are not the type of a cold-blooded cautious murderer. Does it not strike you that the easiest way of removing someone you want to remove from your path is to take advantage of accident? Accidents are happening all the time. And sometimesâHastingsâthey can be helped to happen!â

He paused a minute then went on:

âI think the dogâs ball left so fortuitously at the top of the stairs gave our murderer an idea. Miss Arundell was in the habit of coming out of her room in the night and wandering aboutâher eyesight was not good, it was quite within the bounds of probability that she might stumble over it and fall headlong down those stairs. But a careful murderer does not leave things to chance. A thread stretched across the top of the stairs would be a much better way. It would send her pitching head foremost. Then, when the household come rushing outâthere, plain to see, is the cause of the accidentâBobâs ball!â

âHow horrible!â I cried.

Poirot said, gravely:

âYes, it was horribleâ¦ It was also unsuccessfulâ¦ Miss Arundell was very little hurt though she might easily have broken her neck. Very disappointing for our unknown friend! But Miss Arundell was a sharp-witted old lady. Everyone told her she had slipped on the ball, and there the ball was in evidence, but she herself recalling the happening felt that the accident had arisen differently. She had not slipped on the ball. And in addition she remembered something else. She remembered hearing Bob barking for admission at five oâclock the next morning.

âThis, I admit, is something in the way of guesswork but I believe I am right. Miss Arundell had put away Bobâs ball herself the evening before in its drawer. After that he went out and did not return. In that case it was not Bob who put that ball on the top of the stairs.â

âThat is pure guesswork, Poirot,â I objected.

He demurred.

âNot quite, my friend. There are the significant words uttered by Miss Arundell when she was deliriousâsomething about Bobâs ball and a âpicture ajar.â You see the point, do you not?â

âNot in the least.â

âCurious. I know your language well enough to realize that one does not talk of a picture being ajar. A door is ajar. A picture is awry.â

âOr simply crooked.â

âOr simply crooked, as you say. So I realized at once that Ellen has mistaken the meaning of the words she heard. It is not ajarâbut a or the jar that was meant. Now in the drawing room there is a rather noticeable china jar. There, I have already observed a picture of a dog on it. With the remembrance of these delirious ravings in my mind I go up and examine it more closely. I find that it deals with the subject of a dog who has been out all night. You see the trend of the feverish womanâs thoughts? Bob was like the dog in the picture on the jarâout all nightâso it was not he who left the ball on the stairs.â

I cried out, feeling some admiration in spite of myself.

âYouâre an ingenious devil, Poirot! How you think of these things beats me!â

âI do not âthink of them.â They are thereâplainâfor anyone to see. Eh bien, you realize the position? Miss Arundell, lying in bed after her fall, becomes suspicious. That suspicion she feels is perhaps fanciful and absurd but there it is. âSince the incident of the dogâs ball I have been increasingly uneasy.â And soâand so she writes to me, and by a piece of bad luck her letter does not reach me until over two months have gone by. Tell me, does her letter not fit in perfectly with these facts?â

âYes,â I admitted. âIt does.â

Poirot went on:

âThere is another point worthy of consideration. Miss Lawson was exceedingly anxious that the fact of Bobâs being out all night should not get to Miss Arundellâs ears.â

âYou think that sheââ

âI think that the fact should be noted very carefully.â

I turned the thing over in my mind for a minute or two.

âWell,â I said at last with a sigh. âItâs all very interestingâas a mental exercise that is. And I take off my hat to you. Itâs been a masterful piece of reconstruction. Itâs almost a pity really that the old lady has died.â

âA pityâyes. She wrote to me that someone had attempted to murder her (that is what it amounts to, after all) and a very short time after, she was dead.â

âYes,â I said. âAnd itâs a grand disappointment to you that she died a natural death, isnât it? Come, admit it.â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âOr perhaps you think she was poisoned,â I said maliciously. Poirot shook his head somewhat despondently.

âIt certainly seems,â he admitted, âas though Miss Arundell died from natural causes.â

âAnd therefore,â I said, âwe return to London with our tail between our legs.â

âPardon, my friend, but we do not return to London.â

âWhat do you mean, Poirot,â I cried.

âIf you show the dog the rabbit, my friend, does he return to London? No, he goes into the rabbit hole.â

âWhat do you mean?â

âThe dog hunts rabbits. Hercule Poirot hunts murderers. We have here a murdererâa murderer whose crime failed, yes, perhaps, but nevertheless a murderer. And I, my friend, am going into the burrow after himâor her as the case may be.â

He turned sharply in at the gate.

âWhere are you off to, Poirot?â

âInto the burrow, my friend. This is the house of Dr. Grainger who attended Miss Arundell in her last illness.â

Dr. Grainger was a man of sixty odd. His face was thin and bony with an aggressive chin, bushy eyebrows, and a pair of very shrewd eyes. He looked keenly from me to Poirot.

âWell, what can I do for you?â he asked abruptly.

Poirot swept into speech in the most flamboyant manner.

âI must apologize, Dr. Grainger, for this intrusion. I must confess straightaway that I do not come to consult you professionally.â

Dr. Grainger said drily:

âGlad to hear it. You look healthy enough!â

âI must explain the purpose of my visit,â went on Poirot. âThe truth of the matter is that I am writing a bookâthe life of the late General Arundell who I understand lived in Market Basing for some years before his death.â

The doctor looked rather surprised.

âYes, General Arundell lived here till his death. At Littlegreen Houseâjust up the road past the Bankâyouâve been there, perhaps?â Poirot nodded assent. âBut you understand that was a good bit before my time. I came here in 1919.â

âYou knew his daughter, however, the late Miss Arundell?â

âI knew Emily Arundell well.â

âYou comprehend, it has been a severe blow to me to find that Miss Arundell has recently died.â

âEnd of April.â

âSo I discovered. I counted, you see, on her giving me various personal details and reminiscences of her father.â

âQuiteâquite. But I donât see what I can do about it.â

Poirot asked:

âGeneral Arundell has no other sons or daughters living?â

âNo. All dead, the lot of them.â

âHow many were there?â

âFive. Four daughters, one son.â

âAnd in the next generation?â

âCharles Arundell and his sister Theresa. You could get onto them. I doubt, though, if it would be much use to you. The younger generation doesnât take much interest in its grandfathers. And thereâs a Mrs. Tanios, but I doubt if youâd get much there either.â

âThey might have family papersâdocuments?â

âThey might have. Doubt it, though. A lot of stuff was cleared out and burnt after Miss Emilyâs death, I know.â

Poirot uttered a groan of anguish.

Grainger looked at him curiously.

âWhatâs the interest in old Arundell? I never heard he was a big pot in any way?â

âMy dear sir.â Poirotâs eyes gleamed with the excitement of the fanatic. âIs there not a saying that History knows nothing of its greatest men? Recently certain papers have come to light which throw an entirely different light on the whole subject of the Indian Mutiny. There is secret history there. And in that secret history John Arundell played a big part. The whole thing is fascinatingâfascinating! And let me tell you, my dear sir, it is of especial interest at the present time. Indiaâthe English policy in regard to itâis the burning question of the hour.â

âHâm,â said the doctor. âI have heard that old General Arundell used to hold forth a good deal on the subject of the Mutiny. As a matter of fact, he was considered a prize bore on the subject.â

âWho told you that?â

âA Miss Peabody. You might call on her, by the way. Sheâs our oldest inhabitantâknew the Arundells intimately. And gossip is her chief recreation. Sheâs worth seeing for her own sakeâa character.â

âThank you. That is an excellent idea. Perhaps, too, you would give me the address of young Mr. Arundell, the grandson of the late General Arundell.â

âCharles? Yes, I can put you onto him. But heâs an irreverent young devil. Family history means nothing to him.â

âHe is quite young?â

âHeâs what an old fogy like me calls young,â said the doctor with a twinkle. âEarly thirties. The kind of young man thatâs born to be a trouble and responsibility to their families. Charm of personality and nothing else. Heâs been shipped about all over the world and done no good anywhere.â

âHis aunt was doubtless fond of him?â ventured Poirot. âIt is often that way.â

âHâmâI donât know. Emily Arundell was no fool. As far as I know he never succeeded in getting any money out of her. Bit of a tartar that old lady. I liked her. Respected her too. An old soldier every inch of her.â

âWas her death sudden?â

âYes, in a way. Mind you, sheâd been in poor health for some years. But sheâd pulled through some narrow squeaks.â

âThere was some storyâI apologize for repeating gossipââ Poirot spread out his hands deprecatinglyââthat she had quarrelled with her family?â

âShe didnât exactly quarrel with them,â said Dr. Grainger slowly. âNo, there was no open quarrel as far as I know.â

âI beg your pardon. I am, perhaps, being indiscreet.â

âNo, no. After all, the informationâs public property.â

âShe left her money away from her family, I understand?â

âYes, left it all to a frightened, fluttering hen of a companion. Odd thing to do. Canât understand it myself. Not like her.â

âAh, well,â said Poirot thoughtfully. âOne can imagine such a thing happening. An old lady, frail and in ill health. Very dependent on the person who attends and cares for her. A clever woman with a certain amount of personality could gain a great ascendency that way.â

The word ascendency seemed to act like a red rag to a bull.

Dr. Grainger snorted out:

âAscendency? Ascendency? Nothing of the kind! Emily Arundell treated Minnie Lawson worse than a dog. Characteristic of that generation! Anyway, women who earn their living as companions are usually fools. If theyâve got brains theyâre earning a better living some other way. Emily Arundell didnât suffer fools gladly. She usually wore out one poor devil a year. Ascendency? Nothing of the sort!â

Poirot hastened off the treacherous ground.

âIt is possible, perhaps,â he suggested, âthat there are old family letters and documents in this MissâerâLawsonâs possession?â

âMight be,â agreed Grainger. âUsually are a lot of things tucked away in an old maidâs house. I donât suppose Miss Lawsonâs been through half of it yet.â

Poirot rose.

âThank you very much, Dr. Grainger. You have been most kind.â

âDonât thank me,â said the doctor. âSorry I canât do anything helpful. Miss Peabodyâs your best chance. Lives at Morton Manorâabout a mile out.â

Poirot was sniffing at a large bouquet of roses on the doctorâs table.

âDelicious,â he murmured.

âYes, I suppose so. Canât smell âem myself. Lost my sense of smell when I had flu four years ago. Nice admission for a doctor, eh? âPhysician, heal thyself.â Damned nuisance. Canât enjoy a smoke as I used to.â

âUnfortunate, yes. By the way, you will give me young Arundellâs address?â

âI can get it for you, yes.â He ushered us out into the hall and called: âDonaldson.â

âMy partner,â he explained. âHe should have it all right. Heâs by way of being engaged to Charlesâs sister, Theresa.â

He called again: âDonaldson.â

A young man came out from a room at the back of the house. He was of medium height and of rather colourless appearance. His manner was precise. A greater contrast to Dr. Grainger could not be imagined.

The latter explained what he wanted.

Dr. Donaldsonâs eyes, very pale blue eyes slightly prominent, swept over us appraisingly. When he spoke it was in a dry, precise manner.

âI donât know exactly where Charles is to be found,â he said. âI can give you Miss Theresa Arundellâs address. Doubtless she will be able to put you in touch with her brother.â

Poirot assured him that that would do perfectly.

The doctor wrote down an address on a page of his notebook, tore it out and handed it to Poirot. Poirot thanked him and said good-bye to both doctors. As we went out of the door I was conscious of Dr. Donaldson standing in the hall peering after us with a slightly startled look on his face.

Ten

VISIT TO MISS PEABODY

âIs it really necessary to tell such elaborate lies, Poirot?â I asked as we walked away.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âIf one is going to tell a lie at allâand I notice, by the way, that your nature is very much averse to lyingânow, me, it does not trouble at allââ

âSo Iâve noticed,â I interjected.

ââAs I was remarking, if one is going to tell a lie at all, it might as well be an artistic lie, a romantic lie, a convincing lie!â

âDo you consider this a convincing lie? Do you think Dr. Donaldson was convinced?â

âThat young man is of a sceptical nature,â admitted Poirot, thoughtfully.

âHe looked definitely suspicious to me.â

âI do not see why he should be so. Imbeciles are writing the lives of other imbeciles every day. It is as you say, done.â

âFirst time Iâve heard you call yourself an imbecile,â I said, grinning.

âI can adopt a rÃ´le, I hope, as well as anyone,â said Poirot coldly. âI am sorry you do not think my little fiction well imagined. I was rather pleased with it myself.â

I changed the subject.

âWhat do we do next?â

âThat is easy. We get into your car and pay a visit to Morton Manor.â

Morton Manor proved to be an ugly substantial house of the Victorian period. A decrepit butler received us somewhat doubtfully and presently returned to ask if âwe had an appointment.â

âPlease tell Miss Peabody that we come from Dr. Grainger,â said Poirot.

After a wait of a few minutes the door opened and a short fat woman waddled into the room. Her sparse, white hair was neatly parted in the middle. She wore a black velvet dress, the nap of which was completely rubbed off in various places, and some really beautiful fine point lace was fastened at her neck with a large cameo brooch.

She came across the room peering at us shortsightedly. Her first words were somewhat of a surprise.

âGot anything to sell?â

âNothing, madame,â said Poirot.

âSure?â

âBut absolutely.â

âNo vacuum cleaners?â

âNo.â

âNo stockings?â

âNo.â

âNo rugs?â

âNo.â

âOh, well,â said Miss Peabody, settling herself in a chair. âI suppose itâs all right. Youâd better sit down then.â

We sat obediently.

âYouâll excuse my asking,â said Miss Peabody with a trace of apology in her manner. âGot to be careful. You wouldnât believe the people who come along. Servants are no good. They canât tell. Canât blame âem either. Right voices, right clothes, right names. How are they to tell? Commander Ridgeway, Mr. Scot Edgerton, Captain dâArcy Fitzherbert. Nice-looking fellows, some of âem. But before you know where you are theyâve shoved a cream-making machine under your nose.â

Poirot said earnestly:

âI assure you, madame, that we have nothing whatever of that kind.â

âWell, you should know,â said Miss Peabody.

Poirot plunged into his story. Miss Peabody heard him out without comment, blinking once or twice out of her small eyes. At the end she said:

âGoinâ to write a book, eh?â

âYes.â

âIn English?â

âCertainlyâin English.â

âBut youâre a foreigner. Eh? Come now, youâre a foreigner, arenât you?â

âThat is true.â

She transferred her gaze to me.

âYou are his secretary, I suppose?â

âErâyes,â I said doubtfully.

âCan you write decent English?â

âI hope so.â

âHâmâwhere did you go to school?â

âEton.â

âThen you canât.â

I was forced to let this sweeping charge against an old and venerable centre of education pass unchallenged as Miss Peabody turned her attention once more to Poirot.

âGoinâ to write a life of General Arundell, eh?â

âYes. You knew him, I think.â

âYes, I knew John Arundell. He drank.â

There was a momentary pause. Then Miss Peabody went on musingly:

âIndian Mutiny, eh? Seems a bit like flogging a dead horse to me. But thatâs your business.â

âYou know, madame, there is a fashion in these things. At the moment India is the mode.â

âSomething in that. Things do come round. Look at sleeves.â

We maintained a respectful silence.

âLeg oâ muttons were always ugly,â said Miss Peabody. âBut I always looked well in Bishops.â She fixed a bright eye on Poirot. âNow then, what do you want to know?â

Poirot spread out his hands.

âAnything! Family history. Gossip. Home life.â

âCanât tell you anything about India,â said Miss Peabody. âTruth is, I didnât listen. Rather boring these old men and their anecdotes. He was a very stupid manâbut I daresay none the worse General for that. Iâve always heard that intelligence didnât get you far in the army. Pay attention to your Colonelâs wife and listen respectfully to your superior officers and youâll get onâthatâs what my father used to say.â

Treating this dictum respectfully, Poirot allowed a moment or two to elapse before he said:

âYou knew the Arundell family intimately, did you not?â

âKnew âem all,â said Miss Peabody. âMatilda, she was the eldest. A spotty girl. Used to teach in Sunday School. Was sweet on one of the curates. Then there was Emily. Good seat on a horse, she had. She was the only one who could do anything with her father when he had one of his bouts on. Cartloads of bottles used to be taken out of that house. Buried them at night, they did. Then, let me see, who came next, Arabella or Thomas? Thomas, I think. Always felt sorry for Thomas. One man and four women. Makes a man look a fool. He was a bit of an old woman himself, Thomas was. Nobody thought heâd ever marry. Bit of a shock when he did.â

She chuckledâa rich Victorian fruity chuckle.

It was clear that Miss Peabody was enjoying herself. As an audience we were almost forgotten. Miss Peabody was well away in the past.

âThen came Arabella. Plain girl. Face like a scone. She married all right though, even if she were the plainest of the family. Professor at Cambridge. Quite an old man. Must have been sixty if he was a day. He gave a series of lectures hereâon the wonders of Modern Chemistry I think it was. I went to âem. He mumbled, I remember. Had a beard. Couldnât hear much of what he said. Arabella used to stay behind and ask questions. She wasnât a chicken herself. Must have been getting on for forty. Ah well, theyâre both dead now. Quite a happy marriage it was. Thereâs something to be said for marrying a plain womanâyou know the worst at once and sheâs not so likely to be flighty. Then there was Agnes. She was the youngestâthe pretty one. Rather gay we used to think her. Almost fast! Odd, youâd think if any of them had married it would have been Agnes, but she didnât. She died not long after the war.â

Poirot murmured:

âYou said that Mr. Thomasâs marriage was rather unexpected.â

Again Miss Peabody produced that rich, throaty chuckle.

âUnexpected? I should say it was! Made a nine daysâ scandal. Youâd never have thought it of himâsuch a quiet, timid, retiring man and devoted to his sisters.â

She paused a minute.

âRemember a case that made rather a stir in the late nineties? Mrs. Varley? Supposed to have poisoned her husband with arsenic. Good-looking woman. Made a big do, that case. She was acquitted. Well, Thomas Arundell quite lost his head. Used to get all the papers and read about the case and cut out the photographs of Mrs. Varley. And would you believe it, when the trial was over, off he went to London and asked her to marry him? Thomas! Quiet, stay at home Thomas! Never can tell with men, can you? Theyâre always liable to break out.â

âAnd what happened?â

âOh, she married him all right.â

âIt was a great shock to his sisters?â

âI should think so! They wouldnât receive her. I donât know that I blame them, all things considered. Thomas was mortally offended. He went off to live in the Channel Islands and nobody heard anymore of him. Donât know whether his wife poisoned her first husband. She didnât poison Thomas. He survived her by three years. There were two children, boy and girl. Good-looking pairâtook after their mother.â

âI suppose they came here to their aunt a good deal?â

âNot till after their parents died. They were at school and almost grown up by then. They used to come for holidays. Emily was alone in the world then and they and Bella Biggs were the only kith and kin she had.â

âBiggs?â

âArabellaâs daughter. Dull girlâsome years older than Theresa. Made a fool of herself though. Married some Dago who was over at the University. A Greek doctor. Dreadful-looking manâgot rather a charming manner, though, I must admit. Well, I donât suppose poor Bella had many chances. Spent her time helping her father or holding wool for her mother. This fellow was exotic. It appealed to her.â

âHas it been a happy marriage?â

Miss Peabody snapped out:

âI wouldnât like to say for certain about any marriage! They seem quite happy. Two rather yellow-looking children. They live in Smyrna.â

âBut they are now in England, are they not?â

âYes, they came over in March. I rather fancy theyâll be going back soon.â

âWas Miss Emily Arundell fond of her niece?â

âFond of Bella? Oh, quite. Sheâs a dull womanâwrapped up in her children and that sort of thing.â

âDid she approve of the husband?â

Miss Peabody chuckled.

âShe didnât approve of him, but I think she rather liked the rascal. Heâs got brains, you know. If you ask me, he was jockeying her along very nicely. Got a nose for money that man.â

Poirot coughed.

âI understand Miss Arundell died a rich woman?â he murmured.

Miss Peabody settled herself more comfortably in her chair.

âYes, thatâs what made all the pother! Nobody dreamed she was quite as well off as she was. How it came about was this way. Old General Arundell left quite a nice little incomeâdivided equally among his son and daughters. Some of it was reinvested, and I think every investment has done well. There were some original shares of Mortauld. Now, of course, Thomas and Arabella took their shares with them when they married. The other three sisters lived here, and they didnât spend a tenth part of their joint income, it all went back and was reinvested. When Matilda died, she left her money to be divided between Emily and Agnes, and when Agnes died she left hers to Emily. And Emily still went on spending very little. Result, she died a rich womanâand the Lawson woman gets it all!â

Miss Peabody brought out the last sentence as a kind of triumphal climax.

âDid that come as a surprise to you, Miss Peabody?â

âTo tell you the truth, it did! Emily had always given out quite openly that at her death her money was to be divided between her nieces and her nephew. And as a matter of fact that was the way it was in the original will. Legacies to the servants and so on and then to be divided between Theresa, Charles and Bella. My goodness, there was a to-do when, after her death, it was found sheâd made a new will leaving it all to poor Miss Lawson!â

âWas the will made just before her death?â

Miss Peabody directed a sharp glance at him.

âThinking of undue influence. No, Iâm afraid thatâs no use. And I shouldnât think poor Lawson had the brains or the nerve to attempt anything of the sort. To tell you the truth, she seemed as much surprised as anybodyâor said she was!â

Poirot smiled at the addition.

âThe will was made about ten days before her death,â went on Miss Peabody. âLawyer says itâs all right. Wellâit may be.â

âYou meanââ Poirot leaned forward.

âHanky-panky, thatâs what I say,â said Miss Peabody. âSomething fishy somewhere.â

âJust what exactly is your idea?â

âHavenât got one! How should I know where the hanky-panky comes in? Iâm not a lawyer. But thereâs something queer about it, mark my words.â

Poirot said, slowly:

âHas there been any question of contesting the will?â

âTheresaâs taken counselâs opinion, I believe. A lot of good thatâll do her! Whatâs a lawyerâs opinion nine times out of ten? âDonât!â Five lawyers advised me once against bringing an action. What did I do? Paid no attention. Won my case too. They had me in the witness box and a clever young whippersnapper from London tried to make me contradict myself. But he didnât manage it. âYou can hardly identify these furs positively, Miss Peabody,â he said. âThere is no furrierâs mark on them.â

ââThat may be,â I said. âBut thereâs a darn on the lining and if anyone can do a darn like that nowadays Iâll eat my umbrella.â Collapsed utterly, he did.â

Miss Peabody chuckled heartily.

âI suppose,â said Poirot cautiously, âthatâerâfeelingâruns rather high between Miss Lawson and members of Miss Arundellâs family?â

âWhat do you expect? You know what human nature is. Always trouble after a death, anyway. A man or woman is hardly cold in their coffin before most of the mourners are scratching each otherâs eyes out.â

Poirot sighed.

âToo true.â

âThatâs human nature,â said Miss Peabody tolerantly.

Poirot changed to another subject.

âIs it true that Miss Arundell dabbled in spiritualism?â

Miss Peabodyâs penetrating eye observed him very acutely.

âIf you think,â she said, âthat the spirit of John Arundell came back and ordered Emily to leave her money to Minnie Lawson and that Emily obeyed, I can tell you that youâre very much mistaken. Emily wouldnât be that kind of fool. If you ask me, she found spiritualism one degree better than playing patience or cribbage. Seen the Tripps?â

âNo.â

âIf you had, youâd realize just the sort of silliness it was. Irritating women. Always giving you messages from one or other of your relationsâand always totally incongruous ones. They believe it all. So did Minnie Lawson. Oh, well, one way of passing your evenings is as good as another, I suppose.â

Poirot tried yet another tack.

âYou know young Charles Arundell, I presume? What kind of person is he?â

âHeâs no good. Charminâ fellow. Always hard upâalways in debtâalways returning like a bad penny from all over the world. Knows how to get round women all right.â She chuckled. âIâve seen too many like him to be taken in! Funny son for Thomas to have had, I must say. He was a staid old fogy if you like. Model of rectitude. Ah, well, bad blood somewhere. Mind you, I like the rascalâbut heâs the kind who would murder his grandmother for a shilling or two quite cheerfully. No moral sense. Odd the way some people seem to be born without it.â

âAnd his sister?â

âTheresa?â Miss Peabody shook her head and said slowly: âI donât know. Sheâs an exotic creature. Not usual. Sheâs engaged to that namby-pamby doctor down here. Youâve seen him, perhaps?â

âDr. Donaldson.â

âYes. Clever in his profession, they say. But heâs a poor stick in other ways. Not the sort of young man Iâd fancy if I were a young girl. Well, Theresa should know her mind. Sheâs had her experiences, Iâll be bound.â

âDr. Donaldson did not attend Miss Arundell?â

âHe used to when Grainger was away on holiday.â

âBut not in her last illness.â

âDonât think so.â

Poirot said, smiling:

âI gather, Miss Peabody, that you donât think much of him as a doctor?â

âNever said so. As a matter of fact youâre wrong. Heâs sharp enough, and clever enough in his wayâbut itâs not my way. Take an instance. In the old days when a child ate too many green apples it had a bilious attack and the doctor called it a bilious attack and went home and sent you along a few pills from the surgery. Nowadays, youâre told the child suffers from pronounced acidosis, that its diet must be supervised and you get the same medicine, only itâs in nice little white tablets put up by manufacturing chemists and costs you about three times as much! Donaldson belongs to that school, and mind you, most young mothers prefer it. It sounds better. Not that that young man will be in this place long ministering to measles and bilious attacks. Heâs got his eye on London. Heâs ambitious. He means to specialize.â

âIn any particular line?â

âSerum therapeutics. I think Iâve got it right. The idea being that you get one of these nasty hypodermic needles stuck into you no matter how well you feel, just in case you should catch something. I donât hold with all these messy injections myself.â

âIs Dr. Donaldson experimenting with any particular disease?â

âDonât ask me. All I know is a G.P.âs practice isnât good enough for him. He wants to set up in London. But to do that heâs got to have money and heâs as poor as a church mouse, whatever a church mouse may be.â

Poirot murmured:

âSad that real ability is so often baulked by lack of money. And yet there are people who do not spend a quarter of their incomes.â

âEmily Arundell didnât,â said Miss Peabody. âIt was quite a surprise to some people when that will was read. The amount, I mean, not the way it was left.â

âWas it a surprise, do you think, to the members of her own family?â

âThatâs telling,â said Miss Peabody screwing up her eyes with a good deal of enjoyment. âI wouldnât say yes, and I wouldnât say no. One of âem had a pretty shrewd idea.â

âWhich one?â

âMaster Charles. Heâd done a bit of calculation on his own account. Heâs no fool, Charles.â

âBut a little bit of a rogue, eh?â

âAt any rate, he isnât a namby-pamby stick,â said Miss Peabody viciously.

She paused a minute and then asked:

âGoing to get in touch with him?â

âThat was my intention.â Poirot went on solemnly, âIt seems to me possible that he might have certain family papers relating to his grandfather?â

âMore likely to have made a bonfire of them. No respect for his elders, that young man.â

âOne must try all avenues,â said Poirot sententiously.

âSo it seems,â said Miss Peabody drily.

There was a momentary glint in her blue eye that seemed to affect Poirot disagreeably. He rose.

âI must not trespass any longer on your time, madame. I am most grateful for what you have been able to tell me.â

âIâve done my best,â said Miss Peabody. âSeem to have got rather a long way from the Indian Mutiny, donât we?â

She shook hands with us both.

âLet me know when the book comes out,â was her parting remark. âI shall be so interested.â

And the last thing we heard as we left the room was a rich, throaty chuckle.

Eleven

VISIT TO THE MISSES TRIPP

âAnd now,â said Poirot as we reentered the car. âWhat do we do next?â

Warned by experience I did not this time suggest a return to town. After all, if Poirot was enjoying himself in his own fashion why should I object?

I suggested some tea.

âTea, Hastings? What an idea! Regard the time.â

âI have regarded itâlooked at it, I mean. Itâs half past five. Tea is clearly indicated.â

Poirot sighed.

âAlways the afternoon tea with you English! No, mon ami, no tea for us. In a book of etiquette I read the other day that one must not make the afternoon call after six oâclock. To do so is to commit the solecism. We have, therefore, but half an hour in which to accomplish our purpose.â

âHow social you are today, Poirot! On whom are we calling now?â

âLes demoiselles Tripp.â

âAre you writing a book on spiritualism now? Or is it still the life of General Arundell?â

âIt will be simpler than that, my friend. But we must inquire where these ladies live.â

Directions were forthcoming readily enough, but of a somewhat confused nature involving as they did a series of lanes. The abode of the Misses Tripp turned out to be a picturesque cottageâso extremely old-world and picturesque that it looked as though it might collapse any minute.

A child of fourteen or thereabouts opened the door and with difficulty squeezed herself against the wall sufficiently to allow us to pass inside.

The interior was very rich in old oak beamsâthere was a big open fireplace and such very small windows that it was difficult to see clearly. All the furniture was of pseudo simplicityâye olde oake for ye cottage dwellerâthere was a good deal of fruit in wooden bowls and large numbers of photographsâmost of them, I noticed, of the same two people represented in different posesâusually with bunches of flowers clasped to their breasts or clutching large leghorn picture hats.

The child who had admitted us had murmured something and disappeared, but her voice was clearly audible in an upper story.

âTwo gentlemen to see you, Miss.â

A sort of twitter of female voices arose and presently with a good deal of creaking and rustling a lady descended the staircase and came graciously towards us.

She was nearer fifty than forty, her hair was parted in the middle in Madonna fashion, her eyes were brown and slightly prominent. She wore a sprigged muslin dress that conveyed an odd suggestion of fancy dress.

Poirot stepped forward and started the conversation in his most flourishing manner.

âI must apologize for intruding upon you, mademoiselle, but I am in somewhat of a predicament. I came here to find a certain lady, but she has left Market Basing and I was told that you would certainly have her address.â

âReally? Who was that?â

âMiss Lawson.â

âOh, Minnie Lawson. Of course! We are the greatest friends. Do sit down, Mr.âerâ?â

âParottiâmy friend, Captain Hastings.â

Miss Tripp acknowledged the introductions and began to fuss a little.

âSit here, wonât youâno, pleaseâreally, I always prefer an upright chair myself. Now, are you sure you are comfortable there? Dear Minnie Lawsonâoh, here is my sister.â

More creaking and rustling and we were joined by a second lady, dressed in green gingham that would have been suitable for a girl of sixteen.

âMy sister IsabelâMr.âerâParrotâandâerâCaptain Hawkins. Isabel dear, these gentlemen are friends of Minnie Lawsonâs.â

Miss Isabel Tripp was less buxom than her sister. She might indeed have been described as scraggy. She had very fair hair done up into a large quantity of rather messy curls. She cultivated a girlish manner and was easily recognizable as the subject of most of the flower poses in the photography. She clasped her hands now in girlish excitement.

âHow delightful! Dear Minnie! You have seen her lately?â

âNot for some years,â explained Poirot. âWe have quite lost touch with each other. I have been travelling. That is why I was so astonished and delighted to hear of the good fortune that had befallen my old friend.â

âYes, indeed. And so well deserved! Minnie is such a rare soul. So simpleâso earnest.â

âJulia,â cried Isabel.

âYes, Isabel?â

âHow remarkable. P. You remember the planchette distinctly insisted on P. last night. A visitor from over the water and the initial P.â

âSo it did,â agreed Julia.

Both ladies looked at Poirot in rapt and delighted surprise.

âIt never lies,â said Miss Julia softly.

âAre you interested at all in the occult, Mr. Parrot?â

âI have little experience, mademoiselle, butâlike anyone who has travelled much in the East, I am bound to admit that there is much one does not understand and that cannot be explained by natural means.â

âSo true,â said Julia. âProfoundly true.â

âThe East,â murmured Isabel. âThe home of mysticism and the occult.â

Poirotâs travellings in the East, as far as I knew, consisted of one journey to Syria extended to Iraq, and which occupied perhaps a few weeks. To judge by his present conversation one would swear that he had spent most of his life in jungles and bazaars and in intimate converse with fakirs, dervishes, and mahatmas.

As far as I could make out the Misses Tripp were vegetarians, theosophists, British Israelites, Christian Scientists, spiritualists and enthusiastic amateur photographers.

âOne sometimes feels,â said Julia with a sigh, âthat Market Basing is an impossible place to live. There is no beauty hereâno soul. One must have soul, donât you think so, Captain Hawkins?â

âQuite,â I said slightly embarrassed. âOh, quite.â

âWhere there is no vision the people perish,â quoted Isabel with a sigh. âI have often tried to discuss things with the vicar, but find him painfully narrow. Donât you think, Mr. Parrot, that any definite creed is bound to be narrowing?â

âAnd everything is so simple, really,â put in her sister. âAs we know so well, everything is joy and love!â

âAs you say, as you say,â said Poirot. âWhat a pity it seems that misunderstandings and quarrels should ariseâespecially over money.â

âMoney is too sordid,â sighed Julia.

âI gather that the late Miss Arundell was one of your converts?â said Poirot.

The two sisters looked at each other.

âI wonder,â said Isabel.

âWe were never quite sure,â breathed Julia. âOne minute she seemed to be convinced and then she would say somethingâsoâso ribald.â

âAh, but you remember that last manifestation,â said Julia. âThat was really most remarkable.â She turned to Poirot. âIt was the night dear Miss Arundell was taken ill. My sister and I went round after dinner and we had a sittingâjust the four of us. And you know we sawâwe all three sawâmost distinctly, a kind of halo round Miss Arundellâs head.â

âComment?â

âYes. It was a kind of luminous haze.â She turned to her sister. âIsnât that how you would describe it, Isabel?â

âYes. Yes, just that. A luminous haze gradually surrounding Miss Arundellâs headâan aureole of faint light. It was a signâwe know that nowâa sign that she was about to pass over to the other side.â

âRemarkable,â said Poirot in a suitably impressed voice. âIt was dark in the room, yes?â

âOh, yes, we always get better results in the dark, and it was quite a warm evening so we didnât even have the fire on.â

âA most interesting spirit spoke to us,â said Isabel. âFatima, her name was. She told us she had passed over in the time of the Crusades. She gave us a most beautiful message.â

âShe actually spoke to you?â

âNo, not direct voice. She rapped it out. Love. Hope. Life. Beautiful words.â

âAnd Miss Arundell was actually taken ill at the seance?â

âIt was just after. Some sandwiches and port wine were brought in, and dear Miss Arundell said she wouldnât have any as she wasnât feeling very well. That was the beginning of her illness. Mercifully, she did not have to endure much suffering.â

âShe passed over four days later,â said Isabel. âAnd we have already had messages from her,â said Julia eagerly. âSaying that she is very happy and that everything is beautiful and that she hopes that there is love and peace among all her dear ones.â

Poirot coughed.

âThatâerâis hardly the case, I fear?â

âThe relations have behaved disgracefully to poor Minnie,â said Isabel. Her face flushed with indignation.

âMinnie is the most unworldly soul,â chimed in Julia.

âPeople have gone about saying the unkindest thingsâthat she schemed for this money to be left her!â

âWhen really it was the greatest surprise to herââ

âShe could hardly believe her ears when the lawyer read the willââ

âShe told us so herself. âJulia,â she said to me. âMy dear, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Just a few bequests to the servants and then Littlegreen House and the residue of my estate to Wilhelmina Lawson.â She was so flabbergasted she could hardly speak. And when she could she asked how much it would beâthinking perhaps it would be a few thousand poundsâand Mr. Purvis, after humming and hawing and talking about confusing things like gross and net personalities, said it would be in the neighbourhood of three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. Poor Minnie nearly fainted, she told us.â

âShe had no idea,â the other sister reiterated. âShe never thought of such a thing happening!â

âThat is what she told you, yes?â

âOh, yes, she repeated it several times. And thatâs what makes it so wicked of the Arundell family to go on as they have doneâcold-shouldering her and treating her with suspicion. After all, this is a free countryââ

âEnglish people seem to labour under that misapprehension,â murmured Poirot.

âAnd I should hope anyone can leave their money exactly as they choose! I think Miss Arundell acted very wisely. Obviously she mistrusted her own relatives and I daresay she had her reasons.â

âAh?â Poirot leant forward with interest. âIndeed?â

This flattering attention encouraged Isabel to proceed.

âYes, indeed. Mr. Charles Arundell, her nephew, is a thoroughly bad lot. Thatâs well known! I believe heâs even wanted by the police in some foreign country. Not at all a desirable character. As for his sister, well, Iâve not actually spoken to her, but sheâs a very queer-looking girl. Ultra modern, of course, and terribly made-up. Really, the sight of her mouth made me quite ill. It looked like blood. And I rather suspect she takes drugsâher manner was so odd sometimes. Sheâs by way of being engaged to that nice young Dr. Donaldson, but I fancy even he looked disgusted sometimes. Of course, she is attractive in her way, but I hope that he will come to his senses in time and marry some nice English girl who is fond of country life and outdoor pursuits.â

âAnd the other relations?â

âWell, there you are again. Very undesirable. Not that Iâve anything to say against Mrs. Taniosâsheâs quite a nice womanâbut absolutely stupid and completely under her husbandâs thumb. Of course, heâs really a Turk, I believeârather dreadful for an English girl to marry a Turk, I think, donât you? It shows a certain lack of fastidiousness. Of course, Mrs. Tanios is a very good mother, though the children are singularly unattractive, poor little things.â

âSo altogether you think Miss Lawson was a more worthy recipient of Miss Arundellâs fortune?â

Julia said serenely:

âMinnie Lawson is a thoroughly good woman. And so unworldly. It isnât as though she had ever thought about money. She was never grasping.â

âStill, she has never thought of refusing to accept the legacy?â

Isabel drew back a little.

âOh, wellâone would hardly do that.â

Poirot smiled.

âNo, perhaps notâ¦.â

âYou see, Mr. Parrot,â put in Julia. âShe regards it as a trustâa sacred trust.â

âAnd she is quite willing to do something for Mrs. Tanios or for the Tanios children,â went on Isabel. âOnly she doesnât want him to get hold of it.â

âShe even said she would consider making Theresa an allowance.â

âAnd that, I think, was very generous of herâconsidering the offhand way that girl has always treated her.â

âIndeed, Mr. Parrot, Minnie is the most generous of creatures. But there now, you know her, of course!â

âYes,â said Poirot. âI know her. But I still do not knowâher address.â

âOf course! How stupid of me! Shall I write it down for you?â

âI can write it down.â

Poirot produced the invariable notebook.

â17, Clanroyden Mansions, W.2. Not very far from Whiteleys. Youâll give her our love, wonât you? We havenât heard from her just lately.â

Poirot rose and I followed suit.

âI have to thank you both very much,â he declared, âfor a most charming talk as well as for your kindness in supplying me with my friendâs address.â

âI wonder they didnât give it to you at the house,â exclaimed Isabel. âIt must be that Ellen! Servants are so jealous and so small-minded. They used to be quite rude to Minnie sometimes.â

Julia shook hands in a grande dame manner.

âWe have enjoyed your visit,â she declared graciously. âI wonderââ

She flashed a glance of inquiry at her sister.

âYou would, perhapsââ Isabel flushed a little. âWould you, that is to say, stay and share our evening meal? A very simple oneâsome shredded raw vegetables, brown bread and butter, fruit.â

âIt sounds delicious,â Poirot said hastily. âBut alas! my friend and I have to return to London.â

With renewed handshaking and messages to be delivered to Miss Lawson, we at last made our exit.

Twelve

POIROT DISCUSSES THE CASE

âThank goodness, Poirot,â I said with fervour, âyou got us out of those raw carrots! What awful women!â

âPour nous, un bon bifteckâwith the fried potatoesâand a good bottle of wine. What should we have had to drink there, I wonder?â

âWell, water, I should think,â I replied with a shudder. âOr nonalcoholic cider. It was that kind of place! I bet thereâs no bath and no sanitation except an E.C. in the garden!â

âStrange how women enjoy living an uncomfortable life,â said Poirot thoughtfully. âIt is not always poverty, though they are good at making the best of straitened circumstances.â

âWhat orders for the chauffeur now?â I asked, as I negotiated the last bend of the winding lanes, and we emerged on the road to Market Basing. âOn what local light do we call next? Or do we return to the George and interrogate the asthmatic waiter once more?â

âYou will be glad to hear, Hastings, that we have finished with Market Basingââ

âSplendid.â

âFor the moment only. I shall return!â

âStill on the track of your unsuccessful murderer?â

âExactly.â

âDid you learn anything from the fandango of nonsense weâve just been listening to?â

Poirot said precisely:

âThere were certain points deserving of attention. The various characters in our drama begin to emerge more clearly. In some ways it resembles, does it not, a novelette of older days? The humble companion, once despised, is raised to affluence and now plays the part of lady bountiful.â

âI should imagine that such a patronage must be very galling to people who regard themselves as the rightful heirs!â

âAs you say, Hastings. Yes, that is very true.â

We drove on in silence for some minutes. We had passed through Market Basing and were now once more on the main road. I hummed to myself softly the tune of âLittle Man, Youâve had a Busy Day.â

âEnjoyed yourself, Poirot?â I asked at last.

Poirot said coldly:

âI do not know quite what you mean by âenjoyed myself,â Hastings.â

âWell,â I said, âit seemed to me youâve been treating yourself to a busmanâs holiday!â

âYou do not think that I am serious?â

âOh, youâre serious enough. But this business seems to be of the academic kind. Youâre tackling it for your own mental satisfaction. What I mean isâitâs not real.â

âAu contraire, it is intensely real.â

âI express myself badly. What I mean is, if there were a question of helping our old lady, or protecting her against further attackâwell, there would be some excitement then. But as it is, I canât help feeling that as she is dead, why worry?â

âIn that case, mon ami, one would not investigate a murder case at all!â

âNo, no, no. Thatâs quite different. I mean, then you have a bodyâ¦ Oh, dash it all!â

âDo not enrage yourself. I comprehend perfectly. You make a distinction between a body and a mere decease. Supposing, for instance, that Miss Arundell had died with sudden and alarming violence instead of respectably of a long-standing illnessâthen you would not remain indifferent to my efforts to discover the truth?â

âOf course I wouldnât.â

âBut all the same, someone did attempt to murder her?â

âYes, but they didnât succeed. That makes all the difference.â

âIt does not intrigue you at all to know who attempted to kill her?â

âWell, yes, it does in a way.â

âWe have a very restricted circle,â said Poirot musingly. âThat threadââ

âThe thread which you merely deduce from a nail in the skirting board!â I interrupted. âWhy, that nail may have been there for years!â

âNo. The varnish was quite fresh.â

âWell, I still think there might be all sorts of explanations of it.â

âGive me one.â

At the moment I could not think of anything sufficiently plausible. Poirot took advantage of my silence to sweep on with his discourse.

âYes, a restricted circle. That thread could only have been stretched across the top of the stairs after everyone had gone to bed. Therefore we have only the occupants of the house to consider. That is to say, the guilt lies between seven people. Dr. Tanios. Mrs. Tanios. Theresa Arundell. Charles Arundell. Miss Lawson. Ellen. Cook.â

âSurely you can leave the servants out of it.â

âThey received legacies, mon cher. And there might have been other reasonsâspiteâa quarrelâdishonestyâone cannot be certain.â

âIt seems to me very unlikely.â

âUnlikely, I agree. But one must take all possibilities into consideration.â

âIn that case, you must allow for eight people, not seven.â

âHow so?â

I felt I was about to score a point.

âYou must include Miss Arundell herself. How do you know she may not have stretched that thread across the stairs in order to trip up some other members of the house party?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âIt is a bÃªtise you say there, my friend. If Miss Arundell laid a trap, she would be careful not to fall into it herself. It was she who fell down the stairs, remember.â

I retired crestfallen.

Poirot went on in a thoughtful voice:

âThe sequence of events is quite clearâthe fallâthe letter to meâthe visit of the lawyerâbut there is one doubtful point. Did Miss Arundell deliberately hold back the letter to me, hesitating to post it? Or did she, once having written it, assume it was posted?â

âThat we canât possibly tell,â I said. âNo. We can only guess. Personally, I fancy that she assumed it had been posted. She must have been surprised at getting no replyâ¦.â

My thoughts had been busy in another direction.

âDo you think this spiritualistic nonsense counted at all?â I asked. âI mean, do you think, in spite of Miss Peabodyâs ridiculing of the suggestion, that a command was given at one of these sÃ©ances that she should alter her will and leave her money to the Lawson woman?â

Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

âThat does not seem to fit in with the general impression I have formed of Miss Arundellâs character.â

âThe Tripp women say that Miss Lawson was completely taken aback when the will was read,â I said thoughtfully.

âThat is what she told them, yes,â agreed Poirot.

âBut you donât believe it?â

âMon amiâyou know my suspicious nature! I believe nothing that anyone says unless it can be confirmed or corroborated.â

âThatâs right, old boy,â I said affectionately. âA thoroughly nice, trustful nature.â

ââHe says,â âshe says,â âthey sayââBah! what does that mean? Nothing at all. It may be absolute truth. It may be useful falsehood. Me, I deal only with facts.â

âAnd the facts are?â

âMiss Arundell had a fall. That, nobody disputes. The fall was not a natural oneâit was contrived.â

âThe evidence for that being that Hercule Poirot says so!â

âNot at all. There is the evidence of the nail. The evidence of Miss Arundellâs letter to me. The evidence of the dog having been out that night. The evidence of Miss Arundellâs words about the jar and the picture and Bobâs ball. All these things are facts.â

âAnd the next fact, please?â

âThe next fact is the answer to our usual question. Who benefits by Miss Arundellâs death? AnswerâMiss Lawson.â

âThe wicked companion! On the other hand, the others thought they were going to benefit. And at the time of the accident they would have benefited.â

âExactly, Hastings. That is why they all lie equally under suspicion. There is also the little fact that Miss Lawson took pains to prevent Miss Arundell learning that Bob had been out all night.â

âYou call that suspicious?â

âNot at all. I merely note it. It may have been natural concern for the old ladyâs peace of mind. That is by far the most likely explanation.â

I looked at Poirot sideways. He is so confoundedly slippery.

âMiss Peabody expressed the opinion that there was âhanky-pankyâ about the will,â I said. âWhat do you suppose she meant by that?â

âIt was, I think, her way of expressing various nebulous and unformulated suspicions.â

âUndue influence, it seems, can be washed out,â I said thoughtfully. âAnd it certainly looks as though Emily Arundell was much too sensible to believe in any tomfoolery like spiritualism.â

âWhat makes you say that spiritualism is tomfoolery, Hastings?â

I stared at him in astonishment.

âMy dear Poirotâthose appalling womenââ

He smiled.

âI quite agree with your estimate of the Misses Tripp. But the mere fact that the Misses Tripp have adopted with enthusiasm Christian Science, vegetarianism, theosophy and spiritualism does not really constitute a damning indictment of those subjects! Because a foolish woman will tell you a lot of nonsense about a fake scarab which she has bought from a rascal dealer, that does not necessarily bring discredit on the general subject of Egyptology!â

âDo you mean you believe in spiritualism, Poirot?â

âI have an open mind on the subject. I have never studied any of its manifestations myself, but it must be accepted that many men of science and learning have pronounced themselves satisfied that there are phenomena which cannot be accounted for byâshall we say the credulity of a Miss Tripp?â

âThen you believe in this rigmarole of an aureole of light surrounding Miss Arundellâs head?â

Poirot waved a hand.

âI was speaking generallyârebuking your attitude of quite unreasoning scepticism. I may say that, having formed a certain opinion of Miss Tripp and her sister, I should examine very carefully any fact they presented for my notice. Foolish women, mon ami, are foolish women, whether they are talking about spiritualism or politics or the relation of the sexes or the tenets of the Buddhist faith.â

âYet you listened to what they had to say very carefully.â

âThat has been my task todayâto listen. To hear what everyone has got to tell me about these seven peopleâand mainly, of course, the five people primarily concerned. Already we know certain aspects of these people. Take Miss Lawson. From the Misses Tripp we learn she was devoted, unselfish, unworldly and altogether a beautiful character. From Miss Peabody we learn that she was credulous, stupid, without the nerve or the brains to attempt anything criminal. From Dr. Grainger we learn that she was downtrodden, that her position was precarious, and that she was a poor âfrightened, fluttering hen,â were, I think, the words he used. From our waiter we learned that Miss Lawson was âa person,â and from Ellen that Bob, the dog, despised her! Everyone, you see, saw her from a slightly different angle. That is the same with the others. Nobodyâs opinion of Charles Arundellâs morals seems to have been high, but nevertheless they vary in their manner of speaking of him. Dr. Grainger calls him indulgently âan irreverent young devil.â Miss Peabody says he would murder his grandmother for twopence but clearly prefers a rascal to a âstick.â Miss Tripp hints not only that he would do a criminal action but that he has done oneâor more. These sidelights are all very useful and interesting. They lead to the next thing.â

âWhich is?â

âTo see for ourselves, my friend.â

Thirteen

THERESA ARUNDELL

On the following morning we made our way to the address given us by Dr. Donaldson.

I suggested to Poirot that a visit to the lawyer, Mr. Purvis, might be a good thing, but Poirot negatived the idea strongly.

âNo, indeed, my friend. What could we sayâwhat reason could we advance for seeking information?â

âYouâre usually pretty ready with reasons, Poirot! Any old lie would do, wouldnât it?â

âOn the contrary, my friend, âany old lie,â as you put it, would not do. Not with a lawyer. We should beâhow do you say itâthrown out with the flea upon the ear.â

âOh, well,â I said. âDonât let us risk that!â

So, as I have said, we set out for the flat occupied by Theresa Arundell.

The flat in question was situated in a block at Chelsea overlooking the river. It was furnished expensively in the modern style, with gleaming chromium and thick rugs with geometric designs upon them.

We were kept waiting a few minutes and then a girl entered the room and looked at us inquiringly.

Theresa Arundell looked about twenty-eight or nine. She was tall and very slender, and she looked rather like an exaggerated drawing in black and white. Her hair was jet blackâher face heavily made-up, dead pale. Her eyebrows, freakishly plucked, gave her an air of mocking irony. Her lips were the only spot of colour, a brilliant gash of scarlet in a white face. She also conveyed the impressionâhow I do not quite know, for her manner was almost wearily indifferentâof being at least twice as much alive as most people. There hung about her the restrained energy of a whiplash.

With an air of cool inquiry she looked from me to Poirot.

Wearied (I hoped) of deceit, Poirot had on this occasion sent in his own card. She was holding it now in her fingers, twirling it to and for.

âI suppose,â she said, âyouâre M. Poirot?â

Poirot bowed in his best manner.

âAt your service, mademoiselle. You permit me to trespass for a few moments of your valuable time?â

With a faint imitation of Poirotâs manner she replied:

âEnchanted, M. Poirot. Pray sit down.â

Poirot sat, rather gingerly, on a low square easy chair. I took an upright one of webbing and chromium. Theresa sat negligently on a low stool in front of the fireplace. She offered us both cigarettes. We refused and she lighted one herself.

âYou know my name perhaps, mademoiselle?â

She nodded.

âLittle friend of Scotland Yard. Thatâs right, isnât it?â

Poirot, I think, did not much relish this description. He said with some importance:

âI concern myself with problems of crime, mademoiselle.â

âHow frightfully thrilling,â said Theresa Arundell in a bored voice. âAnd to think Iâve lost my autograph book!â

âThe matter with which I concern myself is this,â continued Poirot. âYesterday I received a letter from your aunt.â

Her eyesâvery long, almond-shaped eyesâopened a little. She puffed smoke in a cloud.

âFrom my aunt, M. Poirot?â

âThat is what I said, mademoiselle.â

She murmured:

âIâm sorry if Iâm spoiling sport in any way, but really, you know, there isnât any such person! All my aunts are mercifully dead. The last died two months ago.â

âMiss Emily Arundell?â

âYes, Miss Emily Arundell. You donât receive letters from corpses, do you, M. Poirot?â

âSometimes I do, mademoiselle.â

âHow macabre!â

But there was a new note in her voiceâa note suddenly alert and watchful.

âAnd what did my aunt say, M. Poirot?â

âThat, mademoiselle, I can hardly tell you just at present. It was, you see, a somewhatââhe coughedââdelicate matter.â

There was silence for a minute or two. Theresa Arundell smoked. Then she said:

âIt all sounds delightfully hush-hush. But where exactly do I come in?â

âI hoped, mademoiselle, that you might consent to answer a few questions.â

âQuestions? What about?â

âQuestions of a family nature.â

Again I saw her eyes widen.

âThat sounds rather pompous! Supposing you give me a specimen.â

âCertainly. Can you tell me the present address of your brother Charles?â

The eyes narrowed again. Her latent energy was less apparent. It was as though she withdrew into a shell.

âIâm afraid I canât. We donât correspond much. I rather think he has left England.â

âI see.â

Poirot was silent for a minute or two.

âWas that all you wanted to know?â

âOh, I have other questions. For oneâare you satisfied with the way in which your aunt disposed of her fortune? For anotherâhow long have you been engaged to Dr. Donaldson?â

âYou do jump about, donât you?â

âEh bien?â

âEh bienâsince we are so foreign!âmy answer to both those questions is they are none of your business! Ca ne vous regarde pas, M. Hercule Poirot.â

Poirot studied her for a moment or two attentively. Then, with no trace of disappointment, he got up.

âSo it is like that! Ah, well, perhaps it is not surprising. Allow me, mademoiselle, to congratulate you upon your French accent. And to wish you a very good morning. Come, Hastings.â

We had reached the door when the girl spoke. The simile of a whiplash came again into my mind. She did not move from her position but the two words were like the flick of a whip.

âCome back!â she said.

Poirot obeyed slowly. He sat down again and looked at her inquiringly.

âLetâs stop playing the fool,â she said. âItâs just possible that you might be useful to me, M. Hercule Poirot.â

âDelighted, mademoiselleâand how?â

Between two puffs of cigarette smoke she said very quietly and evenly:

âTell me how to break that will.â

âSurely a lawyerââ

âYes, a lawyer, perhapsâif I knew the right lawyer. But the only lawyers I know are respectable men! Their advice is that the will holds good in law and that any attempts to contest it will be useless expense.â

âBut you do not believe them.â

âI believe there is always a way to do thingsâif you donât mind being unscrupulous and are prepared to pay. Well, I am prepared to pay.â

âAnd you take it for granted that I am prepared to be unscrupulous if I am paid?â

âIâve found that to be true of most people! I donât see why you should be an exception. People always protest about their honesty and their rectitude to begin with, of course.â

âJust so, that is part of the game, eh? But what, given that I was prepared to beâunscrupulousâdo you think I could do?â

âI donât know. But youâre a clever man. Everyone knows that. You could think out some scheme.â

âSuch as?â

Theresa Arundell shrugged her shoulders.

âThatâs your business. Steal the will and substitute a forgeryâ¦ Kidnap the Lawson and frighten her into saying she bullied Aunt Emily into making it. Produce a later will made on old Emilyâs deathbed.â

âYour fertile imagination takes my breath away, mademoiselle!â

âWell, what is your answer? Iâve been frank enough. If itâs righteous refusal, thereâs the door.â

âIt is not righteous refusalâyetââ said Poirot.

Theresa Arundell laughed. She looked at me.

âYour friend,â she observed, âlooks shocked. Shall we send him out to chase himself round the block?â

Poirot addressed himself to me with some slight irritation.

âControl, I pray of you, your beautiful and upright nature, Hastings. I demand pardon for my friend, mademoiselle. He is, as you have perceived, honest. But he is also faithful. His loyalty to myself is absolute. In any case, let me emphasize this pointââhe looked at her very hardââwhatever we are about to do will be strictly within the law.â

She raised her eyebrows slightly.

âThe law,â said Poirot thoughtfully, âhas a lot of latitude.â

âI see,â she smiled faintly. âAll right, weâll let that be understood. Do you want to discuss your share of the bootyâif there turns out to be any booty?â

âThat, also, can be understood. Some nice little pickingsâthat is all I ask?â

âDone,â said Theresa.

Poirot leant forward.

âNow listen, mademoiselle, usuallyâin ninety-nine cases out of a hundred cases, shall we say, I am on the side of the law. The hundredthâwell, the hundredth is different. For one thing, it is usually much more lucrativeâ¦ But it has to be done very quietly, you understandâvery, very quietly. My reputation, it must not suffer. I have to be careful.â

Theresa Arundell nodded.

âAnd I must have all the facts of the case! I must have the truth! You comprehend that once one knows the truth it is an easier matter to know just what lies to tell!â

âThat seems eminently reasonable.â

âVery well then. Now, on what date was this will made?â

âOn April 21st.â

âAnd the previous will?â

âAunt Emily made a will five years ago.â

âIts provisions beingâ?â

âAfter a legacy to Ellen and one to a former cook, all her property was to be divided between the children of her brother Thomas and the children of her sister Arabella.â

âWas this money left in trust?â

âNo, it was left to us absolutely.â

âNow, be careful. Did you all know the provisions of this will?â

âOh, yes. Charles and I knewâand Bella knew too. Aunt Emily made no secret of it. In fact, if any of us asked for a loan she would usually say, âYouâll have all my money when Iâm dead and gone. Be content with that fact.ââ

âWould she have refused a loan if there had been a case of illness or any dire necessity?â

âNo, I donât think she would,â said Theresa slowly.

âBut she considered you all had enough to live on?â

âShe considered soâyes.â

There was bitterness in that voice.

âBut youâdid not?â

Theresa waited a minute or two before speaking. Then she said:

âMy father left us thirty thousand pounds each. The interest on that, safely invested, amounts to about twelve hundred a year. Income tax takes another wedge off it. A nice little income on which one can manage very prettily. But Iââ her voice changed, her slim body straightened, her head went backâall that wonderful aliveness I had sensed in her came to the foreââbut I want something better than that out of life! I want the best! The best food, the best clothesâsomething with line to itâbeautyânot just suitable covering in the prevailing fashion. I want to live and enjoyâto go to the Mediterranean and lie in the warm summer seaâto sit round a table and play with exciting wads of moneyâto give partiesâwild, absurd, extravagant partiesâI want everything thatâs going in this rotten worldâand I donât want it some dayâI want it now!â

Her voice was wonderfully exciting, warm, exhilarating, intoxicating.

Poirot was studying her intently.

âAnd you have, I fancy, had it now?â

âYes, HerculeâIâve had it!â

âAnd how much of the thirty thousand is left?â

She laughed suddenly.

âTwo hundred and twenty-one pounds, fourteen and seven-pence. Thatâs the exact balance. So you see, little man, youâve got to be paid by results. No resultsâno fees.â

âIn that case,â said Poirot in a matter-of-fact manner, âthere will certainly be results.â

âYouâre a great little man, Hercule. Iâm glad we got together.â

Poirot went on in a businesslike way:

âThere are a few things that are actually necessary that I should know. Do you drug?â

âNo, never.â

âDrink?â

âQuite heavilyâbut not for the love of it. My crowd drinks and I drink with them, but I could give it up tomorrow.â

âThat is very satisfactory.â

She laughed.

âI shanât give the show away in my cups, Hercule.â

Poirot proceeded:

âLove affairs?â

âPlenty in the past.â

âAnd the present?â

âOnly Rex.â

âThat is Dr. Donaldson?â

âYes.â

âHe seems, somehow, very alien from the life you mention.â

âOh, he is.â

âAnd yet you care for him. Why, I wonder?â

âOh, what are reasons? Why did Juliet fall for Romeo?â

âWell for one thing, with all due deference to Shakespeare, he happened to be the first man she had seen.â

Theresa said slowly:

âRex wasnât the first man I sawânot by a long way.â She added in a lower voice, âBut I thinkâI feelâheâll be the last man Iâll ever see.â

âAnd he is a poor man, mademoiselle.â

She nodded.

âAnd he, too, needs money?â

âDesperately. Oh, not for the reasons I did. He doesnât want luxuryâor beautyâor excitementâor any of these things. Heâd wear the same suit until it went into holesâand eat a congealed chop every day for lunch quite happily, and wash in a cracked tin bath. If he had money it would all go on test tubes and a laboratory and all the rest of it. Heâs ambitious. His profession means everything to him. It means more to him thanâI do.â

âHe knew that you would come into money when Miss Arundell died?â

âI told him so. Oh! after we were engaged. He isnât really marrying me for my money if that is what you are getting at.â

âYou are still engaged?â

âOf course we are.â

Poirot did not reply. His silence seemed to disquiet her.

âOf course we are,â she repeated sharply. And then she added, âYouâhave you seen him?â

âI saw him yesterdayâat Market Basing.â

âWhy? What did you say to him?â

âI said nothing. I only asked him for your brotherâs address.â

âCharles?â Her voice was sharp again. âWhat did you want with Charles?â

âCharles? Who wants Charles?â

It was a new voiceâa delightful, manâs voice.

A bronze-faced young man with an agreeable grin strolled into the room.

âWho is talking about me?â he asked. âI heard my name in the hall, but I didnât eavesdrop. They were very particular about eavesdropping at Borstal. Now then, Theresa my girl, whatâs all this? Spill the beans.â

Fourteen

CHARLES ARUNDELL

I must confess that from the moment I set eyes on him I entertained a sneaking liking for Charles Arundell. There was something so debonair and carefree about him. His eyes had an agreeable and humorous twinkle and his grin was one of the most disarming I have ever encountered.

He came across the room and sat down on the arm of one of the massive, upholstered chairs.

âWhatâs it all about, old girl?â he asked.

âThis is M. Hercule Poirot, Charles. He is prepared toâerâdo some dirty work for us in return for a small consideration.â

âI protest,â cried Poirot. âNot dirty workâshall we say a little harmless deception of some kindâso that the original intention of the testator is carried out? Let us put it that way.â

âPut it anyway you like,â said Charles agreeably. âWhat made Theresa think of you, I wonder?â

âShe did not,â said Poirot quickly. âI came here of my own accord.â

âOffering your services?â

âNot quite that. I was asking for you. Your sister told me you had gone abroad.â

âTheresa,â said Charles, âis a very careful sister. She hardly ever makes a mistake. In fact, sheâs suspicious as the devil.â

He smiled at her affectionately but she did not smile back. She looked worried and thoughtful.

âSurely,â said Charles. âWeâve got things the wrong way round? Isnât M. Poirot famous for tracking down criminals? Surely not for aiding and abetting them?â

âWeâre not criminals,â said Theresa sharply.

âBut weâre willing to be,â said Charles affably. âIâd thought of a spot of forgery myselfâthatâs rather my line. I got sent down from Oxford because of a little misunderstanding about a cheque. That was childishly simple, thoughâmerely a question of adding a nought. Then there was another little fracas with Aunt Emily and the local bank. Foolish on my part, of course. I ought to have realized the old lady was sharp as needles. However, all these incidents have been very small fryâfivers and tennersâthat class. A deathbed will would be admittedly risky. One would have to get hold of the stiff and starched Ellen andâis suborn the word?âanyway, induce her to say she had witnessed it. It would take some doing, I fear. I might even marry her and then she wouldnât be able to give evidence against me afterwards.â

He grinned amiably at Poirot.

âI feel sure youâve installed a secret dictaphone and Scotland Yard is listening in,â he said.

âYour problem interests me,â said Poirot with a touch of reproof in his manner. âNaturally I could not connive at anything against the law. But there are more ways than oneââ he stopped significantly.

Charles Arundell shrugged his graceful shoulders.

âIâve no doubt thereâs an equal choice of devious ways inside the law,â he said agreeably. âYou should know.â

âBy whom was the will witnessed? I mean the one made on April 21st?â

âPurvis brought down his clerk and the second witness was the gardener.â

âIt was signed then in Mr. Purvisâs presence?â

âIt was.â

âAnd Mr. Purvis, I fancy, is a man of the highest respectability?â

âPurvis, Purvis, Charlesworth and once more Purvis are just about as respectable and impeccable as the Bank of England,â said Charles.

âHe didnât like making the will,â said Theresa. âIn an ultracorrect fashion I believe he even tried to dissuade Aunt Emily from making it.â

Charles said sharply:

âDid he tell you that, Theresa?â

âYes. I went to see him again yesterday.â

âItâs no good, my sweetâyou ought to realize that. Only piles up the six and eightpences.â

Theresa shrugged her shoulders.

Poirot said:

âI will ask you to give me as much information as you can about the last weeks of Miss Arundellâs life. Now, to begin with, I understand that you and your brother and also Dr. Tanios and his wife stayed there for Easter?â

âYes, we did.â

âDid anything happen of significance during that weekend?â

âI donât think so.â

âNothing? But I thoughtââ

Charles broke in.

âWhat a self-centred creature you are, Theresa. Nothing of significance happened to you! Wrapped in loveâs young dream! Let me tell you, M. Poirot, that Theresa has a blue-eyed boy in Market Basing. One of the local sawbones. Sheâs got rather a faulty sense of proportion in consequence. As a matter of fact, my revered aunt took a header down the stairs and nearly passed out. Wish she had. It would have saved all this fuss.â

âShe fell down the stairs?â

âYes, tripped over the dogâs ball. Intelligent little brute left it at the top of the stairs and she took a header over it in the night.â

âThis wasâwhen?â

âLet me seeâTuesdayâthe evening before we left.â

âYour aunt was seriously injured?â

âUnfortunately she didnât fall on her head. If she had we might have pleaded softening of the brainâor whatever itâs called scientifically. No, she was hardly hurt at all.â

Poirot said drily:

âVery disappointing for you!â

âEh? Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, as you say, very disappointing. Tough nuts, these old ladies.â

âAnd you all left on the Wednesday morning?â

âThatâs right.â

âThat was Wednesday, the fifteenth. When did you next see your aunt?â

âWell, it wasnât the next weekend. It was the weekend after that.â

That would beâlet me seeâthe twenty-fifth, would it not?â

âYes, I think that was the date.â

âAnd your aunt diedâwhen?â

âThe following Friday.â

âHaving been taken ill on the Monday night?â

âYes.â

âThat was the Monday that you left?â

âYes.â

âYou did not return during her illness?â

âNot until the Friday. We didnât realize she was really bad.â

âYou got there in time to see her alive?â

âNo, she died before we arrived.â

Poirot shifted his glance to Theresa Arundell.

âYou accompanied your brother on both these occasions?â

âYes.â

âAnd nothing was said during the second weekend about a new will having been made?â

âNothing,â said Theresa.

Charles, however, had answered at the same moment.

âOh, yes,â he said. âIt was.â

He spoke airily as ever, but there was something a little constrained as though the airiness were more artificial than usual.

âIt was?â said Poirot.

âCharles!â cried Theresa.

Charles seemed anxious not to meet his sisterâs eye.

He spoke to her without looking at her.

âSurely you remember, old girl? I told you. Aunt Emily made a kind of ultimatum of it. Sat there like a judge in court. Made a kind of speech. Said she thoroughly disapproved of all her relationsâthat is to say, of me and Theresa. Bella, she allowed, she had nothing against, but on the other hand she disliked and distrusted her husband. Buy British was ever Aunt Emilyâs motto. If Bella were to inherit any considerable sum of money she said she was convinced that Tanios would somehow or other get possession of it. Trust a Greek to do that! âSheâs safer as she is,â she went on to say. Then she said that neither I nor Theresa were fit people to be trusted with money. We would only gamble and squander it away. Therefore, she finished up, she had made a new will and had left the entire estate to Miss Lawson. âShe is a fool,â said Aunt Emily, âbut she is a faithful soul. And I really believe she is devoted to me. She cannot help her lack of brains. I have thought it fairer to tell you this, Charles, as you may as well realize that it will not be possible for you to raise money on your expectations from me.â Rather a nasty one, that. Just what Iâd been trying to do.â

âWhy didnât you tell me, Charles?â demanded Theresa fiercely.

Poirot asked:

âAnd what did you say, Mr. Arundell?â

âI?â said Charles airily. âOh, I just laughed. No good cutting up rough. Thatâs not the way. âJust as you please, Aunt Emily,â I said. âBit of a blow, perhaps, but after all, itâs your own money and you can do what you like with it.ââ

âAnd your auntâs reaction to that?â

âOh, it went down wellâvery well indeed. She said, âWell, I will say youâre a sportsman, Charles.â And I said, âGot to take the rough with the smooth. As a matter of fact, if Iâve no expectations what about giving me a tenner now?â And she said I was an impudent boy and actually parted with a fiver.â

âYou concealed your feelings very cleverly.â

âWell, as a matter of fact, I didnât take it very seriously.â

âYou didnât?â

âNo. I thought it was what you might call a gesture on the old beanâs part. She wanted to frighten us all. Iâd a pretty shrewd suspicion that after a few weeks or perhaps months sheâd tear that will up. She was pretty hot on family, Aunt Emily. And, as a matter of fact, I believe thatâs what she would have done if she hadnât died so confoundedly suddenly.â

âAh!â said Poirot. âIt is an interesting idea that.â

He remained silent for a minute or two then went on:

âCould anyone, Miss Lawson, for instance, have overheard your conversation?â

âRather. We werenât speaking any too low. As a matter of fact, the Lawson bird was hovering about outside the door when I went out. Been doing a bit of snooping in my opinion.â

Poirot turned a thoughtful glance on Theresa.

âAnd you knew nothing of this?â

Before she could answer, Charles broke in.

âTheresa, old girl, Iâm sure I told youâor hinted to you?â

There was a queer sort of pause. Charles was looking fixedly at Theresa, and there was an anxiety, a fixity, about his gaze that seemed out of all proportion to the subject matter.

Theresa said slowly:

âIf you had told meâI donât thinkâI could have forgotten, do you, M. Poirot?â

Her long dark eyes turned to him.

Poirot said slowly:

âNo, I donât think you could have forgotten, Miss Arundell.â

Then he turned sharply to Charles.

âLet me be quite clear on one point. Did Miss Arundell tell you she was about to alter her will, or did she tell you specifically that she had altered it?â

Charles said quickly:

âOh, she was quite definite. As a matter of fact she showed me the will.â

Poirot leaned forward. His eyes opened wide.

âThis is very important. You say that Miss Arundell actually showed you the will?â

Charles gave a sudden schoolboy wriggleâa rather disarming action. Poirotâs gravity made him quite uncomfortable.

âYes,â he said. âShe showed it to me.â

âYou can swear definitely to that?â

âOf course I can.â Charles looked nervously at Poirot. âI donât see what is so significant about that.â

There was a sudden brusque movement from Theresa. She had risen and was standing by the mantelpiece. She quickly lit another cigarette.

âAnd you, mademoiselle?â Poirot whirled suddenly round on her. âDid your aunt say nothing of importance to you during that weekend?â

âI donât think so. She wasâquite amiable. That is, as amiable as she usually was. Lectured me a bit about my way of life and all that. But then, she always did. She seemed perhaps a bit more jumpy than usual.â

Poirot said, smiling:

âI suppose, mademoiselle, that you were more taken up with your fiancÃ©?â

Theresa said sharply:

âHe wasnât there. He was away, heâd gone to some medical congress.â

âYou had not seen him then since the Easter weekend? Was that the last time you had seen him?â

âYesâon the evening before we left he came to dinner.â

âYou had notâexcuse meâhad any quarrel with him then?â

âCertainly not.â

âI only thought seeing that he was away on your second visitââ

Charles broke in:

âAh, but you see, that second weekend was rather unpremeditated. We went down on the spur of the moment.â

âReally?â

âOh, letâs have the truth,â said Theresa wearily. âYou see, Bella and her husband were down the weekend beforeâfussing over Aunt Emily because of her accident. We thought they might steal a march on usââ

âWe thought,â said Charles with a grin, âthat weâd better show a little concern for Aunt Emilyâs health too. Really, though, the old lady was much too sharp to be taken in by the dutiful attention stunt. She knew very well how much it was worth. No fool, Aunt Emily.â

Theresa laughed suddenly.

âItâs a pretty story, isnât it? All of us with our tongues hanging out for money.â

âWas that the case with your cousin and her husband?â

âOh, yes, Bellaâs always hard up. Rather pathetic the way she tries to copy all my clothes at about an eighth of the price. Tanios speculated with her money, I believe. Theyâre hard put to it to make both ends meet. Theyâve got two children and want to educate them in England.â

âCan you perhaps give me their address?â said Poirot.

âTheyâre staying at the Durham Hotel in Bloomsbury.â

âWhat is she like, your cousin?â

âBella? Well, sheâs a dreary woman. Eh, Charles?â

âOh, definitely a dreary woman. Rather like an earwig. Sheâs a devoted mother. So are earwigs, I believe.â

âAnd her husband.â

âTanios? Well, he looks a bit odd, but heâs really a thoroughly nice fellow. Clever, amusing and a thorough good sport.â

âYou agree, mademoiselle?â

âWell, I must admit I prefer him to Bella. Heâs a damned clever doctor, I believe. All the same, I wouldnât trust him very far.â

âTheresa,â said Charles, âdoesnât trust anybody.â

He put an arm round her.

âShe doesnât trust me.â

âAnyone who trusted you, my sweet, would be mentally deficient,â said Theresa kindly.

The brother and sister moved apart and looked at Poirot.

Poirot bowed and moved to the door.

âI amâas you sayâon the job! It is difficult, but mademoiselle is right. There is always a way. Ah, by the way, this Miss Lawson, is she the kind that might conceivably lose her head under cross-examination in court?â

Charles and Theresa exchanged glances.

âI should say,â said Charles, âthat a really bullying K.C. could make her say black was white!â

âThat,â said Poirot, âmay be very useful.â

He skipped out of the room and I followed him. In the hall he picked up his hat, moved to the front door, opened it and shut it again quickly with a bang. Then he tiptoed to the door of the sitting room and unblushingly applied his ear to the crack. At whatever school Poirot was educated, there were clearly no unwritten rules about eavesdropping. I was horrified but powerless. I made urgent signs to Poirot but he took no notice.

And then, clearly, in Theresa Arundellâs deep, vibrant voice, there came two words:

âYou fool!â

There was the noise of footsteps along the passage and Poirot quickly seized me by the arm, opened the front door and passed through, closing it noiselessly behind him.

Fifteen

MISS LAWSON

âPoirot,â I said. âHave we got to listen at doors?â

âCalm yourself, my friend. It was only I who listened! It was not you who put your ear to the crack. On the contrary, you stood bolt upright like a soldier.â

âBut I heard just the same.â

âTrue. Mademoiselle was hardly whispering.â

âBecause she thought that we had left the flat.â

âYes, we practised a little deception there.â

âI donât like that sort of thing.â

âYour moral attitude is irreproachable! But let us not repeat ourselves. This conversation has occurred on previous occasions. You are about to say that it is not playing the game. And my reply is that murder is not a game.â

âBut there is no question of murder here.â

âDo not be sure of that.â

âThe intention, yes, perhaps. But after all, murder, and attempted murder are not the same thing.â

âMorally they are exactly the same thing. But what I meant was, are you so sure that it is only attempted murder that occupies our attention?â

I stared at him.

âBut old Miss Arundell died a perfectly natural death.â

âI repeat againâare you so sure?â

âEveryone says so!â

âEveryone? Oh, lÃ , lÃ !â

âThe doctor says so,â I pointed out. âDr. Grainger. He ought to know.â

âYes, he ought to know.â Poirotâs voice was dissatisfied. âBut remember, Hastings, again and again a body is exhumedâand in each case a certificate has been signed in all good faith by the doctor attending the case.â

âYes, but in this case, Miss Arundell died of a long-standing complaint.â

âIt seems soâyes.â

Poirotâs voice was still dissatisfied. I looked at him keenly.

âPoirot,â I said, âIâll begin a sentence with Are you sure! Are you sure you are not being carried away by professional zeal? You want it to be murder and so you think it must be murder.â

The shadow on his brow deepened. He nodded his head slowly.

âIt is clever what you say, there, Hastings. It is a weak spot on which you put your finger. Murder is my business. I am like a great surgeon who specializes inâsayâappendicitis or some rarer operation. A patient comes to him and he regards that patient solely from the standpoint of his own specialized subject. Is there any possible reason for thinking this man suffers from so and soâ¦? Me, I am like that, too. I say to myself always, âCan this possibly be murder?â And you see, my friend, there is nearly always a possibility.â

âI shouldnât say there was much possibility here,â I remarked.

âBut she died, Hastings! You cannot get away from that fact. She died!â

âShe was in poor health. She was past seventy. It all seems perfectly natural to me.â

âAnd does it also seem natural to you that Theresa Arundell should call her brother a fool with that degree of intensity?â

âWhat has that got to do with it?â

âEverything! Tell me, what did you think of that statement of Mr. Charles Arundellâsâthat his aunt had shown him her new will?â

I looked at Poirot, warily.

âWhat do you make of it?â I asked.

Why should Poirot always be the one to ask the questions?

âI call it very interestingâvery interesting indeed. So was Miss Theresa Arundellâs reaction to it. Their passage of arms was suggestiveâvery suggestive.â

âHâm,â I said, in oracular fashion.

âIt opens up two distinct lines of inquiry.â

âThey seem a nice pair of crooks,â I remarked. âReady for anything. The girlâs amazingly good-looking. As for young Charles, heâs certainly an attractive scoundrel.â

Poirot was just hailing a taxi. It drew into the kerb and Poirot gave an address to the driver.

â17 Clanroyden Mansions, Bayswater.â

âSo itâs Lawson next,â I commented. âAnd after thatâthe Tanioses?â

âQuite right, Hastings.â

âWhat rÃ´le are you adopting here?â I inquired as the taxi drew up at Clanroyden Mansions. âThe biographer of General Arundell, a prospective tenant of Littlegreen House, or something more subtle still?â

âI shall present myself simply as Hercule Poirot.â

âHow very disappointing,â I gibed.

Poirot merely threw me a glance and paid off the taxi.

No. 17 was on the second floor. A pert-looking maid opened the door and showed us into a room that really struck a ludicrous note after the one we had just left.

Theresa Arundellâs flat had been bare to the point of emptiness. Miss Lawsonâs on the other hand was so crammed with furniture and odds and ends that one could hardly move about without the fear of knocking something over.

The door opened and a rather stout, middle-aged lady came in. Miss Lawson was very much as I had pictured her. She had an eager, rather foolish face, untidy greyish hair and pince-nez perched a little askew on her nose. Her style of conversation was spasmodic and consisted of gasps.

âGood morningâerâI donât thinkââ

âMiss Wilhelmina Lawson?â

âYesâyesâthat is my nameâ¦.â

âMy name is PoirotâHercule Poirot. Yesterday I was looking over Littlegreen House.â

âOh, yes?â

Miss Lawsonâs mouth fell a little wider open and she made some inefficient dabs at her untidy hair.

âWonât you sit down?â she went on. âSit here, wonât you? Oh, dear, Iâm afraid that table is in your way. Iâm just a leetle bit crowded here. So difficult! These flats! Just a teeny bit on the small side. But so central! And I do like being central. Donât you?â

With a gasp she sat down on an uncomfortable-looking Victorian chair and, her pince-nez still awry, leaned forward breathlessly and looked at Poirot hopefully.

âI went to Littlegreen House in the guise of a purchaser,â went on Poirot. âBut I should like to say at onceâthis is in the strictest confidenceââ

âOh, yes,â breathed Miss Lawson, apparently pleasurably excited.

âThe very strictest confidence,â continued Poirot, âthat I went there with another objectâ¦ You may or may not be aware that shortly before she died Miss Arundell wrote to meââ

He paused and then went on:

âI am a well-known private detective.â

A variety of expressions chased themselves over Miss Lawsonâs slightly flushed countenance. I wondered which one Poirot would single out as relevant to his inquiry. Alarm, excitement, surprise, puzzlementâ¦.

âOh,â she said. Then after a pause, âOh,â again.

And then, quite unexpectedly, she asked:

âWas it about the money?â

Poirot, even, was slightly taken aback. He said tentatively:

âYou mean the money that wasââ

âYes, yes. The money that was taken from the drawer?â

Poirot said, quietly:

âMiss Arundell didnât tell you she had written to me on the subject of that money?â

âNo, indeed. I had no ideaâWell, really, I must say Iâm very surprisedââ

âYou thought she would not have mentioned it to anyone?â

âI certainly didnât think so. You see, she had a very good ideaââ

She stopped again. Poirot said, quickly:

âShe had a very good idea who took it. That is what you would say, is it not?â

Miss Lawson nodded and continued breathlessly:

âAnd I shouldnât have thought she would have wantedâwell, I mean she saidâthat is, she seemed to feelââ

Again Poirot cut in neatly into the midst of these incoherencies.

âIt was a family matter?â

âExactly.â

âBut me,â said Poirot, âI specialize in family matters. I am, you see, very very discreet.â

Miss Lawson nodded vigorously.

âOh! of courseâthat makes a difference. Itâs not like the police.â

âNo, no. I am not at all like the police. That would not have done at all.â

âOh, no. Dear Miss Arundell was such a proud woman. Of course, there had been trouble before with Charles, but it was always hushed up. Once, I believe, he had to go to Australia!â

âJust so,â said Poirot. âNow the facts of the case were as follows, were they not? Miss Arundell had a sum of money in a drawerââ

He paused. Miss Lawson hastened to confirm his statement.

âYesâfrom the Bank. For the wages, you know, and the books.â

âAnd how much was missing exactly?â

âFour pound notes. No, no, I am wrong, three pound notes and two ten-shilling notes. One must be exact, I know, very exact, in such matters.â Miss Lawson looked at him earnestly and absentmindedly knocked her pince-nez a little farther awry. Her rather prominent eyes seemed to goggle at him.

âThank you, Miss Lawson. I see you have an excellent business sense.â

Miss Lawson bridled a little and uttered a deprecatory laugh.

âMiss Arundell suspected, no doubt with reason, that her nephew Charles was responsible for this theft,â went on Poirot.

âYes.â

âAlthough there was no particular evidence to show who actually took the money?â

âOh, but it must have been Charles! Mrs. Tanios wouldnât do such a thing, and her husband was quite a stranger and wouldnât have known where the money was keptâneither of them would. And I donât think Theresa Arundell would dream of such a thing. Sheâs got plenty of money and always so beautifully dressed.â

âIt might have been one of the servants,â Poirot suggested.

Miss Lawson seemed horrified by the idea.

âOh, no, indeed, neither Ellen nor Annie would have dreamed of such a thing. They are both most superior women and absolutely honest I am sure.â

Poirot waited a minute or two. Then he said:

âI wonder if you can give me any ideaâI am sure you can, for if anyone possessed Miss Arundellâs confidence you didââ

Miss Lawson murmured confusedly:

âOh, I donât know about that, Iâm sureââ but she was clearly flattered.

âI feel that you will be able to help me.â

âOh, Iâm sure, if I canâanything I can doââ

Poirot went on:

âThis is in confidenceââ

A sort of owlish expression appeared on Miss Lawsonâs face. The magical words âin confidenceâ seemed to be a kind of Open Sesame.

âHave you any idea of the reason which caused Miss Arundell to alter her will?â

âHer will? Ohâher will?â

Miss Lawson seemed slightly taken aback.

Poirot said, watching her closely:

âIt is true, is it not, that she made a new will shortly before her death, leaving all her fortune to you?â

âYes, but I knew nothing about it. Nothing at all!â Miss Lawson was shrill in protest. âIt was the greatest surprise to me! A wonderful surprise, of course! So good of dear Miss Arundell. And she never even gave me a hint. Not the smallest hint! I was so taken aback when Mr. Purvis read it out, I didnât know where to look, or whether to laugh or cry! I assure you, M. Poirot, the shock of itâthe shock, you know. The kindnessâthe wonderful kindness of dear Miss Arundell. Of course, Iâd hoped perhaps, for just a little somethingâperhaps just a teeny, teeny legacyâthough of course, there was no reason she should have left me even that. Iâd not been with her so very long. But thisâit was likeâit was like a fairy story! Even now I canât quite believe in it, if you know what I mean. And sometimesâwell sometimesâI donât feel altogether comfortable about it. I meanâwell, I meanââ

She knocked off her pince-nez, picked them up, fumbled with them and went on even more incoherently.

âSometimes I feel thatâwell, flesh and blood is flesh and blood after all, and I donât feel quite comfortable at Miss Arundellâs leaving all her money away from her family. I mean, it doesnât seem right, does it? Not all of it. Such a large fortune, too! Nobody had any idea! Butâwellâit does make one feel uncomfortableâand everyone saying things, you knowâand Iâm sure Iâve never been an ill-natured woman! I mean I wouldnât have dreamed of influencing Miss Arundell in any way! And itâs not as though I could, either. Truth to tell, I was always just a teeny weeny bit afraid of her! She was so sharp, you know, so inclined to jump on you. And quite rude sometimes! âDonât be a downright fool,â sheâd snap. And really, after all, I had my feelings and sometimes Iâd feel quite upsetâ¦ And then to find out that all the time sheâd really been fond of meâwell, it was very wonderful, wasnât it? Only of course, as I say, thereâs been a lot of unkindness, and really in some ways one feelsâI mean, well, it does seem a little hard, doesnât it, on some people?â

âYou mean that you would prefer to relinquish the money?â asked Poirot.

Just for a moment I fancied a flicker of some quite different expression showed itself in Miss Lawsonâs dull, pale blue eyes. I imagined that, just for a moment, a shrewd, intelligent woman sat there instead of an amiable, foolish one.

She said with a little laugh.

âWellâof course, there is the other side of it tooâ¦ I mean there are two sides to every question. What I say is, Miss Arundell meant me to have the money. I mean if I didnât take it I should be going against her wishes. And that wouldnât be right, either, would it?â

âIt is a difficult question,â said Poirot, shaking his head. âYes, indeed, I have worried over it a great deal. Mrs. TaniosâBellaâshe is such a nice womanâand those dear children! I mean, I feel sure Miss Arundell wouldnât have wanted her toâI feel, you see, that dear Miss Arundell intended me to use my discretion. She didnât want to leave any money outright to Bella because she was afraid that man would get hold of it.â

âWhat man?â

âHer husband. You know, Mr. Poirot, the poor girl is quite under his thumb. She does anything he tells her. I daresay sheâd murder someone if he told her to! And sheâs afraid of him. Iâm quite sure sheâs afraid of him. Iâve seen her look simply terrified once or twice. Now that isnât right, Mr. Poirotâyou canât say thatâs right.â

Poirot did not say so. Instead he inquired:

âWhat sort of man is Dr. Tanios?â

âWell,â said Miss Lawson, hesitating, âheâs a very pleasant man.â

She stopped, doubtfully.

âBut you donât trust him?â

âWellâno, I donât. I donât know,â went on Miss Lawson doubtfully, âthat Iâd trust any man very much! Such dreadful things one hears! And all their poor wives go through! Itâs really terrible! Of course, Dr. Tanios pretends to be very fond of his wife and heâs quite charming to her. His manners are really delightful. But I donât trust foreigners. Theyâre so artful! And Iâm quite sure dear Miss Arundell didnât want her money to get into his hands!â

âIt is hard on Miss Theresa Arundell and Mr. Charles Arundell also to be deprived of their inheritance,â Poirot suggested.

A spot of colour came into Miss Lawsonâs face.

âI think Theresa has quite as much money as is good for her!â she said sharply. âShe spends hundreds of pounds on her clothes, alone. And her underclothingâitâs wicked! When one thinks of so many nice, well-bred girls who have to earn their own livingââ

Poirot gently completed the sentence.

âYou think it would do no harm for her to earn hers for a bit?â

Miss Lawson looked at him solemnly.

âIt might do her a lot of good,â she said. âIt might bring her to her senses. Adversity teaches us many things.â

Poirot nodded slowly. He was watching her intently.

âAnd Charles?â

âCharles doesnât deserve a penny,â said Miss Lawson, sharply. âIf Miss Arundell cut him out of her will, it was for a very good causeâafter his wicked threats.â

âThreats?â Poirotâs eyebrows rose.

âYes, threats.â

âWhat threats? When did he threaten her?â

âLet me see, it wasâyes, of course, it was at Easter. Actually on Easter Sundayâwhich made it even worse!â

âWhat did he say?â

âHe asked her for money and she refused to give it him! And then he told her that it wasnât wise of her. He said if she kept up that attitude he wouldânow what was the phraseâa very vulgar American oneâoh, yes, he said he would bump her off!â

âHe threatened to bump her off?â

âYes.â

âAnd what did Miss Arundell say?â

âShe said: âI think youâll find, Charles, that I can look after myself.ââ

âYou were in the room at the time?â

âNot exactly in the room,â said Miss Lawson after a momentary pause.

âQuite, quite,â said Poirot, hastily. âAnd Charles, what did he say to that?â

âHe said: âDonât be too sure.ââ

Poirot said slowly:

âDid Miss Arundell take this threat seriously?â

âWell, I donât knowâ¦ She didnât say anything to me about itâ¦ But then she wouldnât do that, anyway.â

Poirot said quietly:

âYou knew, of course, that Miss Arundell was making a new will?â

âNo, no. Iâve told you, it was a complete surprise. I never dreamtââ

Poirot interrupted.

âYou did not know the contents. But you knew the factâthat there was a will being made?â

âWellâI suspectedâI mean her sending for the lawyer when she was laid upââ

âExactly. That was after she had a fall, was it not?â

âYes, BobâBob was the dogâhe had left his ball at the top of the stairsâand she tripped over it and fell.â

âA nasty accident.â

âOh, yes, why, she might easily have broken her leg or her arm. The doctor said so.â

âShe might quite easily have been killed.â

âYes, indeed.â

Her answer seemed quite natural and frank.

Poirot said, smiling:

âI think I saw Master Bob at Littlegreen House.â

âOh, yes, I expect you did. Heâs a dear little doggie.â Nothing annoys me more than to hear a sporting terrier called a dear little doggie. No wonder, I thought, that Bob despised Miss Lawson and refused to do anything she told him.

âAnd he is very intelligent?â went on Poirot.

âOh, yes, very.â

âHow upset heâd be if he knew he had nearly killed his mistress?â

Miss Lawson did not answer. She merely shook her head and sighed.

Poirot asked:

âDo you think it possible that that fall influenced Miss Arundell to remake her will?â

We were getting perilously near the bone here, I thought, but Miss Lawson seemed to find the question quite natural.

âYou know,â she said, âI shouldnât wonder if you werenât right. It gave her a shockâIâm sure of that. Old people never like to think thereâs any chance of their dying. But an accident like that makes one think. Or perhaps she might have had a premonition that her death wasnât far off.â

Poirot said casually:

âShe was in fairly good health, was she not?â

âOh, yes. Very well, indeed.â

âHer illness must have come on very suddenly?â

âOh, it did. It was quite a shock. We had had some friends that eveningââ Miss Lawson paused.

âYour friends, the Misses Tripp. I have met those ladies. They are quite charming.â

Miss Lawsonâs face flushed with pleasure.

âYes, arenât they? Such cultured women! Such wide interests! And so very spiritual! They told you, perhapsâabout our sittings? I expect you are a scepticâbut indeed, I wish I could tell you the inexpressible joy of getting into touch with those whoâve passed over!â

âI am sure of it. I am sure of it.â

âDo you know, Mr. Poirot, my mother has spoken to meâmore than once. It is such a joy to know that oneâs dear ones are still thinking of one and watching over one.â

âYes, yes, I can well understand that,â said Poirot, gently. âAnd was Miss Arundell also a believer?â

Miss Lawsonâs face clouded over a little.

âShe was willing to be convinced,â she said, doubtfully. âBut I do not think she always approached the matter in the right frame of mind. She was sceptical and unbelievingâand once or twice her attitude attracted a most undesirable type of spirit! There were some very ribald messagesâall due, I am convinced, to Miss Arundellâs attitude.â

âI should think very likely due to Miss Arundell,â agreed Poirot.

âBut on that last eveningââ continued Miss Lawson, âperhaps Isabel and Julia told you?âthere were distinct phenomena. Actually the beginning of a materialization. Ectoplasmâyou know what ectoplasm is perhaps?â

âYes, yes, I am acquainted with its nature.â

âIt proceeds, you know, from the mediumâs mouth in the form of a ribbon and builds itself up into a form. Now I am convinced, Mr. Poirot, that unknown to herself Miss Arundell was a medium. On that evening I distinctly saw a luminous ribbon issuing from dear Miss Arundellâs mouth! Then her head became enveloped in a luminous mist.â

âMost interesting!â

âAnd then, unfortunately, Miss Arundell was suddenly taken ill and we had to break up the sÃ©ance.â

âYou sent for the doctorâwhen?â

âFirst thing the following morning.â

âDid he think the matter grave?â

âWell, he sent in a hospital nurse the following evening, but I think he hoped she would pull through.â

âTheâexcuse meâthe relatives were not sent for?â

Miss Lawson flushed.

âThey were notified as soon as possibleâthat is to say, when Dr. Grainger pronounced her to be in danger.â

âWhat was the cause of the attack? Something she had eaten?â

âNo, I donât think there was anything in particular. Dr. Grainger said she hadnât been quite as careful in diet as she should have been. I think he thought the attack was probably brought on by a chill. The weather had been very treacherous.â

âTheresa and Charles Arundell had been down that weekend, had they not?â

Miss Lawson pursed her lips together.

âThey had.â

âThe visit was not a success,â Poirot suggested, watching her.

âIt was not.â She added quite spitefully. âMiss Arundell knew what theyâd come for!â

âWhich was?â asked Poirot, watching her.

âMoney!â snapped Miss Lawson. âAnd they didnât get it.â

âNo?â said Poirot.

âAnd I believe thatâs what Dr. Tanios was after too,â she went on.

âDr. Tanios. He was not down that same weekend, was he?â

âYes, he came down on the Sunday. He only stayed about an hour.â

âEveryone seems to have been after poor Miss Arundellâs money,â hazarded Poirot.

âI know, it is not very nice to think of, is it?â

âNo, indeed,â said Poirot. âIt must have been a shock to Charles and Theresa Arundell that weekend when they learned that Miss Arundell had definitely disinherited them!â

Miss Lawson stared at him.

Poirot said:

âIs that not so? Did she not specifically inform them of the fact?â

âAs to that, I couldnât say. I didnât hear anything about it! There wasnât any fuss, or anything, as far as I know. Both Charles and his sister seemed to go away quite cheerful.â

âAh! possibly I have been misinformed. Miss Arundell actually kept her will in the house, did she not?â

Miss Lawson dropped her pince-nez and stooped to pick them up.

âI really couldnât say. No, I think it was with Mr. Purvis.â

âWho was the executor?â

âMr. Purvis was.â

âAfter the death did he come over and look through her papers?â

âYes, he did.â

Poirot looked at her keenly and asked her an unexpected question.

âDo you like Mr. Purvis?â

Miss Lawson was flustered.

âLike Mr. Purvis? Well, really, thatâs difficult to say, isnât it? I mean, Iâm sure heâs a very clever manâthat is a clever lawyer, I mean. But rather a brusque manner! I mean, itâs not very pleasant always, to have someone speaking to you as thoughâwell, really I canât explain what I meanâhe was quite civil and yet at the same time, almost rude if you know what I mean.â

âA difficult situation for you,â said Poirot, sympathetically.

âYes, indeed it was.â

Miss Lawson sighed and shook her head.

Poirot rose to his feet.

âThank you very much, mademoiselle, for all your kindness and help.â

Miss Lawson rose too. She sounded slightly flustered.

âIâm sure thereâs nothing to thank me forânothing at all! So glad if Iâve been able to do anythingâif thereâs anything more I can doââ

Poirot came back from the door. He lowered his voice.

âI think, Miss Lawson, that there is something you ought to be told. Charles and Theresa Arundell are hoping to upset this will.â

A sharp flush of colour came into Miss Lawsonâs cheeks.

âThey canât do that,â she said, sharply. âMy lawyer says so.â

âAh,â said Poirot. âYou have consulted a lawyer, then?â

âCertainly. Why shouldnât I?â

âNo reason at all. A very wise proceeding. Good day to you, mademoiselle.â

When we emerged from Clanroyden Mansions into the street Poirot drew a deep breath.

âHastings, mon ami, that woman is either exactly what she seems or else she is a very good actress.â

âShe doesnât believe Miss Arundellâs death was anything but natural. You can see that,â I said.

Poirot did not answer. There are moments when he is conveniently deaf. He hailed a taxi.

âDurham Hotel, Bloomsbury,â he told the driver.

Sixteen

MRS. TANIOS

âGentleman to see you, madame.â

The woman who was sitting writing at one of the tables in the writing room of the Durham Hotel turned her head and then rose, coming towards us uncertainly.

Mrs. Tanios might have been any age over thirty. She was a tall, thin woman with dark hair, rather prominent light âboiled gooseberryâ eyes and a worried face. A fashionable hat was perched on her head at an unfashionable angle and she wore a rather depressed-looking cotton frock.

âI donât thinkââ she began vaguely.

Poirot bowed.

âI have just come from your cousin, Miss Theresa Arundell.â

âOh! from Theresa? Yes?â

âPerhaps I could have a few minutesâ private conversation?â

Mrs. Tanios looked about her rather vacantly. Poirot suggested a leather sofa at the far end of the room.

As we made our way there a high voice squeaked out:

âMother, where are you going?â

âI shall be just over there. Go on with your letter, darling.â

The child, a thin, peaky-looking girl of about seven, settled down again to what was evidently a laborious task. Her tongue showed through her parted lips in the effort of composition.

The far end of the room was quite deserted. Mrs. Tanios sat down, we did the same. She looked inquiringly at Poirot.

He began:

âIt is in reference to the death of your aunt, the late Miss Emily Arundell.â

Was I beginning to fancy things, or did a look of alarm spring up suddenly in those pale, prominent eyes.

âYes?â

âMiss Arundell,â said Poirot, âaltered her will a very short time before she died. By the new will everything was left to Miss Wilhelmina Lawson. What I want to know, Mrs. Tanios, is whether you will join with your cousins, Miss Theresa and Mr. Charles Arundell, in trying to contest that will?â

âOh!â Mrs. Tanios drew a deep breath. âBut I donât think thatâs possible, is it? I mean, my husband consulted a lawyer and he seemed to think that it was better not to attempt it.â

âLawyers, madame, are cautious people. Their advice is usually to avoid litigation at all costsâand no doubt they are usually right. But there are times when it pays to take a risk. I am not a lawyer myself and therefore I look at the matter differently. Miss ArundellâMiss Theresa Arundell, I meanâis prepared to fight. What about you?â

âIâOh! I really donât know.â She twisted her fingers nervously together: âI should have to consult my husband.â

âCertainly, you must consult your husband before anything definite is undertaken. But what is your own feeling in the matter?â

âWell, really, I donât know.â Mrs. Tanios looked more worried than ever. âIt depends so much on my husband.â

âBut you yourself, what do you think, madame?â

Mrs. Tanios frowned, then she said slowly:

âI donât think I like the idea very much. It seemsâit seems rather indecent, doesnât it?â

âDoes it, madame?â

âYesâafter all if Aunt Emily chose to leave her money away from her family, I suppose we must put up with it.â

âYou do not feel aggrieved in the matter, then?â

âOh, yes, I do.â A quick flush showed in her cheeks. âI think it was most unfair! Most unfair! And so unexpected. It was so unlike Aunt Emily. And so very unfair on the children.â

âYou think it is very unlike Miss Emily Arundell?â

âI think it was extraordinary of her!â

âThen isnât it possible that she was not acting of her own free will? Donât you think that perhaps she was being unduly influenced?â

Mrs. Tanios frowned again. Then she said almost unwillingly:

âThe difficult thing is that I canât see Aunt Emily being influenced by anybody! She was such a decided old lady.â

Poirot nodded approvingly.

âYes, what you say is true. And Miss Lawson is hardly what one would describe as a strong character.â

âNo, sheâs a nice creature reallyârather foolish, perhapsâbut very, very kind. Thatâs partly why I feelââ

âYes, madame?â said Poirot as she paused.

Mrs. Tanios twisted her fingers nervously again as she answered:

âWell, that it would be mean to try and upset the will. I feel certain that it wasnât in any way Miss Lawsonâs doingâIâm sure sheâd be quite incapable of scheming and intriguingââ

âAgain, I agree with you, madame.â

âAnd thatâs why I feel that to go to law would beâwell, would be undignified and spiteful, and besides it would be very expensive, wouldnât it?â

âIt would be expensive, yes.â

âAnd probably useless, too. But you must speak to my husband about it. Heâs got a much better head for business than I have.â

Poirot waited a minute or two, then he said:

âWhat reason do you think lay behind the making of that will?â

A quick colour rose in Mrs. Taniosâ cheeks as she murmured:

âI havenât the least idea.â

âMadame, I have told you I am not a lawyer. But you have not asked me what my profession is.â

She looked at him inquiringly.

âI am a detective. And, a short time before she died, Miss Emily Arundell wrote me a letter.â

Mrs. Tanios leaned forward, her hands pressed themselves together.

âA letter?â she asked, abruptly. âAbout my husband?â

Poirot watched her for a minute or two, then he said, slowly:

âI am afraid I am not at liberty to answer that question.â

âThen it was about my husband.â Her voice rose slightly. âWhat did she say? I can assure you, Mr.âerâI donât know your name.â

âPoirot is my name. Hercule Poirot.â

âI can assure you, Mr. Poirot, that if anything was said in that letter against my husband, it was entirely untrue! I know, too, who will have inspired that letter! And that is another reason why I would rather have nothing to do with any action undertaken by Theresa and Charles! Theresa has never liked my husband. She has said things! I know she has said things! Aunt Emily was prejudiced against my husband because he was not an Englishman, and she may therefore have believed things that Theresa said about him. But they are not true, Mr. Poirot, you can take my word for that!â

âMotherâIâve finished my letter.â

Mrs. Tanios turned quickly. With an affectionate smile she took the letter the little girl held out to her.

âThatâs very nice, darling, very nice, indeed. And thatâs a beautiful drawing of Mickey Mouse.â

âWhat shall I do now, Mother?â

âWould you like to get a nice postcard with a picture on it? Hereâs the money. You go to the gentleman in the hall and choose one and then you can send it to Selim.â

The child moved away. I remembered what Charles Arundell had said. Mrs. Tanios was evidently a devoted wife and mother. She was also, as he had said, a little like an earwig.

âThat is your only child, madame?â

âNo, I have a little boy also. He is out with his father at the moment.â

âThey did not accompany you to Littlegreen House on your visits?â

âOh yes, sometimes, but you see, my aunt was rather old and children were inclined to worry her. But she was very kind and always sent them out nice presents at Christmas.â

âLet me see, when did you last see Miss Emily Arundell?â

âI think it was about ten days before she died.â

âYou and your husband and your two cousins were all down there together, were you not?â

âOh, no, that was the weekend beforeâat Easter.â

âAnd you and your husband were down there the weekend after Easter as well?â

âYes.â

âAnd Miss Arundell was in good health and spirits then?â

âYes, she seemed much as usual.â

âShe was not ill in bed?â

âShe was laid up with a fall she had had, but she came downstairs again while we were there.â

âDid she say anything to you about having made a new will?â

âNo, nothing at all.â

âAnd her manner to you was quite unchanged?â

A slightly longer pause this time before Mrs. Tanios said:

âYes.â

I feel sure that at that moment Poirot and I had the same conviction.

Mrs. Tanios was lying!

Poirot paused a minute and then said:

âPerhaps I should explain that when I asked if Miss Arundellâs manner to you was unchanged, I was not using the âyouâ plural. I referred to you personally.â

Mrs. Tanios replied quickly.

âOh! I see. Aunt Emily was very nice to me. She gave me a little pearl and diamond brooch and she sent ten shillings to each of the children.â

There was no constraint in her manner now. The words came freely with a rush.

âAnd as regards your husbandâwas there no change in her manner to him?â

The constraint had returned. Mrs. Tanios did not meet Poirotâs eye as she replied:

âNo, of course notâwhy should there be?â

âBut since you suggest that your cousin Theresa Arundell might have tried to poison your auntâs mindââ

âShe did! Iâm sure she did!â Mrs. Tanios leant forward eagerly. âYou are quite right. There was a change! Aunt Emily was suddenly far more distant to him. And she behaved very oddly. There was a special digestive mixture he recommendedâeven went to the trouble of getting her someâgoing to the chemist and having it made up. She thanked him and all thatâbut rather stiffly, and later I actually saw her pouring the bottle down the sink!â

Her indignation was quite fierce.

Poirotâs eyes flickered.

âA very odd procedure,â he said. His voice was carefully unexcited.

âI thought it most ungrateful,â said Dr. Taniosâ wife hotly.

âAs you say, elderly ladies distrust foreigners sometimes,â said Poirot. âI am sure they think that English doctors are the only doctors in the world. Insularity accounts for a lot.â

âYes, I suppose it does.â Mrs. Tanios looked slightly mollified.

âWhen do you return to Smyrna, madame?â

âIn a few weeksâ time. My husbandâah! here is my husband and Edward with him.â

Seventeen

DR. TANIOS

I must say that my first sight of Dr. Tanios was rather a shock. I had been imbuing him in my mind with all sorts of sinister attributes. I had been picturing to myself a dark-bearded foreigner with a swarthy aspect and a sinister cast of countenance.

Instead, I saw a rotund, jolly, brown-haired, brown-eyed man. And though it is true he had a beard, it was a modest brown affair that made him look more like an artist.

He spoke English perfectly. His voice had a pleasant timbre and matched the cheerful good humour of his face.

âHere we are,â he said, smiling to his wife. âEdward has been passionately thrilled by his first ride in the tube. He has always been in buses until today.â

Edward was not unlike his father in appearance, but both he and his little sister had a definitely foreign-looking appearance and I understood what Miss Peabody had meant when she described them as rather yellow-looking children.

The presence of her husband seemed to make Mrs. Tanios nervous. Stammering a little she introduced Poirot to him. Me, she ignored.

Dr. Tanios took up the name sharply.

âPoirot? Monsieur Hercule Poirot? But I know that name well! And what brings you to us, M. Poirot?â

âIt is the affair of a lady lately deceased. Miss Emily Arundell,â replied Poirot.

âMy wifeâs aunt? Yesâwhat of her?â

Poirot said slowly:

âCertain matters have arisen in connection with her deathââ

Mrs. Tanios broke in suddenly.

âItâs about the will, Jacob. M. Poirot has been conferring with Theresa and Charles.â

Some of the tensity went out of Dr. Taniosâ attitude. He dropped into a chair.

âAh, the will! An iniquitous willâbut there, it is not my business, I suppose.â

Poirot sketched an account of his interview with the two Arundells (hardly a truthful one, I may say) and cautiously hinted at a fighting chance of upsetting the will.

âYou interest me, M. Poirot, very much. I may say I am of your opinion. Something could be done. I actually went as far as to consult a lawyer on the subject, but his advice was not encouraging. Thereforeââ he shrugged his shoulders.

âLawyers, as I have told your wife, are cautious people. They do not like taking chances. But me, I am different! And you?â

Dr. Tanios laughedâa rich rollicking laugh.

âOh, Iâd take a chance all right! Often have, havenât I, Bella, old girl?â He smiled across at her, and she smiled back at himâbut in a rather mechanical manner, I thought.

He turned his attention back to Poirot.

âI am not a lawyer,â he said. âBut in my opinion it is perfectly clear that that will was made when the old lady was not responsible for what she was doing. That Lawson woman is both clever and cunning.â

Mrs. Tanios moved uneasily. Poirot looked at her quickly.

âYou do not agree, madame?â

She said rather weakly:

âShe has always been very kind. I shouldnât call her clever.â

âSheâs been kind to you,â said Dr. Tanios, âbecause she had nothing to fear from you, my dear Bella. Youâre easily taken in!â

He spoke good-humouredly, but his wife flushed.

âWith me it was different,â he went on. âShe didnât like me. And she made no bones about showing it! Iâll give you an instance. The old lady had a fall down the stairs when we were staying there. I insisted on coming back the following weekend to see how she was. Miss Lawson did her utmost to prevent us. She didnât succeed, but she was annoyed about it, I could see. The reason was clear. She wanted the old lady to herself.â

Again Poirot turned to the wife.

âYou agree, madame?â

Her husband did not give her time to answer.

âBellaâs too kindhearted,â he said. âYou wonât get her to impute bad motives to anybody. But Iâm quite sure I was right. Iâll tell you another thing, M. Poirot. The secret of her ascendency over old Miss Arundell was spiritualism! Thatâs how it was done, depend upon it!â

âYou think so?â

âSure of it, my dear fellow. Iâve seen a lot of that sort of thing. It gets hold of people. Youâd be amazed! Especially anyone of Miss Arundellâs age. Iâd be prepared to bet that thatâs how the suggestion came. Some spiritâpossibly her dead fatherâordered her to alter her will and leave her money to the Lawson woman. She was in bad healthâcredulousââ

There was a very faint movement from Mrs. Tanios. Poirot turned to her.

âYou think it possibleâyes?â

âSpeak up, Bella,â said Dr. Tanios. âTell us your views?â

He looked at her encouragingly. Her quick look back at him was an odd one. She hesitated, then said:

âI know so little about these things. I daresay youâre right, Jacob.â

âDepend upon it Iâm right, eh, M. Poirot?â

Poirot nodded his head.

âIt may beâyes.â Then he said, âYou were down at Market Basing, I think, the weekend before Miss Arundellâs death?â

âWe were down at Easter and again the weekend afterâthat is right.â

âNo, no, I meant the weekend after thatâon the 26th. You were there on the Sunday, I think?â

âOh, Jacob, were you?â Mrs. Tanios looked at him wide-eyed.

He turned quickly.

âYes, you remember? I just ran down in the afternoon. I told you about it.â

Both Poirot and I were looking at her. Nervously she pushed her hat a little farther back on her head.

âSurely you remember, Bella,â her husband continued. âWhat a terrible memory youâve got.â

âOf course!â she apologized, a thin smile on her face. âItâs quite true, I have a shocking memory. And itâs nearly two months ago now.â

âMiss Theresa Arundell and Mr. Charles Arundell were there then, I believe?â said Poirot.

âThey may have been,â said Tanios easily. âI didnât see them.â

âYou were not there very long then?â

âOh, noâjust half an hour or so.â

Poirotâs inquiring gaze seemed to make him a little uneasy.

âMight as well confess,â he said with a twinkle. âI hoped to get a loanâbut I didnât get it. Iâm afraid my wifeâs aunt didnât take to me as much as she might. Pity, because I liked her. She was a sporting old lady.â

âMay I ask you a frank question, Dr. Tanios?â

Was there or was there not a momentary apprehension in Taniosâ eye?

âCertainly, M. Poirot.â

âWhat is your opinion of Charles and Theresa Arundell?â

The doctor looked slightly relieved.

âCharles and Theresa?â he looked at his wife with an affectionate smile. âBella, my dear, I donât suppose you mind my being frank about your family?â

She shook her head, smiling faintly.

âThen itâs my opinion theyâre rotten to the core, both of them! Funnily enough I like Charles the best. Heâs a rogue but heâs a likeable rogue. Heâs no moral sense but he canât help that. People are born that way.â

âAnd Theresa?â

He hesitated.

âI donât know. Sheâs an amazingly attractive young woman. But sheâs quite ruthless, I should say. Sheâd murder anyone in cold blood if it suited her book. At least thatâs my fancy. You may have heard, perhaps, that her mother was tried for murder?â

âAnd acquitted,â said Poirot.

âAs you say, and acquitted,â said Tanios quickly. âBut all the same, it makes oneâwonder sometimes.â

âYou met the young man to whom she is engaged?â

âDonaldson? Yes, he came to supper one night.â

âWhat do you think of him?â

âA clever fellow. I fancy heâll go farâif he gets the chance. It takes money to specialize.â

âYou mean that he is clever in his profession.â

âThat is what I mean, yes. A first-class brain.â He smiled. âNot quite a shining light in society yet. A little precise and prim in manner. He and Theresa make a comic pair. The attraction of opposites. Sheâs a social butterfly and heâs a recluse.â

The two children were bombarding their mother.

âMother, canât we go in to lunch? Iâm hungry. Weâll be late.â

Poirot looked at his watch and gave an exclamation.

âA thousand pardons! I delay your lunch hour.â

Glancing at her husband Mrs. Tanios said, uncertainly:

âPerhaps we can offer youââ

Poirot said quickly:

âYou are most amiable, madame, but I have a luncheon engagement for which I am already late.â

He shook hands with both the Tanioses and with the children. I did the same.

We delayed for a minute or two in the hall. Poirot wanted to put through a telephone call. I waited for him by the hall porterâs desk. I was standing there when I saw Mrs. Tanios come out into the hall and look searchingly around. She had a hunted, harried look. She saw me and came swiftly across to me.

âYour friendâM. PoirotâI suppose he has gone?â

âNo, he is in the telephone box.â

âOh.â

âYou wanted to speak to him?â

She nodded. Her air of nervousness increased.

Poirot came out of the box at that moment and saw us standing together. He came quickly across to us.

âM. Poirot,â she began quickly in a low, hurried voice. âThere is something that I would like to sayâthat I must tell youââ

âYes, madame.â

âIt is importantâvery important. You seeââ

She stopped. Dr. Tanios and the two children had just emerged from the writing room. He came across and joined us.

âHaving a few last words with M. Poirot, Bella?â

His tone was good-humoured, the smile on his face pleasantness itself.

âYesââ She hesitated, then said, âWell, that is really all, M. Poirot. I just wanted you to tell Theresa that we will back her up in anything she decides to do. I quite see that the family must stand together.â

She nodded brightly to us, then taking her husbandâs arm she moved off in the direction of the dining room.

I caught Poirot by the shoulder. âThat wasnât what she started to say, Poirot!â

He shook his head slowly, watching the retreating couple. âShe changed her mind,â I went on. âYes, mon ami, she changed her mind.â âWhy?â âI wish I knew,â he murmured. âShe will tell us some other time,â I said hopefully. âI wonder. I rather fearâshe may notâ¦.â

Eighteen

âA NIGGER IN THE WOODPILEâ

We had lunch at a small restaurant not far away. I was eager to learn what he made of the various members of the Arundell family.

âWell, Poirot?â I asked impatiently.

With a look of reproof Poirot turned his whole attention to the menu. When he had ordered he leaned back in his chair, broke his roll of bread in half and said with a slightly mocking intonation:

âWell, Hastings?â

âWhat do you think of them now youâve seen them all?â

Poirot replied slowly.

âMa foi, I think they are an interesting lot! Really, this case is an enchanting study! It is, how do you say, the box of surprises? Look how each time I say, âI got a letter from Miss Arundell before she died,â something crops up. From Miss Lawson I learn about the missing money. Mrs. Tanios says at once, âAbout my husband?â Why about her husband? Why should Miss Arundell write to me, Hercule Poirot, about Dr. Tanios?â

âThat woman has something on her mind,â I said.

âYes, she knows something. But what? Miss Peabody tells us that Charles Arundell would murder his grandmother for twopence, Miss Lawson says that Mrs. Tanios would murder anyone if her husband told her to do so. Dr. Tanios says that Charles and Theresa are rotten to the core, and he hints that their mother was a murderess and says apparently carelessly that Theresa is capable of murdering anyone in cold blood.

âThey have a pretty opinion of each other, all these people! Dr. Tanios thinks, or says he thinks, that there was undue influence. His wife, before he came in, evidently did not think so. She does not want to contest the will at first. Later she veers round. See you, Hastingsâit is a pot that boils and seethes and every now and then a significant fact comes to the surface and can be seen. There is something in the depths thereâyes, there is something! I swear it, by my faith as Hercule Poirot, I swear it!â

I was impressed in spite of myself by his earnestness.

After a minute or two I said:

âPerhaps you are right, but it seems too vagueâso nebulous.â

âBut you agree with me that there is something?â

âYes,â I said hesitatingly. âI believe I do.â

Poirot leaned across the table. His eyes bored into mine.

âYesâyou have changed. You are no longer amused, superiorâindulging me in my academic pleasures. But what is it that has convinced you? It is not my excellent reasoningânon, ce nâest pas Ã§a! But somethingâsomething quite independentâhas produced an effect on you. Tell me, my friend, what is it that has suddenly induced you to take this matter seriously?â

âI think,â I said slowly, âit was Mrs. Tanios. She lookedâshe lookedâafraid.â¦â

âAfraid of me?â

âNoâno, not of you. It was something else. She spoke so quietly and sensibly to begin withâa natural resentment at the terms of the will, perhaps, but otherwise she seemed so resigned and willing to leave things as they are. It seemed the natural attitude of a well-bred but rather apathetic woman. And then that sudden changeâthe eagerness with which she came over to Dr. Taniosâ point of view. The way she came out into the hall after usâtheâalmost furtive wayââ

Poirot nodded encouragingly.

âAnd another little thing which you may not have noticedââ

âI notice everything!â

âI mean the point about her husbandâs visit to Littlegreen House on that last Sunday. I could swear she knew nothing of itâthat it was the most complete surprise to herâand yet she took her cue so quicklyâagreed that he had told her about it and that she had forgotten. IâI didnât like it, Poirot.â

âYou are quite right, Hastingsâit was significant that.â

âIt left an ugly impression ofâof fear on me.â

Poirot nodded his head slowly.

âYou felt the same?â I asked.

âYesâthat impression was definitely in the air.â He paused and then went on. âAnd yet you liked Tanios, did you not? You found him an agreeable man, openhearted, good-natured, genial. Attractive in spite of your insular prejudice against the Argentines, the Portuguese and the Greeksâa thoroughly congenial personality?â

âYes,â I admitted. âI did.â

In the silence that ensued, I watched Poirot. Presently I said:

âWhat are you thinking of, Poirot?â

âI am reflecting on various people, handsome young Norman Gale, bluff, hearty Evelyn Howard, the pleasant Dr. Sheppard, the quiet, reliable Knighton.â

For a moment I did not understand these references to people who had figured in past cases.

âWhat of them?â I asked.

âThey were all delightful personalitiesâ¦.â

âMy goodness, Poirot, do you really think that Taniosââ

âNo, no. Do not jump to conclusions, Hastings. I am only pointing out that oneâs own personal reactions to people are singularly unsafe guides. One must go not by oneâs feelings but by facts.â

âHâm,â I said. âFacts are not our strong suit. No, no, Poirot, donât go over it all again!â

âI will be brief, my friend, do not fear. To begin with, we have quite certainly a case of attempted murder. You admit that, do you not?â

âYes,â I said slowly. âI do.â

I had, up to now, been a little sceptical over Poirotâs (as I thought) somewhat fanciful reconstruction of the events on the night of Easter Tuesday. I was forced to admit, however, that his deductions were perfectly logical.

âTrÃ¨s bien. Now one cannot have attempted murder without a murderer. One of the people present on that evening was a murdererâin intention if not in fact.â

âGranted.â

âThen that is our starting pointâa murderer. We make a few inquiriesâwe, as you would sayâstir the mudâand what do we getâseveral very interesting accusations uttered apparently casually in the course of conversations.â

âYou think they were not casual?â

âImpossible to tell at the moment! Miss Lawsonâs innocent seeming way of bringing out the fact that Charles threatened his aunt may have been quite innocent or it may not. Dr. Taniosâ remarks about Theresa Arundell may have absolutely no malice behind them, but be merely a physicianâs genuine opinion. Miss Peabody, on the other hand, is probably quite genuine in her opinion of Charles Arundellâs proclivitiesâbut it is, after all, merely an opinion. So it goes on. There is a saying, is there not, a nigger in the woodpile. Eh bien, that is just what I find here. There isânot a niggerâbut a murderer in our woodpile.â

âWhat Iâd like to know is, what you yourself really think, Poirot?â

âHastingsâHastingsâI do not permit myself to âthinkâânot, that is, in the sense that you are using the word. At the moment I only make certain reflections.â

âSuch as?â

âI consider the question of motive. What are the likely motives for Miss Arundellâs death? Clearly the most obvious one is gain. Who would have gained by Miss Arundellâs deathâif she had died on Easter Tuesday?â

âEveryoneâwith the exception of Miss Lawson.â

âPrecisely.â

âWell, at any rate, one person is automatically cleared.â

âYes,â said Poirot thoughtfully. âIt would seem so. But the interesting thing is that the person who would have gained nothing if death had occurred on Easter Tuesday, gains everything when death occurs two weeks later.â

âWhat are you getting at, Poirot?â I said, slightly puzzled.

âCause and effect, my friend, cause and effect.â

I looked at him doubtfully.

He went on:

âProceed logically! What exactly happenedâafter the accident?â

I hate Poirot in this mood. Whatever one says is bound to be wrong! I proceeded with intense caution.

âMiss Arundell was laid up in bed.â

âExactly. With plently of time to think. What next?â

âShe wrote to you.â Poirot nodded.

âYes, she wrote to me. And the letter was not posted. A thousand pities, that.â

âDo you suspect that there was something fishy about that letter not being posted?â

Poirot frowned.

âThere, Hastings, I have to confess that I do not know. I thinkâin view of everything I am almost sureâthat the letter was genuinely mislaid. I believeâbut I cannot be sureâthat the fact that such a letter was written was unsuspected by anybody. Continueâwhat happened next?â

I reflected.

âThe lawyerâs visit,â I suggested.

âYesâshe sent for her lawyer and in due course he arrived.â

âAnd she made a new will,â I continued.

âPrecisely. She made a new and very unexpected will. Now, in view of that will we have to consider very carefully a statement made to us by Ellen. Ellen said, if you remember, that Miss Lawson was particularly anxious that the news that Bob had been out all night should not get to Miss Arundellâs ears.â

âButâoh, I seeâno, I donât. Or do I begin to see what you are hinting atâ¦?â

âI doubt it!â said Poirot. âBut if you do, you realize, I hope, the supreme importance of that statement.â

He fixed me with a fierce eye.

âOf course. Of course,â I said hurriedly.

âAnd then,â continued Poirot, âvarious other things happen. Charles and Theresa come for the weekend, and Miss Arundell shows the new will to Charlesâor so he says.â

âDonât you believe him?â

âI only believe statements that are checked. Miss Arundell does not show it to Theresa.â

âBecause she thought Charles would tell her.â

âBut he doesnât. Why doesnât he?â

âAccording to Charles himself he did tell her.â

âTheresa said quite positively that he didnâtâa very interesting and suggestive little clash. And when we depart she calls him a fool.â

âIâm getting fogged, Poirot,â I said plaintively.

âLet us return to the sequence of events. Dr. Tanios comes down on Sundayâpossibly without the knowledge of his wife.â

âI should say certainly without her knowledge.â

âLet us say probably. To proceed! Charles and Theresa leave on the Monday. Miss Arundell is in good health and spirits. She eats a good dinner and sits in the dark with the Tripps and the Lawson. Towards the end of the sÃ©ance she is taken ill. She retires to bed and dies four days later and Miss Lawson inherits all her money, and Captain Hastings says she died a natural death!â

âWhereas Hercule Poirot says she was given poison in her dinner on no evidence at all!â

âI have some evidence, Hastings. Think over our conversation with the Misses Tripp. And also one statement that stood out from Miss Lawsonâs somewhat rambling conversation.â

âDo you mean the fact that she had curry for dinner? Curry would mask the taste of a drug. Is that what you meant?â

Poirot said slowly:

âYes, the curry has a certain significance, perhaps.â

âBut,â I said, âif what you advance (in defiance of all the medical evidence) is true, only Miss Lawson or one of the maids could have killed her.â

âI wonder.â

âOr the Tripp women? Nonsense. I canât believe that! All these people are palpably innocent.â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âRemember this, Hastings, stupidityâor even silliness, for that matterâcan go hand in hand with intense cunning. And do not forget the original attempt at murder. That was not the handiwork of a particularly clever or complex brain. It was a very simple little murder, suggested by Bob and his habit of leaving the ball at the top of the stairs. The thought of putting a thread across the stairs was quite simple and easyâa child could have thought of it!â

I frowned.

âYou meanââ

âI mean that what we are seeking to find here is just one thingâthe wish to kill. Nothing more than that.â

âBut the poison must have been a very skilful one to leave no trace,â I argued. âSomething that the ordinary person would have difficulty in getting hold of. Oh, damn it all, Poirot. I simply canât believe it now. You canât know! Itâs all pure hypothesis.â

âYou are wrong, my friend. As the result of our various conversations this morning. I have now something definite to go upon. Certain faint but unmistakable indications. The only thing isâI am afraid.â

âAfraid? Of what?â

He said gravely:

âOf disturbing the dogs that sleep. That is one of your proverbs, is it not? To let the sleeping dogs lie! That is what our murderer does at presentâsleeps happily in the sunâ¦ Do we not know, you and I, Hastings, how often a murderer, his confidence disturbed, turns and kills a secondâor even a third time!â

âYou are afraid of that happening?â

He nodded.

âYes. If there is a murderer in the woodpileâand I think there is, Hastings. Yes, I think there isâ¦.â

Nineteen

VISIT TO MR. PURVIS

Poirot called for his bill and paid it.

âWhat do we do next?â I asked.

âWe are going to do what you suggested earlier in the morning. We are going to Harchester to interview Mr. Purvis. That is why I telephoned from the Durham Hotel.â

âYou telephoned to Purvis?â

âNo, to Theresa Arundell. I asked her to write me a letter of introduction to him. To approach him with any chance of success we must be accredited by the family. She promised to send it round to my flat by hand. It should be awaiting us there now.â

We found not only the letter but Charles Arundell who had brought it round in person.

âNice place you have here, M. Poirot,â he remarked, glancing round the sitting room of the flat.

At that moment my eye was caught by an imperfectly shut drawer in the desk. A small slip of paper was preventing it from shutting.

Now if there was one thing absolutely incredible it was that Poirot should shut a drawer in such a fashion! I looked thoughtfully at Charles. He had been alone in this room awaiting our arrival. I had no doubt that he had been passing the time by snooping among Poirotâs papers. What a young crook the fellow was! I felt myself burning with indignation.

Charles himself was in a most cheerful mood.

âHere we are,â he remarked, presenting a letter. âAll present and correctâand I hope youâll have more luck with old Purvis than we did.â

âHe held out very little hope, I suppose?â

âDefinitely discouragingâ¦ In his opinion the Lawson bird had clearly got away with the doings.â

âYou and your sister have never considered an appeal to the ladyâs feelings?â

Charles grinned.

âI considered itâyes. But there seemed to be nothing doing. My eloquence was in vain. The pathetic picture of the disinherited black sheepâand a sheep not so black as he was paintedâ(or so I endeavoured to suggest)âfailed to move the woman! You know, she definitely seems to dislike me! I donât know why.â He laughed. âMost old women fall for me quite easily. They think Iâve never been properly understood and that Iâve never had a fair chance!â

âA useful point of view.â

âOh, itâs been extremely useful before now. But, as I say, with the Lawson, nothing doing. I think sheâs rather anti-man. Probably used to chain herself to railings and wave a suffragette flag in good old prewar days.â

âAh, well,â said Poirot, shaking his head. âIf simpler methods failââ

âWe must take to crime,â said Charles cheerfully.

âAha,â said Poirot. âNow, speaking of crime, young man, is it true that you threatened your auntâthat you said that you would âbump her off,â or words to that effect?â

Charles sat down in a chair, stretched his legs out in front of him and stared hard at Poirot.

âNow who told you that?â he said.

âNo matter. Is it true?â

âWell, there are elements of truth about it.â

âCome, come, let me hear the storyâthe true story, mind.â

âOh, you can have it, sir. There was nothing melodramatic about it. Iâd been attempting a touchâif you gather what I mean.â

âI comprehend.â

âWell, that didnât go according to plan. Aunt Emily intimated that any efforts to separate her and her money would be quite unavailing! Well, I didnât lose my temper, but I put it to her plainly. âNow look here, Aunt Emily,â I said, âyou know, youâre going about things in such a way that youâll end by getting bumped off!â She said, rather sniffily, what did I mean. âJust that,â I said. âHere are your friends and relations all hanging around with their mouths open, all as poor as church miceâwhatever church mice may beâall hoping. And what do you do? Sit down on the dibs and refuse to part. Thatâs the way people get themselves murdered. Take it from me, if youâre bumped off, youâll only have yourself to blame.â

âShe looked at me then, over the top of her spectacles in a way she had. Looked at me rather nastily. âOh,â she said drily enough, âso thatâs your opinion, is it?â âIt is,â I said. âYou loosen up a bit, thatâs my advice to you.â âThank you, Charles,â she said, âfor your well-meant advice. But I think youâll find Iâm well able to take care of myself.â âPlease yourself, Aunt Emily,â I said. I was grinning all over my faceâand I fancy she wasnât as grim as she tried to look. âDonât say I didnât warn you.â âIâll remember it,â she said.â

He paused.

âThatâs all there was to it.â

âAnd so,â said Poirot, âyou contented yourself with a few pound notes you found in a drawer.â

Charles stared at him, then burst out laughing.

âI take off my hat to you,â he said. âYouâre some sleuth! How did you get hold of that?â

âIt is true, then?â

âOh, itâs true enough! I was damned hard up. Had to get money somewhere. Found a nice little wad of notes in a drawer and helped myself to a few. I was very modestâdidnât think my little subtraction would be noticed. Even then, theyâd probably think it was the servants.â

Poirot said drily:

âIt would be very serious for the servants if such an idea had been entertained.â

Charles shrugged his shoulders.

âEveryone for himself,â he murmured.

âAnd le diable takes the hindermost,â said Poirot. âThat is your creed, is it?â

Charles was looking at him curiously.

âI didnât know the old lady had ever spotted it. How did you come to know about itâand about the bumping off conversation?â

âMiss Lawson told me.â

âThe sly old pussy cat!â He looked, I thought, just a shade disturbed. âShe doesnât like me and she doesnât like Theresa,â he said presently. âYou donât thinkâsheâs got anything more up her sleeve?â

âWhat could she have?â

âOh, I donât know. Itâs just that she strikes me as a malicious old devil.â He paused. âShe hates Theresaâ¦â he added.

âDid you know, Mr. Arundell, that Dr. Tanios came down to see your aunt on the Sunday before she died?â

âWhatâon the Sunday that we were there?â

âYes. You did not see him?â

âNo. We were out for a walk in the afternoon. I suppose he must have come then. Funny that Aunt Emily didnât mention his visit. Who told you?â

âMiss Lawson.â

âLawson again? She seems to be a mine of information.â

He paused and then said:

âYou know, Tanios is a nice fellow. I like him. Such a jolly, smiling chap.â

âHe has an attractive personality, yes,â said Poirot.

Charles rose to his feet.

âIf Iâd been him Iâd have murdered the dreary Bella years ago! Doesnât she strike you as the type of woman who is marked out by fate to be a victim? You know, I should never be surprised if bits of her turned up in a trunk at Margate or somewhere!â

âIt is not a pretty action that you attribute there to her husband the good doctor,â said Poirot severely.

âNo,â said Charles meditatively. âAnd I donât think really that Tanios would hurt a fly. Heâs much too kindhearted.â

âAnd what about you? Would you do murder if it were made worth while?â

Charles laughedâa ringing, genuine laugh.

âThinking about a spot of blackmail, M. Poirot? Nothing doing. I can assure you that I didnât putââ he stopped suddenly and then went onââstrychnine in Aunt Emilyâs soup.â

With a careless wave of his hand he departed.

âWere you trying to frighten him, Poirot?â I asked. âIf so, I donât think you succeeded. He showed no guilty reactions whatsoever.â

âNo?â

âNo. He seemed quite unruffled.â

âCurious that pause he made,â said Poirot.

âA pause?â

âYes. A pause before the word strychnine. Almost as though he had been about to say something else and thought better of it.â

I shrugged my shoulders.

âHe was probably thinking of a good, venomous-sounding poison.â

âIt is possible. It is possible. But let us set off. We will, I think, stay the night at the George in Market Basing.â

Ten minutes later saw us speeding through London, bound once more for the country.

We arrived in Harchester about four oâclock and made our way straight to the offices of Purvis, Purvis, Charlesworth and Purvis.

Â 

Mr. Purvis was a big solidly-built man with white hair and a rosy complexion. He had a little the look of a country squire. His manner was courteous but reserved.

He read the letter we had brought and then looked at us across the top of his desk. It was a shrewd look and a somewhat searching one.

âI know you by name, of course, M. Poirot,â he said politely. âMiss Arundell and her brother have, I gather, engaged your services in this matter, but exactly in what capacity you propose to be of use to them I am at a loss to imagine.â

âShall we say, Mr. Purvis, a fuller investigation of all the circumstances?â

The lawyer said drily:

âMiss Arundell and her brother have already had my opinion as to the legal position. The circumstances were perfectly clear and admit of no misrepresentation.â

âPerfectly, perfectly,â said Poirot quickly. âBut you will not, I am sure, object to just repeating them so that I can envisage the situation clearly.â

The lawyer bowed his head.

âI am at your service.â

Poirot began:

âMiss Arundell wrote to you giving you instructions on the seventeenth of April, I believe?â

Mr. Purvis consulted some papers on the table before him.

âYes, that is correct.â

âCan you tell me what she said?â

âShe asked me to draw up a will. There were to be legacies to two servants and to three or four charities. The rest of her estate was to pass to Wilhelmina Lawson absolutely.â

âYou will pardon me, Mr. Purvis, but you were surprised?â

âI will admit thatâyes, I was surprised.â

âMiss Arundell had made a will previously?â

âYes, she had made a will five years ago.â

âThat will, after certain small legacies, left her property to her nephew and nieces?â

âThe bulk of her estate was to be divided equally between the children of her brother Thomas and the daughter of Arabella Biggs, her sister.

âWhat has happened to that will?â

âAt Miss Arundellâs request I brought it with me when I visited her at Littlegreen House on April 21st.â

âI should be much obliged to you, Mr. Purvis, if you would give me a full description of everything that occurred on that occasion.â

The lawyer paused for a minute or two. Then he said, very precisely:

âI arrived at Littlegreen House at three oâclock in the afternoon. One of my clerks accompanied me. Miss Arundell received me in the drawing room.â

âHow did she look to you?â

âShe seemed to me in good health in spite of the fact that she was walking with a stick. That, I understand, was on account of a fall she had had recently. Her general health, as I say, seemed good. She struck me as slightly nervous and overexcited in manner.â

âWas Miss Lawson with her?â

âShe was with her when I arrived. But she left us immediately.â

âAnd then?â

âMiss Arundell asked me if I had done what she had asked me to do, and if I had brought the new will with me for her to sign.

âI said I had done so. Iâerââ he hesitated for a minute or two, then went on stiffly. âI may as well say that, as far as it was proper for me to do so, I remonstrated with Miss Arundell. I pointed out to her that this new will might be regarded as grossly unfair to her family who were, after all, her own flesh and blood.â

âAnd her answer?â

âShe asked me if the money was or was not her own to do with as she liked. I replied that certainly that was the case. âVery well then,â she said. I reminded her that she had known this Miss Lawson a very short time, and I asked her if she was quite sure that the injustice she was doing her own family was legitimate. Her reply was, âMy dear friend, I know perfectly what I am doing.ââ

âHer manner was excited, you say.â

âI think I can definitely say that it was, but understand me, M. Poirot, she was in full possession of her faculties. She was in every sense of the word fully competent to manage her own affairs. Though my sympathies are entirely with Miss Arundellâs family, I should be obliged to maintain that in any court of law.â

âThat is quite understood. Proceed, I pray you.â

âMiss Arundell read through her existing will. Then she stretched out her hand for the one I had had drawn up. I may say that I would have preferred to submit a draft first but she had impressed upon me that the will must be brought her ready to sign. That presented no difficulties as its provisions were so simple. She read it through, nodded her head and said she would sign it straightaway. I felt it my duty to enter one last protest. She heard me out patiently, but said that her mind was quite made up. I called in my clerk and he and the gardener acted as witnesses to her signature. The servants, of course, were ineligible owing to the fact that they were beneficiaries under the will.â

âAnd afterwards, did she entrust the will to you for safekeeping?â

âNo, she placed it in a drawer of her desk, which drawer she locked.â

âWhat was done with the original will? Did she destroy it?â

âNo, she locked it away with the other.â

âAfter her death, where was the will found?â

âIn that same drawer. As executor I had her keys and went through her papers and business documents.â

âWere both wills in the drawer?â

âYes, exactly as she had placed them there.â

âDid you question her at all as to the motive for this rather surprising action?â

âI did. But I got no satisfactory answer. She merely assured me that âshe knew what she was doing.ââ

âNevertheless you were surprised at the proceeding?â

âVery surprised. Miss Arundell, I should say, had always shown herself to have a strong sense of family feeling.â

Poirot was silent a minute, then he asked:

âYou did not, I suppose, have any conversation with Miss Lawson on the subject?â

âCertainly not. Such a proceeding would have been highly improper.â

Mr. Purvis looked scandalized at the mere suggestion.

âDid Miss Arundell say anything to indicate that Miss Lawson knew that a will was being drawn in her favour?â

âOn the contrary. I asked her if Miss Lawson was aware of what was being done, and Miss Arundell snapped out that she knew nothing about it.

âIt was advisable, I thought, that Miss Lawson should not be aware of what had happened. I endeavoured to hint as much and Miss Arundell seemed quite of my opinion.â

âJust why did you stress that point, Mr. Purvis?â

The old gentleman returned his glance with dignity.

âSuch things, in my opinion, are better undiscussed. Also it might have led to future disappointment.â

âAh,â Poirot drew a long breath. âI take it that you thought it probable that Miss Arundell might change her mind in the near future?â

The lawyer bowed his head.

âThat is so. I fancied that Miss Arundell had had some violent altercation with her family. I thought it probable that when she cooled down, she would repent of her rash decision.â

âIn which case she would have doneâwhat?â

âShe would have given me instructions to prepare a new will.â

âShe might have taken the simpler course of merely destroying the will lately made, in which case the older will would have been good?â

âThat is a somewhat debatable point. All earlier wills, you understand, had been definitely revoked by the testator.â

âBut Miss Arundell would not have had the legal knowledge to appreciate that point. She may have thought that by destroying the latter will, the earlier one would stand.â

âIt is quite possible.â

âActually, if she died intestate, her money would pass to her family?â

âYes. One half to Mrs. Tanios, one half divisible between Charles and Theresa Arundell. But the fact remains, however, that she did not change her mind! She died with her decision unchanged.â

âBut that,â said Poirot, âis where I come in.â

The lawyer looked at him inquiringly.

Poirot leaned forward.

âSupposing,â he said, âthat Miss Arundell, on her deathbed, wished to destroy that will. Supposing that she believed that she had destroyed itâbut that, in reality, she only destroyed the first will.â

Mr. Purvis shook his head.

âNo, both wills were intact.â

âThen supposing she destroyed a dummy willâunder the impression that she was destroying the genuine document. She was very ill, remember, it would be easy to deceive her.â

âYou would have to bring evidence to that effect,â said the lawyer sharply.

âOh! undoubtedlyâundoubtedlyâ¦.â

âIs thereâmay I askâis there any reason to believe something of that kind happened?â

Poirot drew back a little.

âI should not like to commit myself at this stageââ

âNaturally, naturally,â said Mr. Purvis, agreeing with a phrase that was familiar to him.

âBut may I say, strictly in confidence, that there are some curious features about this business!â

âReally? You donât say so?â

Mr. Purvis rubbed his hands together with a kind of pleasurable anticipation.

âWhat I wanted from you and what I have got,â continued Poirot, âis your opinion that Miss Arundell would, sooner or later, have changed her mind and relented towards her family.â

âThat is only my personal opinion, of course,â the lawyer pointed out.

âMy dear sir, I quite understand. You do not, I believe, act for Miss Lawson?â

âI advised Miss Lawson to consult an independent solicitor,â said Mr. Purvis.

His tone was wooden.

Poirot shook hands with him, thanking him for his kindness and the information he had given us.

Twenty

SECOND VISIT TO LITTLEGREEN HOUSE

On our way from Harchester to Market Basing, a matter of some ten miles, we discussed the situation.

âHave you any grounds at all, Poirot, for that suggestion you threw out?â

âYou mean that Miss Arundell may have believed that that particular will was destroyed? No, mon amiâfrankly, no. But it was incumbent upon meâyou must perceive thatâto make some sort of suggestion! Mr. Purvis is a shrewd man. Unless I threw out some hint of the kind I did, he would ask himself what I could be doing in this affair.â

âDo you know what you remind me of, Poirot?â I said.

âNo, mon ami.â

âOf a juggler juggling with a lot of different coloured balls! They are all in the air at once.â

âThe different coloured balls are the different lies I tellâeh?â

âThatâs about the size of it.â

âAnd some day, you think, there will come the grand crash?â

âYou canât keep it up forever,â I pointed out.

âThat is true. There will come the grand moment when I catch the balls one by one, make my bow, and walk off the stage.â

âTo the sound of thunderous applause from the audience.â

Poirot looked at me rather suspiciously.

âThat well may be, yes.â

âWe didnât learn very much from Mr. Purvis,â I remarked, edging away from the danger point.

âNo, except that it confirmed our general ideas.â

âAnd it confirmed Miss Lawsonâs statement that she knew nothing about the will until after the old ladyâs death.â

âMe, I do not see that it confirmed anything of the sort.â

âPurvis advised Miss Arundell not to tell her, and Miss Arundell replied that she had no intention of doing so.â

âYes, that is all very nice and clear. But there are keyholes, my friend, and keys that unlock locked drawers.â

âDo you really think that Miss Lawson would eavesdrop and poke and pry around?â I asked rather shocked.

Poirot smiled.

âMiss Lawsonâshe is not an old school tie, mon cher. We know that she overheard one conversation which she was not supposed to have heardâI refer to the one in which Charles and his aunt discussed the question of bumping off miserly relatives.â

I admitted the truth of that.

âSo you see, Hastings, she may easily have overheard some of the conversation between Mr. Purvis and Miss Arundell. He has a good resonant voice.â

âAs for poking and prying,â went on Poirot. âMore people do it than you would suppose. Timid and easily frightened people such as Miss Lawson often acquire a number of mildly dishonourable habits which are a great solace and recreation to them.â

âReally, Poirot!â I protested.

He nodded his head a good many times.

âBut yes, it is so, it is so.â

We arrived at the George and took a couple of rooms. Then we strolled off in the direction of Littlegreen House.

When we rang the bell, Bob immediately answered the challenge. Dashing across the hall, barking furiously, he flung himself against the front door.

âIâll have your liver and your lights!â he snarled. âIâll tear you limb from limb! Iâll teach you to try and get into this house! Just wait until I get my teeth into you.â

A soothing murmur added itself to the clamour.

âNow then, boy. Now then, thereâs a good doggie. Come in here.â

Bob, dragged by the collar, was immured in the morning room much against his will.

âAlways spoiling a fellowâs sport,â he grumbled. âFirst chance Iâve had of giving anyone a really good fright for ever so long. Just aching to get my teeth into a trouser leg. You be careful of yourself without me to protect you.â

The door of the morning room was shut on him, and Ellen drew back bolts and bars and opened the front door.

âOh, itâs you, sir,â she exclaimed.

She drew the door right back. A look of highly pleasurable excitement spread over her face.

âCome in, sir, if you please, sir.â

We entered the hall. From beneath the door on the left, loud snuffling sounds proceeded, interspersed with growls. Bob was endeavouring to âplaceâ us correctly.

âYou can let him out,â I suggested.

âI will, sir. Heâs quite all right, really, but he makes such a noise and rushes at people so it frightens them. Heâs a splendid watchdog though.â

She opened the morning room door, and Bob shot through like a suddenly projected cannonball.

âWho is it? Where are they? Oh, there you are. Dear me, donât I seem to rememberââ sniffâsniffâsniffâprolonged snort. âOf course! We have met!â

âHullo, old man,â I said. âHow goes it?â

Bob wagged his tail perfunctorily.

âNicely, thank you. Let me just seeââ he resumed his researches. âBeen talking to a spaniel lately, I smell. Foolish dogs, I think. Whatâs this? A cat? That is interesting. Wish we had her here. Weâd have rare sport. Hâmânot a bad bull terrier.â

Having correctly diagnosed a visit I had lately paid to some doggy friends, he transferred his attention to Poirot, inhaled a noseful of benzine and walked away reproachfully.

âBob,â I called.

He threw me a look over his shoulder.

âItâs all right. I know what Iâm doing. Iâll be back in a jiffy.â

âThe house is all shut up. I hope youâll excuseââ Ellen hurried into the morning room and began to unfasten the shutters.

âExcellent, this is excellent,â said Poirot, following her in and sitting down. As I was about to join him, Bob reappeared from some mysterious region, ball in mouth. He dashed up the stairs and sprawled himself on the top step, his ball between his paws. His tail wagged slowly.

âCome on,â he said. âCome on. Letâs have a game.â

My interest in detection momentarily eclipsed, we played for some minutes, then with a feeling of guilt I hurried into the morning room.

Poirot and Ellen seemed to be well away on the subject of illness and medicines.

âSome little white pills, sir, thatâs all she used to take. Two or three after every meal. That was Dr. Graingerâs orders. Oh, yes, she was very good about it. Tiny little things they were. And then there was some stuff Miss Lawson swore by. Capsules, they were, Dr. Loughbarrowâs Liver Capsules. You can see advertisements of them on all the hoardings.â

âShe took those too?â

âYes. Miss Lawson got her them to begin with, and she thought they did her good.â

âDid Dr. Grainger know?â

âOh, sir, he didnât mind. âYou take âem if you think they do you good,â heâd say to her. And she said, âWell, you may laugh, but they do do me good. A lot better than any of your physic.â And Dr. Grainger, he laughed, and said faith was worth all the drugs ever invented.â

âShe didnât take anything else?â

âNo. Miss Bellaâs husband, the foreign doctor, he went out and got her a bottle of something, but although she thanked him very politely she poured it away and that I know for a fact! And I think she was right. You donât know where you are with these foreign things.â

âMrs. Tanios saw her pouring it away, didnât she?â

âYes, and Iâm afraid she was rather hurt about it, poor lady. Iâm sorry, too, for no doubt it was kindly meant on the doctorâs part.â

âNo doubt. No doubt. I suppose any medicines that were left in the house were thrown away when Miss Arundell died?â

Ellen looked a little surprised at the question.

âOh, yes, sir. The nurse threw away some and Miss Lawson got rid of all the old lot in the medicine cupboard in the bathroom.â

âIs that where theâerâDr. Loughbarrowâs Liver Capsules were kept?â

âNo, they were kept in the corner cupboard in the dining room so as to be handy for taking after meals as directed.â

âWhat nurse attended Miss Arundell? Can you give me her name and address?â

Ellen could supply that at once and did.

Poirot continued to ask questions about Miss Arundellâs last illness.

Ellen gave details with relish, describing the sickness, the pain, the onset of jaundice, and the final delirium. I donât know whether Poirot got any satisfaction out of the catalogue. He listened patiently enough and occasionally interpolated some pertinent little question, usually about Miss Lawson and the amount of time she spent in the sickroom. He was also exceedingly interested in the diet administered to the ill woman, comparing it with that administered to some dead relative (nonexistent) of his own.

Seeing that they were enjoying themselves so much, I stole out in the hall again. Bob had gone to sleep on the landing, his ball lying under his chin.

I whistled to him and he sprang up, alert at once. This time, however, doubtless out of offended dignity, he made a protracted business of despatching the ball down to me, several times catching it back at the last minute.

âDisappointed, arenât you? Well, perhaps I will let you have it this time.â

When I next went back to the morning room, Poirot was talking about Dr. Taniosâ surprise visit on the Sunday before the old ladyâs death.

âYes, sir, Mr. Charles and Miss Theresa were out for a walk. Dr. Tanios wasnât expected, I know. The mistress was lying down and she was very surprised when I told her who it was. âDr. Tanios?â she said. âIs Mrs. Tanios with him?â I told her no, the gentleman had come alone. So she said to tell him sheâd be down in a minute.â

âDid he stay long?â

âNot above an hour, sir. He didnât look too pleased when he went away.â

âHave you any idea of theâerâpurpose of his visit?â

âI couldnât say, Iâm sure, sir.â

âYou did not happen to hear anything?â

Ellenâs face flushed suddenly.

âNo, I did not, sir! Iâve never been one to listen at doors, no matter what some people will doâand people who ought to know better!â

âOh, but you misunderstand me.â Poirot was eager, apologetic. âIt just occurred to me that perhaps you might have brought in tea while the gentleman was there and if so, you could hardly have helped hearing what he and your mistress were talking about.â

Ellen was mollified.

âIâm sorry, sir, I misunderstood you. No, Dr. Tanios didnât stay for tea.â

Poirot looked up at her and twinkled a little.

âAnd if I want to know what he came down forâwell, it is possible that Miss Lawson might be in a position to know? Is that it?â

âWell, if she doesnât know, sir, nobody does,â said Ellen with a sniff.

âLet me see,â Poirot frowned as though trying to remember. âMiss Lawsonâs bedroomâwas it next to Miss Arundellâs?â

âNo, sir. Miss Lawsonâs room is right at the top of the staircase. I can show you, sir.â

Poirot accepted the offer. As he went up the stairs he kept close to the wall side, and just as he reached the top uttered an exclamation and stooped to his trouser leg.

âAhâI have just caught a threadâah, yes, there is a nail here in the skirting board.â

âYes, there is, sir. I think it must have worked loose or something. Iâve caught my dress on it once or twice.â

âHas it been like that long?â

âWell, some time, Iâm afraid, sir. I noticed it first when the mistress was laid upâafter her accident, that was, sirâI tried to pull it out but I couldnât.â

âIt had a thread round it sometime, I think.â

âThatâs right, sir, there was a little loop of thread, I remember. I canât think what for, Iâm sure.â

But there was no suspicion in Ellenâs voice. To her it was just one of the things that occur in houses and which one does not bother to explain!

Poirot had stepped into the room at the top of the stairs. It was of moderate size. There were two windows directly facing us. There was a dressing table across one corner and between the windows was a wardrobe with a long mirror. The bed was to the right behind the door facing the windows. On the left-hand wall of the room was a big mahogany chest of drawers and a marble-topped washstand.

Poirot looked round the room thoughtfully and then came out again on the landing. He went along the passage, passing two other bedrooms and then came to the large bedchamber which had belonged to Emily Arundell.

âThe nurse had the little room next door,â Ellen explained.

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

As we descended the stairs, he asked if he might walk round the garden.

âOh, yes, sir, certainly. It looks lovely just now.â

âThe gardener is still employed?â

âAngus? Oh, yes, Angus is still here. Miss Lawson wants everything kept nice because she thinks it will sell better that way.â

âI think she is wise. To let a place run to seed is not the good policy.â

The garden was very peaceful and beautiful. The wide borders were full of lupins and delphiniums and great scarlet poppies. The peonies were in bud. Wandering along we came presently to a potting shed where a big, rugged old man was busy. He saluted us respectfully and Poirot engaged him in conversation.

A mention that we had seen Mr. Charles that day thawed the old man and he became quite garrulous.

âAlways a one, he was! Iâve known him come out here with half a gooseberry pie and the cook hunting high and low for it! And heâd go back with such an innocent face that durned if they wouldnât say it must have been the cat, though Iâve never known a cat eat a gooseberry pie! Oh, heâs a one, Mr. Charles is!â

âHe was down here in April, wasnât he?â

âYes, down here two weekends. Just before the missus died, it was.â

âDid you see much of him?â

âA good bit, I did. There wasnât much for a young gentleman to do down here, and thatâs a fact. Used to stroll up to the George and have one. And then heâd potter round here, asking me questions about one thing and another.â

âAbout flowers?â

âYesâflowersâand weeds too.â The old man chuckled.

âWeeds?â

Poirotâs voice held a sudden, tentative note. He turned his head and looked searchingly along the shelves. His eye stopped at a tin.

âPerhaps he wanted to know how you got rid of them?â

âHe did that!â

âI suppose this is the stuff you use.â

Poirot turned the tin gently round and read the label.

âThatâs it,â said Angus. âVery handy stuff it is.â

âDangerous stuff?â

âNot if you use it right. Itâs arsenic, of course. Had a bit of a joke about that, Mr. Charles and I did. Said as how when he had a wife and didnât like her, heâd come to me and get a little of that stuff to put her away with! Maybe, I sez, sheâll be the one that wants to do away with you! Ah, that made him laugh proper, that did! It was a good one, that!â

We laughed as in duty bound. Poirot prised up the lid of the tin.

âNearly empty,â he murmured.

The old man had a look.

âAye, thereâs more gone than I thought. No idea Iâd used that much. Iâll be having to order some more.â

âYes,â said Poirot smiling. âIâm afraid thereâs hardly enough for you to spare me some for my wife!â

We all had another good laugh over this witticism.

âYouâre not married, I take it, mister?â

âNo.â

âAh! itâs always them as isnât that can afford to joke about it. Those that isnât donât know what trouble is!â

âI gather that your wifeâ?â Poirot paused delicately.

âSheâs alive all rightâvery much so.â

Angus seemed a little depressed about it.

Complimenting him on his garden, we bade him farewell.

Twenty-one

THE CHEMIST; THE NURSE; THE DOCTOR

The tin of weed killer had started a new train of thought in my mind. It was the first definite suspicious circumstance that I had encountered. Charlesâ interest in it, the old gardenerâs obvious surprise at finding the tin almost emptyâit all seemed to point in the right direction.

Poirot was, as usual when I am excited, very noncommittal.

âEven if some of the weed killer has been taken, there is as yet no evidence that Charles was the person to take it, Hastings.â

âBut he talked so much to the gardener about it!â

âNot a very wise procedure if he was going to help himself to some.â

Then he went on:

âWhat is the first and simplest poison to come into your mind if you were asked to name one quickly?â

âArsenic, I suppose.â

âYes. You understand then, that very marked pause before the word strychnine when Charles was talking to us today.â

âYou meanâ?â

âThat he was about to say âarsenic in the soup,â and stopped himself.â

âAh!â I said, âand why did he stop himself?â

âExactly. Why? I may say, Hastings, that it was to find the answer to that particular âwhy?â which made me go out into the garden in search of any likely source of weed killer.â

âAnd you found it!â

âAnd I found it.â

I shook my head.

âIt begins to look rather bad for young Charles. You had a good talk with Ellen over the old ladyâs illness. Did her symptoms resemble those of arsenic poisoning?â

Poirot rubbed his nose.

âIt is difficult to say. There was abdominal painâsickness.â

âOf courseâthatâs it!â

âHâm, I am not so sure.â

âWhat poison did it resemble?â

âEh bien, my friend, it resembled not so much poison as disease of the liver and death from that cause!â

âOh, Poirot,â I cried. âIt canât be natural death! Itâs got to be murder!â

âOh, lÃ , lÃ , we seem to have changed places, you and I.â

He turned abruptly into a chemistâs shop. After a long discussion of Poirotâs particular internal troubles, he purchased a small box of indigestion lozenges. Then, when his purchase was wrapped up and he was about to leave the shop, his attention was taken by an attractively-wrapped package of Dr. Loughbarrowâs Liver Capsules.

âYes, sir, a very good preparation.â The chemist was a middleaged man of a chatty disposition. âYouâll find them very efficacious.â

âMiss Arundell used to take them, I remember. Miss Emily Arundell.â

âIndeed she did, sir. Miss Arundell of Littlegreen House. A fine old lady, one of the old school. I used to serve her.â

âDid she take many patent medicines?â

âNot really, sir. Not so many as some elderly ladies I could name. Miss Lawson, now, her companion, the one thatâs come into all the moneyââ

Poirot nodded.

âShe was a one for this, that, and the other. Pills, lozenges, dyspepsia tablets, digestive mixtures, blood mixtures. Really enjoyed herself among the bottles.â He smiled ruefully. âI wish there were more like her. People nowadays donât take to medicines as they used. Still, we sell a lot of toilet preparations to make up for it.â

âDid Miss Arundell take these Liver Capsules regularly?â

âYes, sheâd been taking them for three months, I think, before she died.â

âA relative of hers, a Dr. Tanios, came in to have a mixture made up one day, didnât he?â

âYes, of course, the Greek gentleman that married Miss Arundellâs niece. Yes, a very interesting mixture it was. One Iâve not previously become acquainted with.â

The man spoke as of a rare botanical trophy.

âIt makes a change sir, when you get something new. Very interesting combination of drugs, I remember. Of course, the gentleman is a doctor. Very nice he wasâa pleasant way with him.â

âDid his wife do any shopping here?â

âDid she now? I donât recall. Oh, yes, came in for a sleeping draughtâchloral it was, I remember. A double quantity the prescription was for. Itâs always a little difficult for us with hypnotic drugs. You see, most doctors donât prescribe much at a time.â

âWhose prescription was it?â

âHer husbandâs I think. Oh, of course, it was quite all rightâbut, you know, we have to be careful nowadays. Perhaps you donât know the fact, but if a doctor makes a mistake in a prescription and we make it up in all good faith and anything goes wrong itâs we who have to have the blameânot the doctor.â

âThat seems very unfair!â

âItâs worrying, Iâll admit. Ah, well, I canât complain. No trouble has come my wayâtouching wood.â

He rapped the counter sharply with his knuckles.

Poirot decided to buy a package of Dr. Loughbarrowâs Liver Capsules.

âThank you, sir. Which size? 25, 50, 100?â

âI suppose the larger ones are better valueâbut stillââ

âHave the 50, sir. Thatâs the size Miss Arundell had. Eight and six.â

Poirot agreed, paid over eight and six and received the parcel.

Then we left the shop.

âSo Mrs. Tanios bought a sleeping draught,â I exclaimed as we got out into the street. âAn overdose of that would kill anyone, wouldnât it?â

âWith the greatest of ease.â

âDo you think old Miss Arundellââ

I was remembering Miss Lawsonâs words, âI daresay sheâd murder someone if he told her to!â

Poirot shook his head.

âChloral is a narcotic, and a hypnotic. Used to alleviate pain and as a sleeping draught. It can also become a habit.â

âDo you think Mrs. Tanios had acquired the habit?â

Poirot shook his head perplexedly.

âNo, I hardly think so. But it is curious. I can think of one explanation. But that would meanââ

He broke off and looked at his watch.

âCome, let us see if we can find this nurse Carruthers who was with Miss Arundell in her last illness.â

Nurse Carruthers proved to be a sensible-looking, middle-aged woman.

Poirot now appeared in yet another rÃ´le and with one more fictitious relative. This time he had an aged mother for whom he was anxious to find a sympathetic hospital nurse.

âYou comprehendâI am going to speak to you quite frankly. My mother, she is difficult. We have had some excellent nurses, young women, fully competent, but the very fact that they are young has been against them. My mother dislikes young women, she insults them, she is rude and fractious, she fights against open windows and modern hygiene. It is very difficult.â

He sighed mournfully.

âI know,â said Nurse Carruthers sympathetically. âItâs very trying sometimes. One has to use a lot of tact. Itâs no use upsetting a patient. Better to give in to them as far as you can. And once they feel youâre not trying to force things on them, they very often relax and give in like lambs.â

âAh, I see that you would be ideal in the part. You understand old ladies.â

âIâve had to do with a few in my time,â said Nurse Carruthers with a laugh. âYou can do a lot with patience and good humour.â

âThat is so wise. You nursed Miss Arundell, I believe. Now, she could not have been an easy old lady.â

âOh, I donât know. She was strong willed, but I didnât find her difficult at all. Of course, I wasnât there any length of time. She died on the fourth day.â

âI was talking to her niece, Miss Theresa Arundell, only yesterday.â

âReally. Fancy that now! What I always say isâthe worldâs a small place!â

âYou know her, I expect?â

âWell, of course, she came down after her auntâs death and she was here for the funeral. And, of course, Iâve seen her about before when sheâs been staying down here. A very handsome girl.â

âYes, indeedâbut too thinâdefinitely too thin.â

Nurse Carruthers, conscious of her own comfortable plumpness, preened herself slightly.

âOf course,â she said, âone shouldnât be too thin.â

âPoor girl,â continued Poirot. âI am sorry for her. Entre nous,â he leaned forward confidentially, âher auntâs will was a great blow.â

âI suppose it must have been,â said Nurse Carruthers. âI know it caused a good deal of talk.â

âI cannot imagine what induced Miss Arundell to disinherit all her family. It seems an extraordinary procedure.â

âMost extraordinary. I agree with you. And, of course, people say there must have been something behind it all.â

âDid you ever get any idea of the reason? Did old Miss Arundell say anything?â

âNo. Not to me, that is.â

âBut to somebody else?â

âWell, I rather fancy she mentioned something to Miss Lawson because I heard Miss Lawson say, âYes, dear, but you see itâs at the lawyerâs.â And Miss Arundell said, âIâm sure itâs in the drawer downstairs.â And Miss Lawson said, âNo, you sent it to Mr. Purvis. Donât you remember?â And then my patient had an attack of nausea again and Miss Lawson went away while I saw to her, but Iâve often wondered if it was the will they were talking about.â

âIt certainly seems probable.â

Nurse Carruthers went on:

âIf so, I expect Miss Arundell was worried and perhaps wanted to alter itâbut there, she was so ill, poor dear, after thatâthat she was past thinking of anything.â

âDid Miss Lawson take part in the nursing at all?â asked Poirot.

âOh, dear no, she was no manner of good! Too fussy, you know. She only irritated my patient.â

âDid you, then, do all the nursing yourself? Câest formidable Ã§a.â

âThe maidâwhat was her nameâEllen, helped me. Ellen was very good. She was used to illness and used to looking after the old lady. We managed pretty well between us. As a matter of fact, Dr. Grainger was sending in a night nurse on the Friday, but Miss Arundell died before the night nurse arrived.â

âPerhaps Miss Lawson helped to prepare some of the invalidâs food?â

âNo, she didnât do anything at all. There wasnât really anything to prepare. I had the Valentine and the brandyâand the Brandâs and glucose and all that. All Miss Lawson did was to go about the house crying and getting in everyoneâs way.â

The nurseâs tone held distinct acrimony.

âI can see,â said Poirot smiling, âthat you have not a very high opinion of Miss Lawsonâs usefulness.â

âCompanions are usually a poor lot, in my opinion. Theyâre not trained, you see, in any way. Just amateurs. And usually theyâre women who wouldnât be any good at anything else.â

âDo you think Miss Lawson was very attached to Miss Arundell?â

âShe seemed to be. Very upset and took on terribly when the old lady died. More than the relatives did, in my opinion,â Nurse Carruthers finished with a sniff.

âPerhaps, then,â said Poirot nodding his head sagely, âMiss Arundell knew what she was doing when she left her money as she did.â

âShe was a very shrewd old lady,â said the nurse. âThere wasnât much she didnât take in and know about, I must say!â

âDid she mention the dog, Bob, at all?â

âItâs funny you should say that! She talked about him a lotâwhen she was delirious. Something about his ball and a fall sheâd had. A nice dog, Bob wasâIâm very fond of dogs. Poor fellow, he was very miserable when she died. Wonderful, arenât they? Quite human.â

And on the note of the humanity of dogs, we parted.

âThere is one who had clearly no suspicions,â remarked Poirot after we had left.

He sounded slightly discouraged.

We had a bad dinner at the GeorgeâPoirot groaning a good deal, especially over the soup.

âAnd it is so easy, Hastings, to make good soup. Le pot au feuââ

I avoided a disquisition on cookery with some difficulty.

After dinner we had a surprise.

We were sitting in the âloungeâ which we had to ourselves. There had been one other man at dinnerâa commercial traveller by his appearanceâbut he had gone out. I was just idly turning over the pages of an antiquated Stock Breederâs Gazette or some such periodical when I suddenly heard Poirotâs name being mentioned.

The voice in question was somewhere outside.

âWhere is he? In here? RightâI can find him.â

The door was flung violently open, and Dr. Grainger, his face rather red, his eyebrows working irritably, strode into the room. He paused to close the door and then advanced upon us in no uncertain fashion.

âOh, here you are! Now then, M. Hercule Poirot, what the devil do you mean by coming round to see me and telling me a pack of lies?â

âOne of the jugglerâs balls?â I murmured maliciously.

Poirot said in his oiliest voice:

âMy dear doctor, you must allow me to explainââ

âAllow you? Allow you? Damn it, Iâll force you to explain! Youâre a detective, thatâs what you are! A nosing, prying detective! Coming round to me and feeding me up with a pack of lies about writing old General Arundellâs biography! More fool me to be taken in by such a damnâ fool story.â

âWho told you of my identity?â asked Poirot.

âWho told me? Miss Peabody told me. She saw through you all right!â

âMiss Peabodyâyes.â Poirot sounded reflective. âI rather thoughtââ

Dr. Grainger cut in angrily.

âNow then, sir, Iâm waiting for your explanation!â

âCertainly. My explanation is very simple. Attempted murder.â

âWhat? Whatâs that?â

Poirot said quietly:

âMiss Arundell had a fall, did she not? A fall down the stairs shortly before her death?â

âYes, what of it? She slipped on that damned dogâs ball.â

Poirot shook his head.

âNo, Doctor, she did not. A thread was fastened across the top of the stairs so as to trip her up.â

Dr. Grainger stared.

âThen why didnât she tell me so?â he demanded. âNever said a word to me about it.â

âThat is perhaps understandableâif it were a member of her own family who placed that thread there!â

âHâmâI see.â Grainger cast a sharp glance at Poirot, then threw himself into a chair. âWell?â he said. âHow did you come to be mixed up in this affair?â

âMiss Arundell wrote to me, stressing the utmost secrecy. Unfortunately the letter was delayed.â

Poirot proceeded to give certain carefully edited details and explained the finding of the nail driven into the skirting board.

The doctor listened with a grave face. His anger had abated. âYou can comprehend my position was a difficult one,â Poirot finished. âI was employed, you see, by a dead woman. But I counted the obligation none the less strong for that.â

Dr. Graingerâs brows were drawn together in thought.

âAnd youâve no idea who it was stretched that thread across the head of the stairs?â he asked.

âI have no evidence as to who it was. I will not say I have no idea.â

âItâs a nasty story,â said Grainger, his face grim.

âYes. You can understand, can you not, that to begin with I was uncertain whether there had or had not been a sequel?â

âEh? Whatâs that?â

âTo all intents and purposes Miss Arundell died a natural death, but could one be sure of that? There had been one attempt on her life. How could I be sure that there had not been a second? And this time a successful one!â

Grainger nodded thoughtfully.

âI suppose you are sure, Dr. Graingerâplease do not get angryâthat Miss Arundellâs death was a natural one? I have come across certain evidence todayââ

He detailed the conversation he had had with old Angus, Charles Arundellâs interest in the weed killer, and finally the old manâs surprise at the emptiness of the tin.

Grainger listened with keen attention. When Poirot had finished he said, quietly:

âI see your point. Many a case of arsenical poisoning has been diagnosed as acute gastro enteritis and a certificate givenâespecially when there are no suspicious contributing circumstances. In any case, arsenical poisoning presents certain difficultiesâit has so many different forms. It may be acute, subacute, nervous or chronic. There may be vomiting and abdominal painâthese symptoms may be entirely absentâthe person may fall suddenly to the ground and expire shortly afterwardsâthere may be narcotism and paralysis. The symptoms vary widely.â

Poirot said:

âEh bien, taking the facts into account, what is your opinion?â

Dr. Grainger was silent for a minute or two. Then he said slowly:

âTaking everything into account, and without any bias whatever, I am of the opinion that no form of arsenical poisoning could account for the symptoms in Miss Arundellâs case. She died, I am quite convinced, of yellow atrophy of the liver. I have, as you know, attended her for many years, and she has suffered previously from attacks similar to that which caused her death. That is my considered opinion, M. Poirot.â And there, perforce, the matter had to rest.

It seemed rather an anticlimax when, somewhat apologetically, Poirot produced the package of Liver Capsules he had bought at the chemists.

âMiss Arundell took these, I believe?â he said. âI suppose they could not be injurious in any way?â

âThat stuff? No harm at all. Aloesâpodophyllinâall quite mild and harmless,â said Grainger. âShe liked trying the stuff. I didnât mind.â

He got up.

âYou dispensed certain medicines for her yourself?â asked Poirot.

âYesâa mild liver pill to be taken after food.â His eyes twinkled. âShe could have taken a boxful without hurting herself. Iâm not given to poisoning my patients, M. Poirot.â

Then, with a smile, he shook hands with us both and departed.

Poirot undid the package he had purchased at the chemists. The medicament consisted of transparent capsules, three-quarters full of dark brown powder.

âThey look like a seasick remedy I once took,â I remarked.

Poirot opened a capsule, examined its contents and tasted it gingerly with his tongue. He made a grimace.

âWell,â I said, throwing myself back in my chair and yawning, âeverything seems harmless enough. Dr. Loughbarrowâs specialities, and Dr. Graingerâs pills! And Dr. Grainger seems definitely to negative the arsenic theory. Are you convinced at last, my stubborn Poirot?â

âIt is true that I am pigheadedâthat is your expression, I think?âYes, definitely I have the head of the pig,â said my friend, meditatively.

âThen, in spite of having the chemist, the nurse and the doctor, against you, you still think that Miss Arundell was murdered?â

Poirot said, quietly:

âThat is what I believe. Noâmore than believe. I am sure of it, Hastings.â

âThereâs one way of proving it, I suppose,â I said slowly. âExhumation.â

Poirot nodded.

âIs that the next step?â

âMy friend, I have to go carefully.â

âWhy?â

âBecause,â his voice dropped, âI am afraid of a second tragedy.â

âYou meanâ?â

âI am afraid, Hastings, I am afraid. Let us leave it at that.â

Twenty-two

THE WOMAN ON THE STAIRS

On the following morning a note arrived by hand. It was in a rather weak, uncertain handwriting slanting very much uphill.

Dear M. Poirot,

I hear from Ellen that you were at Littlegreen House yesterday. I shall be much obliged if you would call and see me sometime today.

Yours truly,

Wilhelmina Lawson.

âSo sheâs down here,â I remarked.

âYes.â

âWhy has she come, I wonder?â

Poirot smiled.

âI do not suppose there is any sinister reason. After all, the house belongs to her.â

âYes, thatâs true, of course. You know, Poirot, thatâs the worst of this game of ours. Every single little thing that anyone does is open to the most sinister constructions.â

âIt is true that I myself have enjoined upon you the motto, âsuspect everyone.ââ

âAre you still in that state yourself?â

âNoâfor me it has boiled down to this. I suspect one particular person.â

âWhich one?â

âSince, at the moment, it is only suspicion and there is no definite proof, I think I must leave you to draw your own deductions, Hastings. And do not neglect the psychologyâthat is important. The character of the murderâimplying as it does a certain temperament in the murdererâthat is an essential clue to the crime.â

âI canât consider the character of the murderer if I donât know who the murderer is!â

âNo, no, you have not paid attention to what I have just said. If you reflect sufficiently on the characterâthe necessary character of the murderâthen you will realize who the murderer is!â

âDo you really know, Poirot?â I asked, curiously.

âI cannot say I know because I have no proofs. That is why I cannot say more at the present. But I am quite sureâyes, my friend, in my own mind I am very sure.â

âWell,â I said, laughing, âmind he doesnât get you! That would be a tragedy!â

Poirot started a little. He did not take the matter as a joke. Instead he murmured: âYou are right. I must be carefulâextremely careful.â

âYou ought to wear a coat of chain mail,â I said, chaffingly. âAnd employ a taster in case of poison! In fact, you ought to have a regular band of gunmen to protect you!â

âMerci, Hastings, I shall rely on my wits.â

He then wrote a note to Miss Lawson saying that he would call at Littlegreen House at eleven oâclock.

After that we breakfasted and then strolled out into the Square. It was about a quarter past ten and a hot sleepy morning.

I was looking into the window of the antique shop at a very nice set of Hepplewhite chairs when I received a highly painful lunge in the ribs, and a sharp, penetrating voice said: âHi!â

I spun round indignantly to find myself face to face with Miss Peabody. In her hand (the instrument of her assault upon me) was a large and powerful umbrella with a spiked point.

Apparently completely callous to the severe pain she had inflicted, she observed in a satisfied voice:

âHa! Thought it was you. Donât often make a mistake.â

I said rather coldly:

âErâGood morning. Can I do anything for you?â

âYou can tell me how that friend of yours is getting on with his bookâLife of General Arundell?â

âHe hasnât actually started to write it yet,â I said.

Miss Peabody indulged in a little silent but apparently satisfying laughter. She shook like a jelly. Recovering from that attack, she remarked:

âNo, I donât suppose he will be starting to write it.â

I said, smiling:

âSo you saw through our little fiction?â

âWhat dâyou take me forâa fool?â asked Miss Peabody. âI saw soon enough what your downy friend was after! Wanted me to talk! Well, I didnât mind. I like talking. Hard to get anyone to listen nowadays. Quite enjoyed myself that afternoon.â

She cocked a shrewd eye at me.

âWhatâs it all about, eh? Whatâs it all about?â

I was hesitating what exactly to reply when Poirot joined us. He bowed with empressement to Miss Peabody.

âGood morning, mademoiselle. Enchanted to encounter you.â

âGood morninâ,â said Miss Peabody. âWhat are you this morning, Parotti or Poirotâeh?â

âIt was very clever of you to pierce my disguise so rapidly,â said Poirot, smiling.

âWasnât much disguise to pierce! Not many like you about, are there? Donât know if thatâs a good thing or a bad one. Difficult to say.â

âI prefer, mademoiselle, to be unique.â

âYouâve got your wish, I should say,â said Miss Peabody, drily. âNow then, Mr. Poirot, I gave you all the gossip you wanted the other day. Now itâs my turn to ask questions. Whatâs it all about? Eh? Whatâs it all about?â

âAre you not asking a question to which you already know the answer?â

âI wonder.â She shot a glance at him. âSomething fishy about that will? Or is it something else? Going to dig Emily up? Is that it?â

Poirot did not answer.

Miss Peabody nodded her head slowly and thoughtfully as though she had received a reply.

âOften wondered,â she said inconsequently, âwhat it would feel likeâ¦ Readinâ the papers, you knowâwondered if anyone would ever be dug up in Market Basingâ¦ Didnât think it would be Emily Arundellâ¦.â

She gave him a sudden, piercing look.

âShe wouldnât have liked it, you know. I suppose youâve thought of thatâhey?â

âYes, I have thought of it.â

âI suppose you would doâyouâre not a fool! Donât think youâre particularly officious either.â

Poirot bowed.

âThank you, mademoiselle.â

âAnd thatâs more than most people would sayâlooking at your moustache. Why dâyou have a moustache like that? Dâyou like it?â

I turned away convulsed with laughter.

âIn England the cult of the moustache is lamentably neglected,â said Poirot. His hand surreptitiously caressed the hirsute adornment.

âOh, I see! Funny,â said Miss Peabody. âKnew a woman who once had a goitre and was proud of it! Wouldnât believe that, but itâs true! Well, what I say is, itâs lucky when youâre pleased with what the Lord has given you. Itâs usually the other way about.â She shook her head and sighed.

âNever thought there would be a murder in this out of the world spot.â Again she shot a sudden, piercing look at Poirot. âWhich of âem did it?â

âAm I to shout that to you here in the street?â

âProbably means you donât know. or do you? Oh, wellâbad bloodâbad blood. Iâd like to know whether that Varley woman poisoned her husband or not. Makes a difference.â

âYou believe in heredity?â

Miss Peabody said, suddenly:

âIâd rather it was Tanios. An outsider! But wishes ainât horses, worse luck. Well, Iâll be getting along. I can see youâre not goinâ to tell me anythingâ¦ Who are you actinâ for, by the way?â

Poirot said, gravely:

âI am acting for the dead, mademoiselle.â

I am sorry to say that Miss Peabody received this remark with a sudden shriek of laughter. Quickly subduing her mind she said:

âExcuse me. It sounded like Isabel Trippâthatâs all! What an awful woman! Juliaâs worse, I think. So painfully girlish. Never did like mutton dressed lamb fashion. Well, good-bye. Seen Dr. Grainger at all?â

âMademoiselle, I have the bone to pick with you. You betrayed my secret.â

Miss Peabody indulged in her peculiar throaty chuckle.

âMen are simple! Heâd swallowed that preposterous tissue of lies you told him. Wasnât he mad when I told him? Went away snorting with rage! Heâs looking for you.â

âHe found me last night.â

âOh! I wish Iâd been there.â

âI wish you had, mademoiselle,â said Poirot gallantly.

Miss Peabody laughed and prepared to waddle away. She addressed me over her shoulder.

âGood-bye, young man. Donât go buying those chairs. Theyâre a fake.â

She moved off, chuckling.

âThat,â said Poirot, âis a very clever old woman.â

âEven although she did not admire your moustaches?â

âTaste is one thing,â said Poirot coldly. âBrains are another.â

We passed into the shop and spent a pleasant twenty minutes looking round. We emerged unscathed in pocket and proceeded in the direction of Littlegreen House.

Ellen, rather redder in the face than usual, admitted us and showed us into the drawing room. Presently footsteps were heard descending the stairs and Miss Lawson came in. She seemed somewhat out of breath and flustered. Her hair was pinned up in a silk handkerchief.

âI hope youâll excuse my coming in like this, M. Poirot. Iâve been going through some locked-up cupboardsâso many thingsâold people are inclined to hoard a little, Iâm afraidâdear Miss Arundell was no exceptionâand one gets so much dust in oneâs hairâastonishing, you know, the things people collectâif you can believe me, two dozen needlebooksâactually, two dozen.â

âYou mean that Miss Arundell had bought two dozen needlebooks?â

âYes, and put them away and forgot about themâand, of course, now the needles are all rustyâsuch a pity. She used to give them to the maids as Christmas presents.â

âShe was very forgetfulâyes?â

âOh, very. Especially in the way of putting things away. Like a dog with a bone, you know. Thatâs what we used to call it between us. âNow donât go and dog and bone it,â I used to say to her.â

She laughed and then producing a small handkerchief from her pocket suddenly began to sniff.

âOh, dear,â she said tearfully. âIt seems so dreadful of me to be laughing here.â

âYou have too much sensibility,â said Poirot. âYou feel things too much.â

âThatâs what my mother always used to say to me, M. Poirot. âYou take things to heart too much, Minnie,â she used to say. Itâs a great drawback, M. Poirot, to be so sensitive. Especially when one has oneâs living to get.â

âAh, yes, indeed, but that is all a thing of the past. You are now your own mistress. You can enjoy yourselfâtravelâyou have absolutely no worries or anxieties.â

âI suppose thatâs true,â said Miss Lawson, rather doubtfully.

âAssuredly it is true. Now talking of Miss Arundellâs forgetfulness I see how it was that her letter to me never reached me for so long a time.â

He explained the circumstances of the finding of the letter. A red spot showed in Miss Lawsonâs cheek. She said sharply:

âEllen should have told me! To send that letter off to you without a word was great impertinence! She should have consulted me first. Great impertinence, I call it! Not one word did I hear about the whole thing. Disgraceful!â

âOh, my dear lady, I am sure it was done in all good faith.â

âWell, I think it was very peculiar myself! Very peculiar! Servants really do the oddest things. Ellen should have remembered that I am the mistress of the house now.â

She drew herself up, importantly.

âEllen was very devoted to her mistress, was she not?â said Poirot.

âOh, I agree that itâs no good making a fuss after things have happened, but all the same I think Ellen ought to be told that she mustnât take it upon herself to do things without asking first!â She stopped, a red spot on each cheekbone.

Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said:

âYou wanted to see me today? In what way can I be of service to you?â

Miss Lawsonâs annoyance subsided as promptly as it had arisen. She began to be flustered and incoherent again.

âWell, reallyâyou see, I just wonderedâ¦ Well, to tell the truth, M. Poirot, I arrived down here yesterday and, of course, Ellen told me you had been here, and I just wonderedâwell, as you hadnât mentioned to me that you were comingâWell, it seemed rather oddâthat I couldnât seeââ

âYou couldnât see what I was doing down here?â Poirot finished for her.

âIâwellâno, thatâs exactly it. I couldnât.â

She looked at him, flushed but inquiring.

âI must make a little confession to you,â said Poirot. âI have permitted you to remain under a misapprehension, I am afraid. You assumed that the letter I received from Miss Arundell concerned itself with the question of a small sum of money, abstracted byâin all possibilityâMr. Charles Arundell.â

Miss Lawson nodded.

âBut that, you see, was not the caseâ¦ In fact, the first I heard of the stolen money was from youâ¦ Miss Arundell wrote to me on the subject of her accident.â

âHer accident?â

âYes, she had a fall down the stairs, I understand.â

âOh, quiteâquiteââ Miss Lawson looked bewildered. She stared vacantly at Poirot. She went on. âButâIâm sorryâIâm sure itâs very stupid of meâbut why should she write to you? I understandâin fact, I think you said soâthat you are a detective. Youâre not aâa doctor, too? Or a faith healer, perhaps?â

âNo, I am not a doctorânor a faith healer. But, like the doctor, I concern myself sometimes with so-called accidental deaths.â

âWith accidental deaths?â

âWith so-called accidental deaths, I said. It is true that Miss Arundell did not dieâbut she might have died!â

âOh, dear me, yes, the doctor said so, but I donât understandââ

Miss Lawson sounded still bewildered.

âThe cause of the accident was supposed to be the ball of the little Bob, was it not?â

âYes, yes, that was it. It was Bobâs ball.â

âOh, no, it was not Bobâs ball.â

âBut, excuse me, M. Poirot, I saw it there myselfâas we all ran down.â

âYou saw itâyes, perhaps. But it was not the cause of the accident. The cause of the accident, Miss Lawson, was a dark-coloured thread stretched about a foot above the top of the stairs!â

âButâbut a dog couldnâtââ

âExactly,â said Poirot quickly. âA dog could not do thatâhe is not sufficiently intelligentâor, if you like, he is not sufficiently evilâ¦A human being put that thread in positionâ¦.â

Miss Lawsonâs face had gone deadly white. She raised a shaking hand to her face.

âOh, M. PoirotâI canât believe itâyou donât meanâbut that is awfulâreally awful. You mean it was done on purpose?â

âYes, it was done on purpose.â

âBut thatâs dreadful. Itâs almost likeâlike killing a person.â

âIf it had succeeded it would have been killing a person! In other wordsâit would have been murder!â

Miss Lawson gave a little shrill cry.

Poirot went on in the same grave tone.

âA nail was driven into the skirting board so that the thread could be attached. That nail was varnished so as not to show. Tell me, do you ever remember a smell of varnish that you could not account for?â

Miss Lawson gave a cry.

âOh, how extraordinary! To think of that! Why, of course! And to think I never thoughtânever dreamedâbut then, how could I? And yet it did seem odd to me at the time.â

Poirot leant forward.

âSoâyou can help us, mademoiselle. Once again you can help us. Câest Ã©patant!â

âTo think that was it! Oh, well, it all fits in.â

âTell me, I pray of you. You smelt varnishâyes?â

âYes. Of course, I didnât know what it was. I thoughtâdear meâis it paintâno, itâs more like floor stain, and then, of course, I thought I must have imagined it.â

âWhen was this?â

âNow let me seeâwhen was it?â

âWas it during that Easter weekend when the house was full of guests?â

âYes, that was the timeâbut Iâm trying to recall just which day it wasâ¦ Now, let me see, it wasnât Sunday. No, and it wasnât on Tuesdayâthat was the night Dr. Donaldson came to dinner. And on the Wednesday they had all left. No, of course, it was the MondayâBank Holiday. Iâd been lying awakeârather worried, you know. I always think Bank Holiday is such a worrying day! There had been only just enough cold beef to go round at supper and I was afraid Miss Arundell might be annoyed about it. You see Iâd ordered the joint on the Saturday, and of course I ought to have said seven pounds but I thought five pounds would do nicely, but Miss Arundell was always so vexed if there was any shortageâshe was so hospitableââ

Miss Lawson paused to draw a deep breath and then rushed on.

âAnd so I was lying awake and wondering whether sheâd say anything about it tomorrow, and what with one thing and another I was a long time dropping offâand then just as I was going off something seemed to wake me upâa sort of rap or tapâand I sat up in bed, and then I sniffed. Of course, Iâm always terrified of fireâsometimes I think I smell fire two or three times a nightâ(so awful wouldnât it be if one were trapped?) Anyway there was a smell, and I sniffed hard but it wasnât smoke or anything like that. And I said to myself itâs more like paint or floor stainâbut of course, one wouldnât smell that in the middle of the night. But it was quite strong and I sat up sniffing and sniffing, and then I saw her in the glassââ

âSaw her? Saw whom?â

âIn my looking glass, you know, itâs really most convenient. I left my door open a little always, so as to hear Miss Arundell if she were to call, and if she went up and down stairs I could see her. The one light was always left switched on in the passage. Thatâs how I came to see her kneeling on the stairâTheresa, I mean. She was kneeling on about the third step with her head bent down over something and I was just thinking, âHow odd, I wonder if sheâs ill?â when she got up and went away, so I supposed sheâd just slipped or something. Or perhaps was stooping to pick something up. But, of course, I never thought about it again one way or another.â

âThe tap that aroused you would be the tap of the hammer on the nail,â mused Poirot.

âYes, I suppose it would. But oh, M. Poirot, how dreadfulâhow truly dreadful. Iâve always felt Theresa was, perhaps a little wild, but to do a thing like that.â

âYou are sure it was Theresa?â

âOh, dear me, yes.â

âIt couldnât have been Mrs. Tanios or one of the maids, for instance?â

âOh, no, it was Theresa.â

Miss Lawson shook her head and murmured to herself:

âOh dear. Oh dear,â several times.

Poirot was staring at her in a way I found it hard to understand.

âPermit me,â he said suddenly, âto make an experiment. Let us go upstairs and endeavour to reconstruct this little scene.â

âReconstruction? Oh, reallyâI donât knowâI mean I donât quite seeââ

âI will show you,â said Poirot, cutting in upon these doubts in an authoritative manner.

Somewhat flustered, Miss Lawson led the way upstairs.

âI hope the roomâs tidyâso much to doâwhat with one thing and anotherââ she tailed off incoherently.

The room was indeed somewhat heavily littered with miscellaneous articles, obviously the result of Miss Lawsonâs turning out of cupboards. With her usual incoherence Miss Lawson managed to indicate her own position and Poirot was able to verify for himself the fact that a portion of the staircase was reflected in the wall mirror.

âAnd now, mademoiselle,â he suggested, âif you will be so good as to go out and reproduce the actions that you saw.â

Miss Lawson, still murmuring, âOh, dearââ bustled out to fulfil her part. Poirot acted the part of the observer.

The performance concluded, he went out on the landing and asked which electric light had been left switched on.

âThis oneâthis one along here. Just outside Miss Arundellâs door.â

Poirot reached up, detached the bulb and examined it.

âA forty watt lamp, I see. Not very powerful.â

âNo, it was just so that the passage shouldnât be quite dark.â

Poirot retraced his steps to the top of the stairs.

âYou will pardon me, mademoiselle, but with the light being fairly dim and the way that shadow falls it is hardly possible that you can have seen very clearly. Can you be positive it was Miss Theresa Arundell and not just an indeterminate female figure in a dressing gown?â

Miss Lawson was indignant.

âNo, indeed, M. Poirot! Iâm perfectly sure! I know Theresa well enough, I should hope! Oh, it was her all right. Her dark dressing gown and that big shining brooch she wears with the initialsâI saw that plainly.â

âSo that there is no possible doubt. You saw the initials?â

âYes, T.A. I know the brooch. Theresa often wore it. Oh, yes, I could swear to its being Theresaâand I will swear to it if necessary!â

There was a firmness and decision in those last two sentences that was quite at variance with her usual manner.

Poirot looked at her. Again there was something curious in his glance. It was aloof, appraisingâand had also a queer appearance of finality about it.

âYou would swear to that, yes?â he said.

âIfâifâitâs necessary. But I suppose itâwill it be necessary?â

Again Poirot turned that appraising glance upon her.

âThat will depend on the result of the exhumation,â he said.

âExâexhumation?â

Poirot put out a restraining hand. In her excitement Miss Lawson very nearly went headlong down the stairs.

âIt may possibly be a question of exhumation,â he said.

âOh, but surelyâhow very unpleasant! But I mean, Iâm sure the family would oppose the idea very stronglyâvery strongly indeed.â

âProbably they will.â

âIâm quite sure they wonât hear of such a thing!â

âAh, but if it is an order from the Home Office.â

âBut M. Poirotâwhy? I mean itâs not as thoughânot as thoughââ

âNot as though what?â

âNot as though there were anythingâwrong.â

âYou think not?â

âNo, of course not. Why, there couldnât be! I mean the doctor and the nurse and everythingââ

âDo not upset yourself,â said Poirot calmly and soothingly.

âOh, but I canât help it! Poor dear Miss Arundell! Itâs not even as though Theresa had been here in the house when she died.â

âNo, she left on the Monday before she was taken ill, did she not?â

âQuite early in the morning. So you see, she canât have had anything to do with it!â

âLet us hope not,â said Poirot.

âOh, dear.â Miss Lawson clasped her hands together. âIâve never known anything so dreadful as all this! Really, I donât know whether Iâm on my head or my heels.â

Poirot glanced at his watch.

âWe must depart. We are returning to London. And you, mademoiselle, you are remaining down here some little time?â

âNoânoâ¦ I have really no settled plans. Actually Iâm going back myself todayâ¦ I only came down just for a night toâto settle things a little.â

âI see. Well, good-bye, mademoiselle, and forgive me if I have upset you at all.â

âOh, M. Poirot. Upset me? I feel quite ill! Oh dearâOh, dear, itâs such a wicked world! Such a dreadfully wicked world.â

Poirot cut short her lamentations by taking her hand firmly in his.

âQuite so. And you are still ready to swear that you saw Theresa Arundell kneeling on the stairs on the night of Easter Bank Holiday?â

âOh, yes, I can swear to that.â

âAnd you can also swear that you saw a halo of light round Miss Arundellâs head during the sÃ©ance?â

Miss Lawsonâs mouth fell open.

âOh, M. Poirot, donâtâdonât joke about these things.â

âI am not joking. I am perfectly serious.â

Miss Lawson said with dignity:

âIt wasnât exactly a halo. It was more like the beginning of a manifestation. A ribbon of some luminous material. I think it was beginning to form into a face.â

âExtremely interesting. Au revoir, mademoiselle, and please keep all this to yourself.â

âOh, of courseâof course. I shouldnât dream of doing anything elseâ¦.â

The last we saw of Miss Lawson was her rather sheeplike face gazing after us from the front doorstep.

Twenty-three

DR. TANIOS CALLS ON US

No sooner had we left the house than Poirotâs manner changed. His face was grim and set.

âDÃ©pÃªchons nous, Hastings,â he said. âWe must get back to London as soon as possible.â

âIâm willing.â I quickened my pace to suit his. I stole a look at his grave face.

âWho do you suspect, Poirot?â I asked. âI wish youâd tell me. Do you believe it was Theresa Arundell on the stairs or not?â

Poirot did not reply to my questions. Instead he asked a question of his own.

âDid it strike youâreflect before you answerâdid it strike you that there was something wrong with that statement of Miss Lawsonâs?â

âHow do you meanâwrong with it?â

âIf I knew that I should not be asking you!â

âYes, but wrong in what way?â

âThat is just it. I cannot be precise. But as she was talking I had, somehow, a feeling of unrealityâ¦as though there was somethingâsome small point that was wrongâthat was, yes, that was the feelingâsomething that was impossible.â¦â

âShe seemed quite positive it was Theresa!â

âYes, yes.â

âBut after all, the light couldnât have been very good. I donât see how she can be quite so sure.â

âNo, no, Hastings, you are not helping me. It was some small pointâsomething connected withâyes, I am sure of itâwith the bedroom.â

âWith the bedroom?â I repeated, trying to recall the details of the room. âNo,â I said at last. âI canât help you.â

Poirot shook his head, vexedly.

âWhy did you bring up that spiritualistic business again?â I asked.

âBecause it is important.â

âWhat is important? Miss Lawsonâs luminous âribbon development?ââ

âYou remember the Misses Trippâs description of the sÃ©ance?â

âI know they saw a halo round the old ladyâs head.â I laughed in spite of myself. âI shouldnât think she was a saint by all accounts! Miss Lawson seems to have been terrified by her. I felt quite sorry for the poor woman when she described how she lay awake, worried to death because she might get into trouble over ordering too small a sirloin of beef.â

âYes, it was an interesting touch that.â

âWhat are we going to do when we get to London?â I asked as we turned into the George and Poirot asked for the bill.

âWe must go and see Theresa Arundell immediately.â

âAnd find out the truth? But wonât she deny the whole thing anyway?â

âMon cher, it is not a criminal offence to kneel upon a flight of stairs! She may have been picking up a pin to bring her luckâsomething of that sort!â

âAnd the smell of varnish?â

We could say no more just then, as the waiter arrived with the bill.

On the way to London we talked very little. I am not fond of talking and driving, and Poirot was so busy protecting his moustaches with his muffler from the disastrous effects of wind and dust that speech was quite beyond him.

We arrived at the flat at about twenty to two.

George, Poirotâs immaculate and extremely English manservant, opened the door.

âA Dr. Tanios is waiting to see you, sir. He has been here for half an hour.â

âDr. Tanios? Where is he?â

âIn the sitting room, sir. A lady also called to see you, sir. She seemed very distressed to find you were absent from home. It was before I received your telephone message, sir, so I could not tell her when you would be returning to London.â

âDescribe this lady.â

âShe was about five foot seven, sir, with dark hair and light blue eyes. She was wearing a grey coat and skirt and a hat worn very much to the back of the head instead of over the right eye.â

âMrs. Tanios,â I ejaculated in a low voice.

âShe seemed in a condition of great nervous excitement, sir. Said it was of the utmost importance she should find you quickly.â

âWhat time was this?â

âAbout half past ten, sir.â

Poirot shook his head as he passed on towards the sitting room.

âThat is the second time I have missed hearing what Mrs. Tanios has to say. What would you say, Hastings? Is there a fate in it?â

âThird time lucky,â I said consolingly.

Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

âWill there be a third time? I wonder. Come, let us hear what the husband has to say.â

Dr. Tanios was sitting in an armchair reading one of Poirotâs books on psychology. He sprang up and greeted us.

âYou must forgive this intrusion. I hope you donât mind my forcing my way in and waiting for you like this.â

âDu tout, du tout. Pray sit down. Permit me to offer you a glass of sherry.â

âThank you. As a matter of fact I have an excuse. M. Poirot, I am worried, terribly worried, about my wife.â

âAbout your wife? Iâm very sorry. Whatâs the matter?â

Tanios said:

âYou have seen her perhaps lately?â

It seemed quite a natural question, but the quick look that accompanied it was not so natural.

Poirot replied in the most matter-of-fact manner.

âNo, not since I saw her at the hotel with you yesterday.â

âAhâI thought perhaps she might have called upon you.â

Poirot was busy pouring out three glasses of sherry.

He said in a slightly abstracted voice:

âNo. Was there anyâreason for her calling on me?â

âNo, no.â Dr. Tanios accepted his sherry. âThank you. Thank you very much. No, there was no exact reason, but to be frank I am very much concerned about my wifeâs state of health.â

âAh, she is not strong?â

âHer bodily health,â said Tanios slowly, âis good. I wish I could say the same for her mind.â

âAh?â

âI fear, M. Poirot, that she is on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown.â

âMy dear Dr. Tanios, I am extremely sorry to hear this.â

âThis condition has been growing for some time. During the last two months her manner towards me has completely changed. She is nervous, easily startled, and she has the oddest fanciesâactually they are more than fanciesâthey are delusions!â

âReally?â

âYes. She is suffering from what is commonly known as persecution maniaâa fairly well-known condition.â

Poirot made a sympathetic noise with his tongue.

âYou can understand my anxiety!â

âNaturally. Naturally. But what I do not quite understand is why you have come to me. How can I help you?â

Dr. Tanios seemed a little embarrassed.

âIt occurred to me that my wife might haveâor may yetâcome to you with some extraordinary tale. She may conceivably say that she is in danger from meâsomething of the kind.â

âBut why should she come to me?â

Dr. Tanios smiledâit was a charming smileâgenial yet wistful.

âYou are a celebrated detective, M. Poirot. I sawâI could see at onceâthat my wife was very impressed at meeting you yesterday. The mere fact of meeting a detective would make a powerful impression on her in her present state. It seems to me highly probable that she might seek you out andâandâwell, confide in you. That is the way these nervous affections go! There is a tendency to turn against those nearest and dearest to you.â

âVery distressing.â

âYes, indeed. I am very fond of my wife.â There was a rich tenderness in his voice. âI always feel it was so brave of her to marry meâa man of another raceâto come out to a far countryâto leave all her own friends and surroundings. For the last few days I have been really distraughtâ¦ I can see only one thing for itâ¦.â

âYes?â

âPerfect rest and quietâand suitable psychological treatment. There is a splendid home I know of run by a first-class man. I want to take her thereâit is in Norfolkâstraightaway. Perfect rest and isolation from outside influenceâthat is what is needed. I feel convinced that once she has been there a month or two under skilled treatment there will be a change for the better.â

âI see,â said Poirot.

He uttered the words in a matter-of-fact manner without any clue to the feelings that prompted him.

Tanios again shot a quick glance at him.

âThat is why, if she should come to you, I should be obliged if you will let me know at once.â

âBut certainly. I will telephone you. You are at the Durham Hotel still?â

âYes. I am going back there now.â

âAnd your wife is not there?â

âShe went out directly after breakfast.â

âWithout telling you where she was going?â

âWithout saying a word. That is most unlike her.â

âAnd the children?â

âShe took them with her.â

âI see.â

Tanios got up.

âI thank you so much, M. Poirot. I need hardly say that if she does tell you any high-flown stories of intimidation and persecution pay no attention to them. It is, unfortunately, a part of her malady.â

âMost distressing,â said Poirot with sympathy.

âIt is indeed. Although one knows, medically speaking, that it is part of a recognized mental disease, yet one cannot help being hurt when a person very near and dear to you turns against you and all their affection changes to dislike.â

âYou have my deepest sympathy,â said Poirot as he shook hands with his guest.

âBy the wayââ Poirotâs voice recalled Tanios just as he was at the door.

âYes?â

âDo you ever prescribe chloral for your wife?â

Tanios gave a startled movement.

âIânoâat least I may have done. But not lately. She seems to have taken an aversion to any form of sleeping draught.â

âAh! I suppose because she does not trust you?â

âM. Poirot!â

Tanios came striding forward angrily.

âThat would be part of the disease,â said Poirot smoothly.

âYes, yes, of course.â

âShe is probably highly suspicious of anything you give her to eat or drink. Probably suspects you of wanting to poison her?â

âDear me, M. Poirot, you are quite right. You know something of such cases, then?â

âOne comes across them now and then in my profession, naturally. But do not let me detain you. You may find her waiting for you at the hotel.â

âTrue. I hope I shall. I feel terribly anxious.â

He hurried out of the room.

Poirot went swiftly to the telephone. He flicked over the pages of the telephone directory and asked for a number.

âAlloâAlloâis that the Durham Hotel. Can you tell me if Mrs. Tanios is in? What? T A N I O S. Yes, that is right. Yes? Yes? Oh, I see.â

He replaced the receiver.

âMrs. Tanios left the hotel this morning early. She returned at eleven, waited in the taxi whilst her luggage was brought down and drove away with it.â

âDoes Tanios know she took away her luggage?â

âI think not as yet.â

âWhere has she gone?â

âImpossible to tell.â

âDo you think she will come back here?â

âPossibly. I cannot tell.â

âPerhaps she will write.â

âPerhaps.â

âWhat can we do?â

Poirot shook his head. He looked worried and distressed.

âNothing at the moment. A hasty lunch and then we will go and see Theresa Arundell.â

âDo you believe it was her on the stairs?â

âImpossible to tell. One thing I made sure ofâMiss Lawson could not have seen her face. She saw a tall figure in a dark dressing gown, that is all.â

âAnd the brooch.â

âMy dear friend, a brooch is not part of a personâs anatomy! It can be detached from that person. It can be lostâor borrowedâor even stolen.â

âIn other words you donât want to believe Theresa Arundell guilty.â

âI want to hear what she has to say on the matter.â

âAnd if Mrs. Tanios comes back?â

âI will arrange for that.â

George brought in an omelette.

âListen, George,â said Poirot. âIf that lady comes back, you will ask her to wait. If Dr. Tanios comes while she is here on no account let him in. If he asks if his wife is here, you will tell him she is not. You understand?â

âPerfectly, sir.â

Poirot attacked the omelette.

âThis business complicates itself,â he said. âWe must step very carefully. If notâthe murderer will strike again.â

âIf he did you might get him.â

âQuite possibly, but I prefer the life of the innocent to the conviction of the guilty. We must go very, very carefully.â

Twenty-four

THERESAâS DENIAL

We found Theresa Arundell just preparing to go out.

She was looking extraordinarily attractive. A small hat of the most outrageous fashion descended rakishly over one eye. I recognized with momentary amusement that Bella Tanios had worn a cheap imitation of such a hat yesterday and had worn itâas George had put itâon the back of the head instead of over the right eye. I remembered well how she had pushed it farther and farther back on her untidy hair.

Poirot said, politely:

âCan I have just a minute or two, mademoiselle, or will it delay you too much?â

Theresa laughed.

âOh, it doesnât matter. Iâm always three-quarters of an hour late for everything. I might just as well make it an hour.â

She led him into the sitting room. To my surprise Dr. Donaldson rose from a chair by the window.

âYouâve met M. Poirot already, Rex, havenât you?â

âWe met at Market Basing,â said Donaldson, stiffly.

âYou were pretending to write the life of my drunken grandfather, I understand,â said Theresa. âRex, my angel, will you leave us?â

âThank you, Theresa, but I think that from every point of view it would be advisable for me to be present at this interview.â

There was a brief duel of eyes. Theresaâs were commanding. Donaldsonâs were impervious. She showed a quick flash of anger.

âAll right, stay then, damn you!â

Dr. Donaldson seemed unperturbed.

He seated himself again in the chair by the window, laying down his book on the arm of it. It was a book on the pituitary gland, I noticed.

Theresa sat down on her favourite low stool and looked impatiently at Poirot.

âWell, youâve seen Purvis? What about it?â

Poirot said in a noncommittal voice:

âThere areâpossibilities, mademoiselle.â

She looked at him thoughtfully. Then she sent a very faint glance in the direction of the doctor. It was, I think, intended as a warning to Poirot.

âBut it would be well, I think,â went on Poirot, âfor me to report later when my plans are more advanced.â

A faint smile showed for a minute on Theresaâs face.

Poirot continued:

âI have today come from Market Basing and while there I have talked to Miss Lawson. Tell me, mademoiselle, did you on the night of April 13th (that was the night of the Easter Bank Holiday) kneel upon the stairs after everyone had gone to bed?â

âMy dear Hercule Poirot, what an extraordinary question. Why should I?â

âThe question, mademoiselle, is not why you should, but whether you did.â

âIâm sure I donât know. I should think it most unlikely.â

âYou comprehend, mademoiselle, Miss Lawson says you did.â

Theresa shrugged her attractive shoulders.

âDoes it matter?â

âIt matters very much.â

She stared at him. In a perfectly amiable fashion, Poirot stared back.

âLoopy!â said Theresa.

âPardon?â

âDefinitely loopy!â said Theresa. âDonât you think so, Rex?â

Dr. Donaldson coughed.

âExcuse me, M. Poirot, but what is the point of the question?â

My friend spread out his hands.

âIt is most simple! Someone drove in a nail in a convenient position at the head of the stairs. The nail was just touched with brown varnish to match the skirting board.â

âIs this a new kind of witchcraft?â asked Theresa.

âNo, mademoiselle, it is much more homely and simple than that. On the following evening, the Tuesday, someone attached a string of thread from the nail to the balusters with the result that when Miss Arundell came out of her room she caught her foot in it and went headlong down the stairs.â

Theresa drew in her breath sharply.

âThat was Bobâs ball!â

âPardon, it was not.â

There was a pause. It was broken by Donaldson who said in his quiet, precise voice:

âExcuse me, but what evidence have you in support of this statement?â

Poirot said quietly:

âThe evidence of the nail, the evidence of Miss Arundellâs own written words, and finally the evidence of Miss Lawsonâs eyes.â

Theresa found her voice.

âShe says I did it, does she?â

Poirot did not answer except by bending his head a little.

âWell, itâs a lie! I had nothing to do with it!â

âYou were kneeling on the stairs for quite another reason?â

âI wasnât kneeling on the stairs at all!â

âBe careful, mademoiselle.â

âI wasnât there! I never came out of my room after I went to bed on any evening I was there.â

âMiss Lawson recognized you.â

âIt was probably Bella Tanios or one of the maids she saw.â

âShe says it was you.â

âSheâs a damned liar!â

âShe recognized your dressing gown and a brooch you wear.â

âA broochâwhat brooch?â

âA brooch with your initials.â

âOh, I know the one! What a circumstantial liar she is!â

âYou still deny that it was you she saw?â

âIf itâs my word against hersââ

âYou are a better liar than she isâeh?â

Theresa said, calmly:

âThatâs probably quite true. But in this case Iâm speaking the truth. I wasnât preparing a booby trap, or saying my prayers, or picking up gold or silver, or doing anything at all on the stairs.â

âHave you this brooch that was mentioned?â

âProbably. Do you want to see it?â

âIf you please, mademoiselle.â

Theresa got up and left the room. There was an awkward silence. Dr. Donaldson looked at Poirot much as I imagined he might have looked at an anatomical specimen.

Theresa returned.

âHere it is.â

She almost flung the ornament at Poirot. It was a large rather showy chromium or stainless steel brooch with T.A. enclosed in a circle. I had to admit that it was large enough and showy enough to be easily seen in Miss Lawsonâs mirror.

âI never wear it now. Iâm tired of it,â said Theresa. âLondonâs been flooded with them. Every little skivvy wears one.â

âBut it was expensive when you bought it?â

âOh, yes. They were quite exclusive to begin with.â

âWhen was that?â

âLast Christmas, I think it was. Yes, about then.â

âHave you ever lent it to anyone?â

âNo.â

âYou had it with you at Littlegreen House?â

âI suppose I did. Yes, I did. I remember.â

âDid you leave it about at all? Was it out of your possession while you were there?â

âNo, it wasnât. I wore it on a green jumper. I remember. And I wore the same jumper every day.â

âAnd at night?â

âIt was still in the jumper.â

âAnd the jumper.â

âOh, hell, the jumper was sitting on a chair.â

âYou are sure no one removed the brooch and put it back again the next day?â

âWeâll say so in court if you likeâif you think thatâs the best lie to tell! Actually Iâm quite sure that nothing like that happened! Itâs a pretty idea that somebody framed meâbut I donât think itâs true.â

Poirot frowned. Then he got up, attached the brooch carefully to his coat lapel and approached a mirror on a table at the other end of the room. He stood in front of it and then moved slowly backward, getting an effect of distance.

Then he uttered a grunt.

âImbecile that I am! Of course!â

He came back and handed the brooch to Theresa with a bow.

âYou are quite right, mademoiselle. The brooch did not leave your possession! I have been regrettably dense.â

âI do like modesty,â said Theresa, pinning the brooch on carelessly.

She looked up at him.

âAnything more? I ought to be going.â

âNothing that cannot be discussed later.â

Theresa moved towards the door. Poirot went on in a quiet voice:

âThere is a question of exhumation, it is trueââ

Theresa stopped dead. The brooch fell to the ground.

âWhatâs that?â

Poirot said clearly:

âIt is possible that the body of Miss Emily Arundell may be exhumed.â

Theresa stood still, her hands clenched. She said in a low, angry voice:

âIs this your doing? It canât be done without an application from the family!â

âYou are wrong, mademoiselle. It can be done on an order from the Home Office.â

âMy God!â said Theresa.

She turned and walked swiftly up and down.

Donaldson said quietly:

âI really donât see that there is any need to be upset, Tessa. I daresay that to an outsider the idea is not very pleasant, butââ

She interrupted him.

âDonât be a fool, Rex!â

Poirot asked:

âThe idea disturbs you, mademoiselle?â

âOf course it does! It isnât decent. Poor old Aunt Emily. Why the devil should she be exhumed?â

âI presume,â said Donaldson, âthat there is some doubt as to the cause of death?â He looked inquiringly at Poirot. He went on. âI confess that I am surprised. I think that there is no doubt that Miss Arundell died a natural death from a disease of long standing.â

âYou told me something about a rabbit and liver trouble once,â said Theresa. âIâve forgotten it now, but you infect a rabbit with blood from a person with yellow atrophy of the liver, and then you inject that rabbitâs blood into another rabbit, and then that second rabbitâs blood into a person and the person gets a diseased liver. Something like that.â

âThat was merely an illustration of serum therapeutics,â said Donaldson patiently.

âPity there are so many rabbits in the story!â said Theresa with a reckless laugh. âNone of us keep rabbits.â She turned on Poirot and her voice altered.

âM. Poirot, is this true?â she asked.

âIt is true enough, butâthere are ways of avoiding such a contingency, mademoiselle.â

âThen avoid it!â her voice sank almost to a whisper. It was urgent, compelling. âAvoid it at all costs!â

Poirot rose to his feet.

âThose are your instructions?â His voice was formal.

âThose are my instructions.â

âBut Tessaââ Donaldson interrupted.

She whirled round on her fiancÃ©.

âBe quiet! She was my aunt, wasnât she? Why should my aunt be dug up? Donât you know there will be paragraphs in the papers and gossip and general unpleasantness?â She swung round again on Poirot.

âYou must stop it! I give you carte blanche. Do anything you like, but stop it!â

Poirot bowed formally.

âI will do what I can. Au revoir, mademoiselle, au revoir, doctor.â

âOh, go away!â cried Theresa. âAnd take St. Leonards with you. I wish Iâd never set eyes on either of you.â

We left the room. Poirot did not this time deliberately place his ear to the crack but he dalliedâyes, he dallied.

And not in vain. Theresaâs voice rose clear and defiant:

âDonât look at me like that, Rex.â

And then suddenly, with a break in her voiceââDarling.â Dr. Donaldsonâs precise voice answered her.

He said very clearly: âThat man means mischief.â

Poirot grinned suddenly. He drew me through the front door. âCome, St. Leonards,â he said. âCâest drÃ´le, Ã§a!â Personally I thought the joke a particularly stupid one.

Twenty-five

I LIE BACK AND REFLECT

No, I thought, as I hurried after Poirot, there was no doubt about it now. Miss Arundell had been murdered and Theresa knew it. But was she herself the criminal or was there another explanation?

She was afraidâyes. But was she afraid for herself or for someone else? Could that someone be the quiet, precise young doctor with the calm, aloof manner?

Had the old lady died of genuine disease artificially induced?

Up to a point it all fitted inâDonaldsonâs ambitions, his belief that Theresa would inherit money at her auntâs death. Even the fact that he had been at dinner there on the evening of the accident. How easy to leave a convenient window open and return in the dead of night to tie the murderous thread across the staircase. But then, what about the placing of the nail in position?

No, Theresa must have done that. Theresa, his fiancÃ©e and accomplice. With the two of them working in together, the whole thing seemed clear enough. In that case it was probably Theresa who had actually placed the thread in position. The first crime, the crime that failed, had been her work. The second crime, the crime that had succeeded, was Donaldsonâs more scientific masterpiece.

Yesâit all fitted in.

Yet even now there were loose strands. Why had Theresa blurted out those facts about inducing liver disease in human beings? It was almost as though she did not realize the truthâ¦ But in that caseâand I felt my mind growing bewildered, and I interrupted my speculations to ask:

âWhere are we going, Poirot?â

âBack to my flat. It is possible that we may find Mrs. Tanios there.â

My thoughts switched off on a different track.

Mrs. Tanios! That was another mystery! If Donaldson and Theresa were guilty, where did Mrs. Tanios and her smiling husband come in? What did the woman want to tell Poirot and what was Taniosâ anxiety to prevent her doing so?

âPoirot,â I said humbly. âIâm getting rather muddled. Theyâre not all in it, are they?â

âMurder by a syndicate? A family sydicate? No, not this time. There is the mark of one brain and one brain only in this. The psychology is very clear.â

âYou mean that either Theresa or Donaldson did itâbut not both of them? Did he get her to hammer that nail in on some entirely innocent pretext, then?â

âMy dear friend, from the moment I heard Miss Lawsonâs story I realized that there were three possibilities. (1) That Miss Lawson was telling the exact truth. (2) That Miss Lawson had invented the story for reasons of her own. (3) That Miss Lawson actually believed her own story, but that her identification rested upon the broochâand as I have already pointed out to youâa brooch is easily detachable from its owner.â

âYes, but Theresa insists that the brooch did not leave her possession.â

âAnd she is perfectly right. I had overlooked a small but intensely significant fact.â

âVery unlike you, Poirot,â I said solemnly.

âNâest ce pas? But one has oneâs lapses.â

âAge will tell!â

âAge has nothing to do with it,â said Poirot coldly.

âWell, what is the significant fact?â I asked as we turned in at the entrance of the Mansions.

âI will show you.â

We had just reached the flat.

George opened the door to us. In reply to Poirotâs anxious question he shook his head.

âNo, sir. Mrs. Tanios has not called. Neither has she telephoned.â Poirot went into the sitting room. He paced up and down for a few minutes. Then he picked up the telephone. He got first onto the Durham Hotel.

âYesâyes, please. Ah, Dr. Tanios, this is Hercule Poirot speaking. Your wife has returned? Oh, not returned. Dear meâ¦ Taken her luggage, you sayâ¦ And the childrenâ¦ You have no idea where she has goneâ¦ Yes, quiteâ¦ Oh, perfectlyâ¦ If my professional services are of any use to you? I have certain experience in these mattersâ¦ Such things can be done quite discreetlyâ¦ No, of course notâ¦ Yes, of course that is trueâ¦ Certainlyâcertainly. I shall respect your wishes in the matter.â

He hung up the receiver thoughtfully.

âHe does not know where she is,â he said thoughtfully. âI think that is quite genuine. The anxiety in his voice is unmistakable. He does not want to go to the police, that is understandable. Yes, I understand that. He does not want my assistance either. That is, perhaps, not quite so understandableâ¦ He wants her foundâbut he does not want me to find herâ¦ No, definitely he does not want me to find herâ¦ He seems confident that he can manage the matter himself. He does not think she can remain long hidden, for she has very little money with her. Also she has the children. Yes, I fancy he will be able to hunt her down before long. But, I think, Hastings, that we shall be a little quicker than he is. It is important, I think, that we should be.â

âDo you think itâs true that she is slightly batty?â I asked.

âI think that she is in a highly nervous, overwrought condition.â

âBut not to such a point that she ought to be in a mental home?â

âThat, very definitely, no.â

âYou know, Poirot, I donât quite understand all this.â

âIf you will pardon my saying so, Hastings, you do not understand at all!â

âThere seem so manyâwellâside issues.â

âNaturally there are side issues. To separate the main issue from the side issues is the first task of the orderly mind.â

âTell me, Poirot, have you realized all along that there were eight possible suspects and not seven?â

Poirot replied drily:

âI have taken that fact into consideration from the moment that Theresa Arundell mentioned that the last time she saw Dr. Donaldson was when he dined at Littlegreen House on April 14th.â

âI canât quite seeââ I broke off.

âWhat is it you cannot quite see?â

âWell, if Donaldson had planned to do away with Miss Arundell by scientific meansâby inoculation, that is to sayâI canât see why he resorted to such a clumsy device as a string across the stairs.â

âEn vÃ©ritÃ©, Hastings, there are moments when I lose patience with you! One method is a highly scientific one needing fully specialized knowledge. That is so, is it not?â

âYes.â

âAnd the other is a homely simple methodââthe kind that mother makesââas the advertisements say. Is that not right?â

âYes, exactly.â

âThen think, Hastingsâthink. Lie back in your chair, close the eyes, employ the little grey cells.â

I obeyed. That is to say, I leant back in the chair and closed my eyes and endeavoured to carry out the third part of Poirotâs instructions. The result, however, did not seem to clarify matters much.

I opened my eyes to find Poirot regarding me with the kindly attention a nurse might display towards a childish charge.

âEh bien?â

I made a desperate attempt to emulate Poirotâs manner.

âWell,â I said, âit seems to me that the kind of person who laid the original booby trap is not the kind of person to plan out a scientific murder.â

âExactly.â

âAnd I doubt if a mind trained to scientific complexities would think of anything so childish as the accident planâit would be altogether too haphazard.â

âVery clearly reasoned.â

Emboldened, I went on:

âTherefore, the only logical solution seems to be thisâthe two attempts were planned by two different people. We have here to deal with murder attempted by two entirely different people.â

âYou do not think that is too much of a coincidence?â

âYou said yourself once that one coincidence is nearly always found in a murder case.â

âYes, that is true. I have to admit it.â

âWell, then.â

âAnd who do you suggest for your villains?â

âDonaldson and Theresa Arundell. A doctor is clearly indicated for the final successful murder. On the other hand we know that Theresa Arundell is concerned in the first attempt. I think itâs possible that they acted quite independently of each other.â

âYou are so fond of saying, âwe know,â Hastings. I can assure you that no matter what you know, I do not know that Theresa was implicated.â

âBut Miss Lawsonâs story.â

âMiss Lawsonâs story is Miss Lawsonâs story. Just that.â

âBut she saysââ

âShe saysâshe saysâ¦ Always you are so ready to take what people say for a proved and accepted fact. Now listen, mon cher, I told you at the time, did I not, that something struck me as wrong about Miss Lawsonâs story?â

âYes, I remember your saying so. But you couldnât get hold of what it was.â

âWell, I have done so now. A little moment and I will show you what I, imbecile that I am, ought to have seen at once.â He went over to the desk and opening a drawer took out a sheet of cardboard. He cut into this with a pair of scissors, motioning to me not to overlook what he was doing.

âPatience, Hastings, in a little moment we will proceed to our experiment.â

I averted my eyes obligingly.

In a minute or two Poirot uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He put away the scissors, dropped the fragments of cardboard into the wastepaper basket and came across the room to me.

âNow, do not look. Continue to avert the eyes while I pin something to the lapel of your coat.â

I humoured him. Poirot completed the proceeding to his satisfaction, then, propelling me gently to my feet he drew me across the room, and into the adjoining bedroom.

âNow, Hastings, regard yourself in the glass. You are wearing, are you not, a fashionable brooch with your initials on itâonly, bien entendu, the brooch is made not of chromium nor stainless steel, nor gold, nor platinumâbut of humble cardboard!â

I looked at myself and smiled. Poirot is uncommonly neat with his fingers. I was wearing a very fair representation of Theresa Arundellâs broochâa circle cut out of cardboard and enclosing my initials. A.H.

âEh bien,â said Poirot. âYou are satisfied? You have there, have you not, a very smart brooch with your initials?â

âA most handsome affair,â I agreed.

âIt is true that it does not gleam and reflect the light, but all the same you are prepared to admit that that brooch could be seen plainly from some distance away?â

âIâve never doubted it.â

âQuite so. Doubt is not your strong point. Simple faith is more characteristic of you. And now, Hastings, be so good as to remove your coat.â

Wondering a little, I did so. Poirot divested himself of his own coat and slipped on mine, turning away a little as he did so.

âAnd now,â he said. âRegard how the broochâthe brooch with your initialsâbecomes me?â

He whisked round. I stared at himâfor the moment uncomprehendingly. Then I saw the point.

âWhat a blithering fool I am! Of course. Itâs H.A. in the brooch, not A.H. at all.â

Poirot beamed on me, as he reassumed his own clothes and handed me mine.

âExactlyâand now you see what struck me as wrong with Miss Lawsonâs story. She stated that she had seen Theresaâs initials clearly on the brooch she was wearing. But she saw Theresa in the glass. So, if she saw the initials at all, she must have seen them reversed.â

âWell,â I argued, âperhaps she did, and realized that they were reversed.â

âMon cher, did that occur to you just now? Did you exclaim, âHa! Poirot, youâve got it wrong. Thatâs H.A. reallyânot A.H.â No, you did not. And yet you are a good deal more intelligent, I should say, than Miss Lawson. Do not tell me that a muddleheaded woman like that woke up suddenly, and still half asleep, realized that A.T. was really T.A. No, that is not at all consistent with the mentality of Miss Lawson.â

âShe was determined it should be Theresa,â I said slowly.

âYou are getting nearer, my friend. You remember, I hint to her that she could not really see the face of anyone on the stairs, and immediatelyâwhat does she do?â

âRemembers Theresaâs brooch and lugs that inâforgetting that the mere fact of having seen it in the glass gave her own story the lie.â

The telephone bell rang sharply. Poirot crossed to it.

He only spoke a few noncommittal words.

âYes? Yesâ¦ certainly. Yes, quite convenient. The afternoon, I think. Yes, two oâclock will do admirably.â He replaced the receiver and turned to me with a smile.

âDr. Donaldson is anxious to have a talk with me. He is coming here tomorrow afternoon at two oâclock. We progress, mon ami, we progress.â

Twenty-six

MRS. TANIOS REFUSES TO SPEAK

When I came round after breakfast the following morning I found Poirot busy at the writing table.

He raised a hand in salutation, then proceeded with his task. Presently he gathered up the sheets, enclosed them in an envelope and sealed them up carefully.

âWell, old boy, what are you doing?â I asked facetiously.

âWriting an account of the case to be placed in safekeeping in case someone bumps you off during the course of the day?â

âYou know, Hastings, you are not so far wrong as you think.â

His manner was serious.

âIs our murderer really about to get dangerous?â

âA murderer is always dangerous,â said Poirot gravely.

âAstonishing how often that fact is overlooked.â

âAny news?â

âDr. Tanios rang up.â

âStill no trace of his wife?â

âNo.â

âThen thatâs all right.â

âI wonder.â

âDash it all, Poirot, you donât think sheâs been bumped off, do you?â

Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

âI confess,â he murmured, âthat I should like to know where she is.â

âOh, well,â I said. âSheâll turn up.â

âYour cheerful optimism never fails to delight me, Hastings!â

âMy goodness, Poirot, you donât think sheâll turn up in parcels or dismembered in a trunk?â

Poirot said slowly:

âI find the anxiety of Dr. Tanios somewhat excessiveâbut no more of that. The first thing to do is to interview Miss Lawson.â

âAre you going to point out that little error over the brooch?â

âCertainly not. That little fact remains up my sleeve until the right moment comes.â

âThen what are you going to say to her?â

âThat, mon ami, you will hear in due course.â

âMore lies, I suppose?â

âYou are really offensive sometimes, Hastings. Anybody would think I enjoyed telling lies.â

âI rather think you do. In fact, Iâm sure of it.â

âIt is true that I sometimes compliment myself upon my ingenuity,â Poirot confessed naively.

I could not help giving a shout of laughter. Poirot looked at me reproachfully and we set off for Clanroyden Mansions.

We were shown into the same crowded sitting room and Miss Lawson came bustling in, her manner even more incoherent than usual.

âOh, dear, M. Poirot, good morning. Such a to-doârather untidy, Iâm afraid. But then, everything is at sixes and sevens this morning. Ever since Bella arrivedââ

âWhat is that you say? Bella?â

âYes, Bella Tanios. She turned up half an hour agoâand the childrenâcompletely exhausted, poor soul! Really, I donât know what to do about it. You see, sheâs left her husband.â

âLeft him?â

âSo she says. Of course, Iâve no doubt sheâs fully justified, poor thing.â

âShe has confided in you?â

âWellânot exactly that. In fact, she wonât say anything at all. Just repeats that sheâs left him and that nothing will induce her to go back to him!â

âThat is a very serious step to take?â

âOf course it is! In fact, if heâd been an Englishman, I would have advised herâbut there, he isnât an Englishmanâ¦ And she looks so peculiar, poor thing, soâwell, so scared. What can he have been doing to her? I believe Turks are frightfully cruel sometimes.â

âDr. Tanios is a Greek.â

âYes, of course, thatâs the other way aboutâI mean, theyâre usually the ones who get massacred by the Turksâor am I thinking of Armenians? But all the same, I donât like to think of it. I donât think she ought to go back to him, do you, M. Poirot? Anyway, I mean, she says she wonâtâ¦ She doesnât even want him to know where she is.â

âAs bad as that?â

âYes, you see itâs the children. Sheâs so afraid he could take them back to Smyrna. Poor soul, she really is in a terrible way. You see, sheâs got no moneyâno money at all. She doesnât know where to go or what to do. She wants to try and earn her living but really, you know, M. Poirot, thatâs not so easy as it sounds. I know that. Itâs not as though she were trained for anything.â

âWhen did she leave her husband?â

âYesterday. She spent last night in a little hotel near Paddington. She came to me because she couldnât think of anyone else to go to, poor thing.â

âAnd are you going to help her? That is very good of you.â

âWell, you see, M. Poirot, I really feel itâs my duty. But of course, itâs all very difficult. This is a very small flat and thereâs no roomâand what with one thing and another.â

âYou could send her to Littlegreen House?â

âI suppose I couldâbut you see, her husband might think of that. Just for the moment Iâve got her rooms at the Wellington Hotel in Queenâs Road. Sheâs staying there under the name of Mrs. Peters.â

âI see,â said Poirot.

He paused for a minute, then said:

âI would like to see Mrs. Tanios. You see, she called at my flat yesterday but I was out.â

âOh, did she? She didnât tell me that. Iâll tell her, shall I?â

âIf you would be so good.â

Miss Lawson hurried out of the room. We could hear her voice.

âBellaâBellaâmy dear, will you come and see M. Poirot?â

We did not hear Mrs. Taniosâ reply, but a minute or two later she came into the room.

I was really shocked at her appearance. There were dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks were completely destitute of colour, but what struck me far more than this was her obvious air of terror. She started at the least provocation, and she seemed to be continually listening.

Poirot greeted her in his most soothing manner. He came forward, shook hands, arranged a chair for her and handed her a cushion. He treated the pale, frightened woman as though she had been a queen.

âAnd now, madame, let us have a little chat. You came to see me yesterday, I believe?â

She nodded.

âI regret very much that I was away from home.â

âYesâyes, I wish you had been there.â

âYou came because you wanted to tell me something?â

âYes, IâI meant toââ

âEh bien, I am here, at your service.â

Mrs. Tanios did not respond. She sat quite still, twisting a ring round and round on her finger.

âWell, madame?â

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she shook her head.

âNo,â she said. âI darenât.â

âYou darenât, madame?â

âNo. Iâif he knewâheâdâOh, something would happen to me!â

âCome, come, madameâthat is absurd.â

âOh, but it isnât absurdâit isnât absurd at all. You donât know himâ¦.â

âBy him, you mean your husband, madame?â

âYes, of course.â

Poirot was silent a minute or two, then he said:

âYour husband came to see me yesterday, madame.â

A quick look of alarm sprang up in her face.

âOh, no! You didnât tell himâbut of course you didnât! You couldnât. You didnât know where I was. Did heâdid he say I was mad?â

Poirot answered cautiously.

âHe said that you wereâhighly nervous.â

But she shook her head, undeceived.

âNo, he said that I was madâor that I was going mad! He wants to shut me up so that I shanât be able to tell anyone ever.â

âTell anyoneâwhat?â

But she shook her head. Twisting her fingers nervously round and round, she muttered:

âIâm afraidâ¦.â

âBut madame, once you have told meâyou are safe! The secret is out! That fact will protect you automatically.â

But she did not reply. She went on twistingâtwisting at her ring.

âYou must see that yourself,â said Poirot gently.

She gave a sort of gasp.

âHow am I to knowâ¦ Oh, dear, itâs terrible. Heâs so plausible! And heâs a doctor! People will believe him and not me. I know they will. I should myself. Nobody will believe me. How could they?â

âYou will not even give me the chance?â

She shot a troubled glance at him.

âHow do I know? You may be on his side.â

âI am on no oneâs side, madame. I amâalwaysâon the side of truth.â

âI donât know,â said Mrs. Tanios hopelessly. âOh, I donât know.â She went on, her words gathering volume, tumbling over each other.

âItâs been so awfulâfor years now. Iâve seen things happening again and again. And I couldnât say anything or do anything. There have been the children. Itâs been like a long nightmare. And now thisâ¦ But I wonât go back to him. I wonât let him have the children! Iâll go somewhere where he canât find me. Minnie Lawson will help me. Sheâs been so kindâso wonderfully kind. Nobody could have been kinder.â She stopped, then shot a quick look at Poirot and asked:

âWhat did he say about me? Did he say I had delusions?â

âHe said, madame, that you hadâchanged towards him.â

She nodded.

âAnd he said I had delusions. He did say that, didnât he?â

âYes, madame, to be frank, he did.â

âThatâs it, you see. Thatâs what it will sound like. And Iâve no proofâno real proof.â

Poirot leaned back in his chair. When he next spoke it was with an entire change of manner.

He spoke in a matter-of-fact, businesslike voice with as little emotion as if he had been discussing some dry matter of business.

âDo you suspect your husband of doing away with Miss Emily Arundell?â

Her answer came quicklyâa spontaneous flash.

âI donât suspectâI know.â

âThen, madame, it is your duty to speak.â

âAh, but it isnât so easyâno, it isnât so easy.â

âHow did he kill her?â

âI donât know exactlyâbut he did kill her.â

âBut you donât know the method he employed?â

âNoâit was somethingâsomething he did that last Sunday.â

âThe Sunday he went down to see her?â

âYes.â

âBut you donât know what it was?â

âNo.â

âThen how, forgive me, madame, can you be so sure?â

âBecause heââ she stopped and said slowly, âI am sure!â

âPardon, madame, but there is something you are keeping back. Something you have not yet told me?â

âYes.â

âCome, then.â

Bella Tanios got up suddenly.

âNo. No. I canât do that. The children. Their father. I canât. I simply canâtâ¦.â

âBut madameââ

âI canât, I tell you.â

Her voice rose almost to a scream. The door opened and Miss Lawson came in, her head cocked on one side with a sort of pleasurable excitement.

âMay I come in? Have you had your little talk? Bella, my dear, donât you think you ought to have a cup of tea, or some soup, or perhaps a little brandy even?â

Mrs. Tanios shook her head.

âIâm quite all right.â She gave a weak smile. âI must be getting back to the children. I have left them to unpack.â

âDear little things,â said Miss Lawson. âIâm so fond of children.â

Mrs. Tanios turned to her suddenly.

âI donât know what I should do without you,â she said. âYouâyouâve been wonderfully kind.â

âThere, there, my dear, donât cry. Everythingâs going to be all right. You shall come round and see my lawyerâsuch a nice man, so sympathetic, and heâll advise you the best way to get a divorce. Divorce is so simple nowadays, isnât it, everybody says so? Oh, dear, thereâs the bell. I wonder who that is.â

She left the room hurriedly. There was a murmur of voices in the hall. Miss Lawson reappeared. She tiptoed in and shut the door carefully behind her. She spoke in an excited whisper, mouthing the words exaggeratedly.

âOh, dear, Bella, itâs your husband. Iâm sure I donât knowââ

Mrs. Tanios gave one bound towards a door at the other end of the room. Miss Lawson nodded her head violently.

âThatâs right, dear, go in there, and then you can slip out when Iâve brought him in here.â

Mrs. Tanios whispered:

âDonât say Iâve been here. Donât say youâve seen me.â

âNo, no, of course I wonât.â

Mrs. Tanios slipped through the door. Poirot and I followed hastily. We found ourselves in a small dining room.

Poirot crossed to the door into the hall, opened it a crack and listened. Then he beckoned.

âAll is clear. Miss Lawson has taken him into the other room.â

We crept through the hall and out by the front door. Poirot drew it to as noiselessly as possible after him.

Mrs. Tanios began to run down the steps, stumbling and clutching at the banisters. Poirot steadied her with a hand under her arm.

âDu calmeâdu calme. All is well.â

We reached the entrance hall.

âCome with me,â said Mrs. Tanios piteously. She looked as though she might be going to faint.

âCertainly I will come,â said Poirot reassuringly.

We crossed the road, turned a corner, and found ourselves in Queenâs Road. The Wellington was a small, inconspicuous hotel of the boardinghouse variety.

When we were inside Mrs. Tanios sank down on a plush sofa. Her hand was on her beating heart.

Poirot patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.

âIt was the narrow squeakâyes. Now, madame, you are to listen to me very carefully.â

âI canât tell you anything more, M. Poirot. It wouldnât be right. Youâyou know what I thinkâwhat I believe. Youâyou must be satisfied with that.â

âI asked you to listen, madame. Supposingâthis is a supposition onlyâthat I already know the facts of the case. Supposing that what you could tell me I have already guessedâthat would make a difference, would it not?â

She looked at him doubtfully. Her eyes were painful in their intensity.

âOh, believe me, madame, I am not trying to trap you into saying what you do not wish to. But it would make a differenceâyes?â

âIâI suppose it would.â

âGood. Then let me say this. I, Hercule Poirot, know the truth. I am not going to ask you to accept my word for it. Take this.â He thrust upon her the bulky envelope I had seen him seal up that morning. âThe facts are there. After you have read them, if they satisfy you, ring me up. My number is on the notepaper.â

Almost reluctantly she accepted the envelope.

Poirot went on briskly:

âAnd now, one more point, you must leave this hotel at once.â

âBut why?â

âYou will go to the Coniston Hotel near Euston. Tell no one where you are going.â

âBut surelyâhereâMinnie Lawson wonât tell my husband where I am.â

âYou think not?â

âOh, noâsheâs entirely on my side.â

âYes, but your husband, madame, is a very clever man. He will not find it difficult to turn a middle-aged lady inside out. It is essentialâessential, you understand, that your husband should not know where you are.â

She nodded dumbly.

Poirot held out a sheet of paper.

âHere is the address. Pack up and drive there with the children as soon as possible. You understand?â

She nodded.

âI understand.â

âIt is the children you must think of, madame, not yourself. You love your chldren.â

He had touched the right note.

A little colour crept into her cheeks, her head went back. She looked, not a frightened drudge, but an arrogant, almost handsome woman.

âIt is arranged, then,â said Poirot.

He shook hands and he and I departed. But not far. From the shelter of a convenient cafÃ©, we sipped coffee and watched the entrance of the hotel. In about five minutes we saw Dr. Tanios walking down the street. He did not even glance up at the Wellington. He passed it, his head bowed in thought, then he turned into the Underground station.

About ten minutes later we saw Mrs. Tanios and the children get into the taxi with their luggage and drive away.

âBien,â said Poirot, rising with the check in his hand. âWe have done our part. Now it is on the knees of the gods.â

Twenty-seven

VISIT OF DR. DONALDSON

Donaldson arrived punctually at two oâclock. He was as calm and precise as ever.

The personality of Donaldson had begun to intrigue me. I had started by regarding him as a rather nondescript young man. I had wondered what a vivid, compelling creature like Theresa could see in him. But I now began to realize that Donaldson was anything but negligible. Behind that pedantic manner there was force.

After our preliminary greetings were over, Donaldson said:

âThe reason for my visit is this. I am at a loss to understand exactly what your position is in this matter, M. Poirot?â

Poirot replied guardedly:

âYou know my profession, I think?â

âCertainly. I may say that I have taken the trouble to make inquiries about you.â

âYou are a careful man, doctor.â

Donaldson said drily:

âI like to be sure of my facts.â

âYou have the scientific mind!â

âI may say that all reports on you are the same. You are obviously a very clever man in your profession. You have also the reputation of being a scrupulous and honest one.â

âYou are too flattering,â murmured Poirot.

âThat is why I am at a loss to explain your connection with this affair.â

âAnd yet it is so simple!â

âHardly that,â said Donaldson. âYou first present yourself as a writer of biographies.â

âA pardonable deception, do you not think? One cannot go everywhere announcing the fact that one is a detectiveâthough that, too, has its uses sometimes.â

âSo I should imagine.â Again Donaldsonâs tone was dry. âYour next proceeding,â he went on, âwas to call on Miss Theresa Arundell and represent to her that her auntâs will might conceivably be set aside.â

Poirot merely bowed his head in assent.

âThat, of course, was ridiculous.â Donaldsonâs voice was sharp. âYou knew perfectly well that that will was valid in law and that nothing could be done about it.â

âYou think that is the case?â

âI am not a fool, M. Poirotââ

âNo, Dr. Donaldson, you are certainly not a fool.â

âI know somethingânot very much, but enoughâof the law. That will can certainly not be upset. Why did you pretend it could? Clearly for reasons of your ownâreasons which Miss Theresa Arundell did not for a moment grasp.â

âYou seem very certain of her reactions.â

A very faint smile passed across the young manâs face.

He said unexpectedly:

âI know a good deal more about Theresa than she suspects. I have no doubt that she and Charles think they have enlisted your aid in some questionable business. Charles is almost completely amoral. Theresa has a bad heredity and her upbringing has been unfortunate.â

âIt is thus you speak of your fiancÃ©eâas though she was a guinea pig?â

Donaldson peered at him through his pince-nez.

âI see no occasion to blink the truth. I love Theresa Arundell and I love her for what she is and not for any imagined qualities.â

âDo you realize that Theresa Arundell is devoted to you and that her wish for money is mainly in order that your ambitions should be gratified?â

âOf course I realize it. Iâve already told you Iâm not a fool. But I have no intention of allowing Theresa to embroil herself in any questionable situation on my account. In many ways Theresa is a child still. I am quite capable of furthering my career by my own efforts. I do not say that a substantial legacy would not have been acceptable. It would have been most acceptable. But it would merely have provided a shortcut.â

âYou have, in fact, full confidence in your own abilities?â

âIt probably sounds conceited, but I have,â said Donaldson composedly.

âLet us proceed, then. I admit that I gained Miss Theresaâs confidence by a trick. I let her think that I would beâshall we say, reasonably dishonestâfor money. She believed that without the least difficulty.â

âTheresa believes that anyone would do anything for money,â said the young doctor in the matter-of-fact tone one uses when stating a self-evident truth.

âTrue. That seems to be her attitudeâher brotherâs also.â

âCharles probably would do anything for money!â

âYou have no illusions, I see, about your future brother-in-law.â

âNo. I find him quite an interesting study. There is, I think, some deep-seated neurosisâbut that is talking shop. To return to what we are discussing. I have asked myself why you should act in the way you have done, and I have found only one answer. It is clear that you suspect either Theresa or Charles of having a hand in Miss Arundellâs death. No, please donât bother to contradict me! Your mention of exhumation was, I think, a mere device to see what reaction you would get. Have you, in actual fact, taken any steps towards getting a Home Office order for exhumation?â

âI will be frank with you. As yet, I have not.â

Donaldson nodded.

âSo I thought. I suppose you have considered the possibility that Miss Arundellâs death may turn out to be from natural causes?â

âI have considered the fact that it may appear to be soâyes.â

âBut your own mind is made up?â

âVery definitely. If you have a case ofâsayâtuberculosis that looks like tuberculosis, behaves like tuberculosis, and in which the blood gives a positive reactionâeh bien, you consider it is tuberculosis, do you not?â

âYou look at it that way? Then what exactly are you waiting for?â

âI am waiting for a final piece of evidence.â

The telephone bell rang. At a gesture from Poirot I got up and answered it. I recognized the voice.

âCaptain Hastings? This is Mrs. Tanios speaking. Will you tell M. Poirot that he is perfectly right. If he will come here tomorrow morning at ten oâclock, I will give him what he wants.â

âAt ten oâclock tomorrow?â

âYes.â

âRight, Iâll tell him.â

Poirotâs eyes asked a question. I nodded.

He turned to Donaldson. His manner had changed. It was briskâassured.

âLet me make myself clear,â he said. âI have diagnosed this case of mine as a case of murder. It looked like murder, it gave all the characteristic reactions of murderâin fact, it was murder! Of that there is not the least doubt.â

âWhere then, does the doubtâfor I perceive there is a doubtâlie?â

âThe doubt lay in the identity of the murdererâbut that is a doubt no longer!â

âReally? You know?â

âLet us say that I shall have definite proof in my hands tomorrow.â

Dr. Donaldsonâs eyebrows rose in a slightly ironical fashion.

âAh,â he said. âTomorrow! Sometimes, M. Poirot, tomorrow is a long way off.â

âOn the contrary,â said Poirot, âI always find that it succeeds today with monotonous regularity.â

Donaldson smiled. He rose.

âI fear I have wasted your time, M. Poirot.â

âNot at all. It is always as well to understand each other.â

With a slight bow Dr. Donaldson left the room.

Twenty-eight

ANOTHER VICTIM

âThat is a clever man,â said Poirot thoughtfully.

âItâs rather difficult to know what he is driving at.â

âYes. He is a little inhuman. But extremely perceptive.â

âThat telephone call was from Mrs. Tanios.â

âSo I gathered.â

I repeated the message. Poirot nodded approval.

âGood. All marches well. Twenty-four hours, Hastings, and I think we shall know exactly where we stand.â

âIâm still a little fogged. Who exactly do we suspect?â

âI really could not say who you suspect, Hastings! Everybody in turn, I should imagine!â

âSometimes I think you like to get me into that state!â

âNo, no, I would not amuse myself in such a way.â

âI wouldnât put it past you.â

Poirot shook his head, but somewhat absently. I studied him.

âIs anything the matter?â I asked.

âMy friend, I am always nervous towards the end of a case. If anything should go wrongââ

âIs anything likely to go wrong?â

âI do not think so.â He pausedâfrowning. âI have, I think, provided against every contingency.â

âThen, supposing we forget crime and go to a show?â

âMa foi, Hastings, that is a good idea!â

We passed a very pleasant evening, though I made the slight mistake of taking Poirot to a crook play. There is one piece of advice I offer all my readers. Never take a soldier to a military play, a sailor to a naval play, a Scotsman to a Scottish play, a detective to a thrillerâand an actor to any play whatsoever! The shower of destructive criticism in each case is somewhat devastating. Poirot never ceased to complain of faulty psychology, and the hero detectiveâs lack of order and method nearly drove him demented. We parted that night with Poirot still explaining how the whole business might have been laid bare in the first half of the first act.

âBut in that case, Poirot, there would have been no play,â I pointed out.

Poirot was forced to admit that perhaps that was so.

It was a few minutes past nine when I entered the sitting room the next morning. Poirot was at the breakfast tableâas usual neatly slitting open his letters.

The telephone rang and I answered it.

A heavy breathing female voice spoke:

âIs that M. Poirot? Oh, itâs you, Captain Hastings.â

There was a sort of gasp and a sob.

âIs that Miss Lawson?â I asked.

âYes, yes, such a terrible thing has happened!â

I grasped the receiver tightly.

âWhat is it?â

âShe left the Wellington, you knowâBella, I mean. I went there late in the afternoon yesterday and they said sheâd left. Without a word to me, either! Most extraordinary! It makes me feel that perhaps after all, Dr. Tanios was right. He spoke so nicely about her and seemed so distressed, and now it really looks as though he were right after all.â

âBut whatâs happened, Miss Lawson? Is is just that Mrs. Tanios left the hotel without telling you?â

âOh, no, itâs not that! Oh, dear me, no. If that were all it would be quite all right. Though I do think it was odd, you know. Dr. Tanios did say that he was afraid she wasnât quiteânot quiteâif you know what I mean. Persecution mania, he called it.â

âYes.â (Damn the woman!) âBut whatâs happened?â

âOh, dearâit is terrible. Died in her sleep. An overdose of some sleeping stuff. And those poor children! It all seems so dreadfully sad! Iâve done nothing but cry since I heard.â

âHow did you hear? Tell me all about it.â

Out of the tail of my eye I noticed that Poirot had stopped opening his letters. He was listening to my side of the conversation. I did not like to cede my place to him. If I did it seemed highly probable that Miss Lawson would start with lamentations all over again.

âThey rang me up. From the hotel. The Coniston itâs called. It seems they found my name and address in her bag. Oh, dear, M. PoirotâCaptain Hastings, I mean, isnât it terrible? Those poor children left motherless.â

âLook here,â I said. âAre you sure itâs an accident? They didnât think it could be suicide?â

âOh, what a dreadful idea, Captain Hastings! Oh, dear, I donât know, Iâm sure. Do you think it could be? That would be dreadful. Of course she did seem very depressed. But she neednât have. I mean there wouldnât have been any difficulty about money. I was going to share with herâindeed I was. Dear Miss Arundell would have wished it. Iâm sure of that! It seems so awful to think of her taking her own lifeâbut perhaps she didnâtâ¦ The hotel people seemed to think it was an accident?â

âWhat did she take?â

âOne of those sleeping things. Veronal, I think. No, chloral. Yes, that was it. Chloral. Oh, dear, Captain Hastings, do you thinkââ

Unceremoniously I banged down the receiver. I turned to Poirot.

âMrs. Taniosââ

He raised a hand.

âYes, yes, I know what you are going to say. She is dead, is she not?â

âYes. Overdose of sleeping draught. Chloral.â

Poirot got up.

âCome, Hastings, we must go there at once.â

âIs this what you fearedâlast night? When you said you were always nervous towards the end of a case?â

âI feared another deathâyes.â

Poirotâs face was set and stern. We said very little as we drove towards Euston. Once or twice Poirot shook his head.

I said timidly:

âYou donât thinkâ? Could it be an accident?â

âNo, Hastingsâno. It was not an accident.â

âHow on earth did he find out where she had gone?â

Poirot only shook his head without replying.

The Coniston was an unsavoury-looking place quite near Euston station. Poirot, with his card, and a suddenly bullying manner, soon fought his way into the managerâs office.

The facts were quite simple.

Mrs. Peters as she had called herself and her two children had arrived about half past twelve. They had had lunch at one oâclock.

At four oâclock a man had arrived with a note for Mrs. Peters. The note had been sent up to her. A few minutes later she had come down with the two children and a suitcase. The children had then left with the visitor. Mrs. Peters had gone to the office and explained that she should only want the one room after all.

She had not appeared exceptionally distressed or upset, indeed she had seemed quite calm and collected. She had had dinner about seven thirty and had gone to her room soon afterwards.

On calling her in the morning the chambermaid had found her dead.

A doctor had been sent for and had pronounced her to have been dead for some hours. An empty glass was found on the table by the bed. It seemed fairly obvious that she had taken a sleeping draught, and by mistake, taken an overdose. Chloral hydrate, the doctor said, was a somewhat uncertain drug. There were no indications of suicide. No letter had been left. Searching for means of notifying her relations, Miss Lawsonâs name and address had been found and she had been communicated with by telephone.

Poirot asked if anything had been found in the way of letters or papers. The letter, for instance, brought by the man who had called for the children.

No papers of any kind had been found, the man said, but there was a pile of charred paper on the hearth.

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

As far as anyone could say, Mrs. Peters had had no visitors and no one had come to her roomâwith the solitary exception of the man who had called for the two children.

I questioned the porter myself as to his appearance, but the man was very vague. A man of medium heightâhe thought fair-hairedârather military buildâof somewhat nondescript appearance. No, he was positive the man had no beard.

âIt wasnât Tanios,â I murmured to Poirot.

âMy dear Hastings! Do you really believe that Mrs. Tanios, after all the trouble she was taking to get the children away from their father, would quite meekly hand them over to him without the least fuss or protest? Ah, that, no!â

âThen who was the man?â

âClearly it was someone in whom Mrs. Tanios had confidence or rather it was someone sent by a third person in whom Mrs. Tanios had confidence.â

âA man of medium height,â I mused.

âYou need hardly trouble yourself about his appearance, Hastings. I am quite sure that the man who actually called for the children was some quite unimportant personage. The real agent kept himself in the background!â

âAnd the note was from this third person?â

âYes.â

âSomeone in whom Mrs. Tanios had confidence?â

âObviously.â

âAnd the note is now burnt?â

âYes, she was instructed to burn it.â

âWhat about that rÃ©sumÃ© of the case that you gave her?â

Poirotâs face looked unusually grim.

âThat, too, is burned. But that does not matter!â

âNo?â

âNo. For you seeâit is all in the head of Hercule Poirot.â

He took me by the arm.

âCome, Hastings, let us leave here. Our concern is not with the dead but with the living. It is with them I have to deal.â

Twenty-nine

INQUEST AT LITTLEGREEN HOUSE

It was eleven oâclock the following morning.

Seven people were assembled at Littlegreen House.

Hercule Poirot stood by the mantelpiece. Charles and Theresa were on the sofa, Charles on the arm of it with his hand on Theresaâs shoulder. Dr. Tanios sat in a grandfather chair. His eyes were red rimmed and he wore a black band round his arm.

On an upright chair by a round table sat the owner of the house, Miss Lawson. She, too, had red eyes. Her hair was even untidier than usual. Dr. Donaldson sat directly facing Poirot. His face was quite expressionless.

My interest quickened as I looked at each face in turn.

In the course of my association with Poirot I had assisted at many such a scene. A little company of people, all outwardly composed with well-bred masks for faces. And I had seen Poirot strip the mask from one face and show it for what it wasâthe face of a killer!

Yes, there was no doubt of it. One of these people was a murderer! But which? Even now I was not sure.

Poirot cleared his throatâa little pompously as was his habitâand began to speak.

âWe are assembled here, ladies and gentlemen, to inquire into the death of Emily Arundell on the first of May last. There are four possibilitiesâthat she died naturallyâthat she died as the result of an accidentâthat she took her own lifeâor lastly that she met her death at the hands of some person known or unknown.

âNo inquest was held at the time of her death, since it was assumed that she died from natural causes and a medical certificate to that effect was given by Dr. Grainger.

âIn a case where suspicion arises after burial has taken place it is usual to exhume the body of the person in question. There are reasons why I have not advocated that course. The chief of them is that my client would not have liked it.â

It was Dr. Donaldson who interrupted. He said:

âYour client?â

Poirot turned to him.

âMy client is Miss Emily Arundell. I am acting for her. Her greatest desire was that there should be no scandal.â

I will pass over the next ten minutes since it would involve much needless repetition. Poirot told of the letter he had received, and producing it he read it aloud. He went on to explain the steps he had taken on coming to Market Basing, and of his discovery of the means taken to bring about the accident.

Then he paused, cleared his throat once more, and went on:

âI am now going to take you over the ground I travelled to get at the truth. I am going to show you what I believe to be a true reconstruction of the facts of the case.

âTo begin with it is necessary to picture exactly what passed in Miss Arundellâs mind. That, I think, is fairly easy. She has a fall, her fall is supposed to be occasioned by a dogâs ball, but she herself knows better. Lying there on her bed her active and shrewd mind goes over the circumstances of her fall and she comes to a very definite conclusion about it. Someone has deliberately tried to injureâperhaps to kill her.

âFrom that conclusion she passes to a consideration of who that person can be. There were seven people in the houseâfour guests, her companion and two servants. Of these seven people only one can be entirely exoneratedâsince to that one person no advantage could accrue. She does not seriously suspect the two servants, both of whom have been with her for many years and whom she knows to be devoted to her. There remain then, four persons, three of them members of her family, and one of them a connection by marriage. Each of those four persons benefit, three directly, one indirectly, by her death.

âShe is in a difficult position since she is a woman with a strong sense of family feeling. Essentially she is not one who wishes to wash the dirty linen in public, as the saying goes. On the other hand, she is not one to submit tamely to attempted murder!

âShe takes her decision and writes to me. She also takes a further step. That further step was, I believe, actuated by two motives. One, I think, was a distinct feeling of spite against her entire family! She suspected them all impartially, and she determined at all costs to score off them! The second and more reasoned motive was a wish to protect herself and a realization of how this could be accomplished. As you know, she wrote to her lawyer, Mr. Purvis, and directed him to draw up a will in favour of the one person in the house whom, she felt convinced, could have had no hand in her accident.

âNow I may say that, from the terms of her letter to me and from her subsequent actions, I am quite sure that Miss Arundell passed from indefinite suspicion of four people to definite suspicion of one of those four. The whole tenor of her letter to me is an insistence that this business must be kept strictly private since the honour of the family is involved.

âI think that, from a Victorian point of view, this means that a person of her own name was indicatedâand preferably a man.

âIf she had suspected Mrs. Tanios she would have been quite as anxious to secure her own safety, but not quite as concerned for the family honour. She might have felt much the same about Theresa Arundell, but not nearly as intensely as she would feel about Charles.

âCharles was an Arundell. He bore the family name! Her reasons for suspecting him seem quite clear. To begin with, she had no illusions about Charles. He had come near to disgracing the family once before. That is, she knew him to be not only a potential but an actual criminal! He had already forged her name to a cheque. After forgeryâa step furtherâmurder!

âAlso she had had a somewhat suggestive conversation with him only two days before her accident. He had asked her for money and she had refused and he had thereupon remarkedâoh, lightly enoughâthat she was going the right way to get herself bumped off. To this she had responded that she could take care of herself! To this, we are told, her nephew responded, âDonât be too sure.â And two days later this sinister accident takes place.

âIt is hardly to be wondered at that lying there and brooding over the occurrence, Miss Arundell came definitely to the conclusion that it was Charles Arundell who had made an attempt upon her life.

âThe sequence of events is perfectly clear. The conversation with Charles. The accident. The letter written to me in great distress of mind. The letter to the lawyer. On the following Tuesday, the 21st, Mr. Purvis brings the will and she signs it.

âCharles and Theresa Arundell come down the following weekend and Miss Arundell at once takes the necessary steps to safeguard herself. She tells Charles about the will. She not only tells him but she actually shows it to him! That, to my mind, is absolutely conclusive. She is making it quite clear to a would-be murderer that murder would bring him nothing whatever!

âShe probably thought that Charles would pass on that information to his sister. But he did not do so. Why? I fancy that he had a very good reasonâhe felt guilty! He believed that it was his doing that the will had been made. But why did he feel guilty? Because he had really attempted murder? Or merely because he had helped himself to a small sum of ready cash? Either the serious crime or the petty one might account for his reluctance. He said nothing, hoping that his aunt would relent and change her mind.

âAs far as Miss Arundellâs state of mind was concerned I felt that I had reconstructed events with a fair amount of correctness. I had next to make up my mind if her suspicions were, in actual fact, justified.

âJust as she had done, I realized that my suspicions were limited to a narrow circleâseven people to be exact. Charles and Theresa Arundell, Dr. Tanios and Mrs. Tanios. The two servants, Miss Lawson. There was an eighth person who had to be taken into accountânamely, Dr. Donaldson, who dined there that night, but I did not learn of his presence until later.

âThese seven persons that I was considering fell easily into two categories. Six of them stood to benefit in a greater or lesser degree by Miss Arundellâs death. If any one of those six had committed the crime the reason was probably a plain matter of gain. The second category contained one person onlyâMiss Lawson. Miss Lawson did not stand to gain by Miss Arundellâs death, but as a result of the accident, she did benefit considerably later!

âThat meant that if Miss Lawson staged the so-called accidentââ

âI never did anything of the kind!â Miss Lawson interrupted. âItâs disgraceful! Standing up there and saying such things!â

âA little patience, mademoiselle. And be kind enough not to interrupt,â said Poirot.

Miss Lawson tossed her head angrily.

âI insist on making my protest! Disgraceful, thatâs what it is! Disgraceful!â

Poirot went on unheeding.

âI was saying that if Miss Lawson staged that accident she did so for an entirely different reasonâthat is, she engineered it so that Miss Arundell would naturally suspect her own family and become alienated from them. That was a possibility! I searched to see if there were any confirmation or otherwise and I unearthed one very definite fact. If Miss Lawson wanted Miss Arundell to suspect her own family, she would have stressed the fact of the dog, Bob, being out that night. But on the contrary Miss Lawson took the utmost pains to prevent Miss Arundell hearing of that. Therefore, I argued, Miss Lawson must be innocent.â

Miss Lawson said sharply:

âI should hope so!â

âI next considered the problem of Miss Arundellâs death. If one attempt to murder a person is made, a second attempt usually follows. It seemed to me significant that within a fortnight of the first attempt Miss Arundell should have died. I began to make inquiries.

âDr. Grainger did not seem to think there was anything unusual about his patientâs death. That was a little damping to my theory. But, inquiring into the happenings of the last evening before she was taken ill, I came across a significant fact. Miss Isabel Tripp mentioned a halo of light that had appeared round Miss Arundellâs head. Her sister confirmed her statement. They might, of course, be inventingâin a romantic spiritâbut I did not think that the incident was quite a likely one to occur to them unprompted. When questioning Miss Lawson she also gave me an interesting piece of information. She referred to a luminous ribbon issuing from Miss Arundellâs mouth and forming a luminous haze round her head.

âObviously, though described somewhat differently by two different observers, the actual fact was the same. What it amounted to, shorn of spiritualistic significance, was this: On the night in question Miss Arundellâs breath was phosphorescent!â

Dr. Donaldson moved a little in his chair.

Poirot nodded to him.

âYes, you begin to see. There are not very many phosphorescent substances. The first and most common one gave me exactly what I was looking for. I will read you a short extract from an article on phosphorus poisoning.

âThe personâs breath may be phosphorescent before he feels in any way affected. That is what Miss Lawson and the Misses Tripp saw in the darkâMiss Arundellâs phosphorescent breathââa luminous haze.â And here I will read you again. The jaundice having thoroughly pronounced itself, the system may be considered as not only under the influence of the toxic action of phosphorus, but as suffering in addition from all the accidents incidental to the retention of the biliary secretion in the blood, nor is there from this point any special difference between phosphorus poisoning and certain affections of the liverâsuch for example as yellow atrophy.

âYou see the cleverness of that? Miss Arundell has suffered for years from liver trouble. The symptoms of phosphorus poisoning would only look like another attack of the same complaint. There will be nothing new, nothing startling about it.

âOh! It was well-planned! Foreign matchesâvermin paste? It is not difficult to get hold of phosphorus and a very small dose will kill. The medicinal dose is from 1/100 to 1/30 grain.

âVoilÃ . How clearâhow marvellously clear the whole business becomes! Naturally, the doctor is deceivedâespecially as I find his sense of smell is affectedâthe garlic odour of the breath is a distinct symptom of phosphorus poisoning. He had no suspicionsâwhy should he have? There were no suspicious circumstances and the one thing that might have given him a hint was the one thing he would never hearâor if he did hear it he would only class it as spiritualistic nonsense.

âI was now sure (from the evidence of Miss Lawson and the Misses Tripp) that murder had been committed. The question still was by whom? I eliminated the servantsâtheir mentality was obviously not adapted to such a crime. I eliminated Miss Lawson since she would hardly have prattled on about luminous ectoplasm if she had been connected with the crime. I eliminated Charles Arundell since he knew, having seen the will, that he would gain nothing by his auntâs death.

âThere remained his sister Theresa, Dr. Tanios, Mrs. Tanios and Dr. Donaldson whom I discovered to have been dining in the house on the evening of the dogâs ball incident.

âAt this point I had very little to help me. I had to fall back upon the psychology of the crime and the personality of the murderer! Both crimes had roughly the same outline. They were both simple. They were cunning, and carried out with efficiency. They required a certain amount of knowledge but not a great deal. The facts about phosphorus poisoning are easily learned, and the stuff itself, as I say, is quite easily obtained, especially abroad.

âI considered first the two men. Both of them were doctors, and both were clever men. Either of them might have thought of phosphorus and its suitability in this particular case, but the incident of the dogâs ball did not seem to fit a masculine mind. The incident of the ball seemed to me essentially a womanâs idea.

âI considered first of all Theresa Arundell. She had certain potentialities. She was bold, ruthless, and not over scrupulous. She had led a selfish and greedy life. She had always had everything she wanted and she had reached a point where she was desperate for moneyâboth for herself and for the man she loved. Her manner, also, showed plainly that she knew her aunt had been murdered.

âThere was an interesting little passage between her and her brother. I conceived the idea that each suspected the other of the crime. Charles endeavoured to make her say that she knew of the existence of the new will. Why? Clearly because if she knew of it she could not be suspected of the murder. She, on the other hand, clearly did not believe Charlesâ statement that Miss Arundell had shown it to him! She regarded it as a singularly clumsy attempt on his part to divert suspicion from himself.

âThere was another significant point. Charles displayed a reluctance to use the word arsenic. Later I found that he had questioned the old gardener at length upon the strength of some weed killer. It was clear what had been in his mind.â

Charles Arundell shifted his position a little.

âI thought of it,â he said. âButâwell, I suppose I hadnât got the nerve.â

Poirot nodded at him.

âPrecisely, it is not in your psychology. Your crimes will always be the crimes of weakness. To steal, to forgeâyes, it is the easiest wayâbut to killâno! To kill one needs the type of mind that can be obsessed by an idea.â

He resumed his lecturing manner.

âTheresa Arundell, I decided, had quite sufficient strength of mind to carry such a design through, but there were other facts to take into consideration. She had never been thwarted, she had lived fully and selfishlyâbut that type of person is not the type that killsâexcept perhaps in sudden anger. And yetâI felt sureâit was Theresa Arundell who had taken the weed killer from the tin.â

Theresa spoke suddenly:

âIâll tell you the truth. I thought of it. I actually took some weed killer from a tin down at Littlegreen House. But I couldnât do it! Iâm too fond of livingâof being aliveâI couldnât do that to anyoneâtake life from themâ¦ I may be bad and selfish but there are things I canât do! I couldnât kill a living, breathing human creature!â

Poirot nodded.

âNo, that is true. And you are not as bad as you paint yourself, mademoiselle. You are only youngâand reckless.â

He went on:

âThere remained Mrs. Tanios. As soon as I saw her I realized that she was afraid. She saw that I realized that and she very quickly made capital out of that momentary betrayal. She gave a very convincing portrait of a woman who is afraid for her husband. A little later she changed her tactics. It was very cleverly doneâbut the change did not deceive me. A woman can be afraid for her husband or she can be afraid of her husbandâbut she can hardly be both. Mrs. Tanios decided on the latter rÃ´leâand she played her part cleverlyâeven to coming out after me into the hall of the hotel and pretending that there was something she wanted to tell me. When her husband followed her as she knew he would, she pretended that she could not speak before him.

âI realized at once, not that she feared her husband, but that she disliked him. And at once, summing the matter up, I felt convinced that here was the exact character I had been looking for. Here wasânot a self-indulgent womanâbut a thwarted one. A plain girl, leading a dull existence, unable to attract the men she would like to attract, finally accepting a man she did not care for rather than be left an old maid. I could trace her growing dissatisfaction with life, her life in Smyrna exiled from all she cared for in life. Then the birth of her children and her passionate attachment to them.

âHer husband was devoted to her but she came secretly to dislike him more and more. He had speculated with her money and lost itâanother grudge against him.

âThere was only one thing that illuminated her drab life, the expectation of her Aunt Emilyâs death. Then she would have money, independence, the means to educate her children as she wishedâand remember education meant a lot to herâshe was a Professorâs daughter!

âShe may have already planned the crime, or had the idea of it in her mind, before she came to England. She had a certain knowledge of chemistry, having assisted her father in the laboratory. She knew the nature of Miss Arundellâs complaint and she was well aware that phosphorus would be an ideal substance for her purpose.

âThen, when she came to Littlegreen House, a simpler method presented itself to her. The dogâs ballâa thread or string across the top of the stairs. A simple, ingenious womanâs idea.

âShe made her attemptâand failed. I do not think that she had any idea that Miss Arundell was aware of the true facts of the matter. Miss Arundellâs suspicions were directed entirely against Charles. I doubt if her manner to Bella showed any alteration. And so, quietly and determinedly, this self-contained, unhappy, ambitious woman put her original plan into execution. She found an excellent vehicle for the poison, some patent capsules that Miss Arundell was in the habit of taking after meals. To open a capsule, place the phosphorus inside and close it again, was childâs play.

âThe capsule was replaced among the others. Sooner or later Miss Arundell would swallow it. Poison was not likely to be suspected. Even if, by some unlikely chance it was, she herself would be nowhere near Market Basing at the time.

âYet she took one precaution. She obtained a double supply of chloral hydrate at the chemistâs, forging her husbandâs name to the prescription. I have no doubt of what that was forâto keep by her in case anything went wrong.

âAs I say, I was convinced from the first moment I saw her that Mrs. Tanios was the person I was looking for, but I had absolutely no proof of the fact. I had to proceed carefully. If Mrs. Tanios had any idea I suspected her, I was afraid that she might proceed to a further crime. Furthermore, I believed that the idea of that crime had already occurred to her. Her one wish in life was to shake herself free of her husband.

âHer original murder had proved a bitter disappointment. The money, the wonderful all-intoxicating money, had all gone to Miss Lawson! It was a blow, but she set to work most intelligently. She began to work on Miss Lawsonâs conscience which, I suspect, was already not too comfortable.â

There was a sudden outburst of sobs. Miss Lawson took out her handkerchief and cried into it.

âItâs been dreadful,â she sobbed. âIâve been wicked! Very wicked. You see, I was very curious about the willâwhy Miss Arundell had made a new one, I mean. And one day, when Miss Arundell was resting, I managed to unlock the drawer in the desk. And then I found sheâd left it all to me! Of course, I never dreamed it was so much. Just a few thousandâthatâs all I thought it was. And why not? After all, her own relations didnât really care for her! But then, when she was so ill, she asked for the will. I could seeâI felt sureâshe was going to destroy itâ¦ And thatâs when I was so wicked. I told her sheâd sent it back to Mr. Purvis. Poor dear, she was so forgetful. She never remembered what sheâd done with things. She believed me. Said I must write for it and I said I would.

âOh, dearâOh, dearâand then she got worse and couldnât think of anything. And she died. And when the will was read and it was all that money I felt dreadful. Three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. Iâd never dreamed for a minute it was anything like that or I wouldnât have done it.

âI felt just as though Iâd embezzled the moneyâand I didnât know what to do. The other day, when Bella came to me, I told her that she should have half of it. I felt sure that then I would feel happy again.â

âYou see?â said Poirot, âMrs. Tanios was succeeding in her object. That is why she was so averse to any attempt to contest the will. She had her own plans and the last thing she wanted to do was to antagonize Miss Lawson. She pretended, of course, to fall in at once with her husbandâs wishes, but she made it quite clear what her real feelings were.

âShe had at that time two objects, to detach herself and her children from Dr. Tanios and to obtain her share of the money. Then she would have what she wantedâa rich contented life in England with her children.

âAs time went on she could no longer conceal her dislike for her husband. In fact, she did not try to. He, poor man, was seriously upset and distressed. Her actions must have seemed quite incomprehensible to him. Really, they were logical enough. She was playing the part of the terrorized woman. If I had suspicionsâand she was fairly sure that that must be the caseâshe wished me to believe that her husband had committed the murder. And at any moment that second murder which I am convinced was already planned in her mind might occur. I knew that she had a lethal dose of chloral in her possession. I feared that she would stage a pretended suicide and confession on his part.

âAnd still I had no evidence against her! And then, when I was quite in despair, I got something at last! Miss Lawson told me that she had seen Theresa Arundell kneeling on the stairs on the night of Easter Monday. I soon discovered that Miss Lawson could not have seen Theresa at all clearlyânot clearly enough to recognize her features. Yet she was quite positive in her identification. On being pressed she mentioned a brooch with Theresaâs initialsâT.A.

âOn my request Miss Theresa Arundell showed me the brooch in question. At the same time she absolutely denied having been on the stairs at the time stated. At first I fancied someone else had borrowed her brooch, but when I looked at the brooch in the glass the truth leaped at me. Miss Lawson waking up had seen a dim figure with the initials T.A. flashing in the light. She had leapt to the conclusion it was Theresa.

âBut if in the glass she had seen the initials T.A.âthen the real initials must have been A.T. since the glass naturally reversed the order.

âOf course! Mrs. Taniosâ mother was Arabella Arundell. Bella is only a contraction. A.T. stood for Arabella Tanios. There was nothing odd in Mrs. Tanios possessing a similar type of brooch. It had been exclusive last Christmas but by the spring they were all the rage, and I had already observed that Mrs. Tanios copied her cousin Theresaâs hats and clothes as far as she was able with her limited means.

âIn my own mind, at any rate, my case was proved.

âNowâwhat was I to do? Obtain a Home Office order for the exhumation of the body? That could doubtless be managed. I might prove that Miss Arundell had been poisoned with phosphorus though there was a little doubt about that. The body had been buried two months, and I understand that there have been cases of phosphorus poisoning where no lesions have been found and where the postmortem appearances are very indecisive. Even then, could I connect Mrs. Tanios with the purchase or possession of phosphorus? Very doubtful, since she had probably obtained it abroad.

âAt this juncture Mrs. Tanios took a decisive action. She left her husband, throwing herself on the pity of Miss Lawson. She also definitely accused her husband of the murder.

âUnless I acted I felt convinced that he would be her next victim. I took steps to isolate them one from the other on the pretext that it was for her safety. She could not very well contradict that. Really, it was his safety I had in mind. And thenâand thenââ He pausedâa long pause. His face had gone rather white.

âBut that was only a temporary measure. I had to make sure that the killer would kill no more. I had to assure the safety of the innocent.

âSo I wrote out my construction of the case and gave it to Mrs. Tanios.â

There was a long silence.

Dr. Tanios cried out:

âOh, my God, so thatâs why she killed herself.â

Poirot said gently:

âWas it not the best way? She thought so. There were, you see, the children to consider.â

Dr. Tanios buried his face in his hands.

Poirot came forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

âIt had to be. Believe me it was necessary. There would have been more deaths. First yoursâthen possibly, under certain circumstances, Miss Lawsonâs. And so it goes on.â

He paused.

In a broken voice Tanios said:

âShe wanted meâto take a sleeping draught one nightâ¦ There was something in her faceâI threw it away. That was when I began to believe her mind was goingâ¦.â

âThink of it that way. It is indeed partly true. But not in the legal meaning of the term. She knew the meaning of her actionâ¦.â

Dr. Tanios said wistfully:

âShe was much too good for meâalways.â

A strange epitaph on a self-confessed murderess!

Thirty

THE LAST WORD

There is very little more to tell.

Theresa married her doctor shortly afterwards. I know them fairly well now and I have learnt to appreciate Donaldsonâhis clarity of vision and the deep, underlying force and humanity of the man. His manner I may say is just as dry and precise as ever, Theresa often mimics him to his face. She is, I think, amazingly happy and absolutely wrapped up in her husbandâs career. He is already making a big name for himself and is an authority on the functions of ductless glands.

Miss Lawson, in an acute attack of conscience, had to be restrained forcibly from denuding herself of every penny. A settlement agreeable to all parties was drawn up by Mr. Purvis whereby Miss Arundellâs fortune was shared out between Miss Lawson, the two Arundells and the Tanios children.

Charles went through his share in a little over a year and is now, I believe, in British Columbia.

Just two incidents.

âYouâre a downy fellow, ainât you?â said Miss Peabody, stopping us as we emerged from the gate of Littlegreen House one day. âManaged to hush everything up! No exhumation. Everything done decently.â

âThere seems to be no doubt that Miss Arundell died of yellow atrophy of the liver,â said Poirot gently.

âThatâs very satisfactory,â said Miss Peabody. âBella Tanios took an overdose of sleeping stuff, I hear.â

âYes, it was very sad.â

âShe was a miserable kind of womanâalways wanting what she hadnât got. People go a bit queer sometimes when theyâre like that. Had a kitchenmaid once. Same thing. Plain girl. Felt it. Started writing anonymous letters. Queer kinks people get. Ah, well, I daresay itâs all for the best.â

âOne hopes so, madame. One hopes so.â

âWell,â said Miss Peabody, preparing to resume her walk, âIâll say this for you. Youâve hushed things up nicely. Very nicely indeed.â She walked on.

There was a plaintive âWuffâ behind me.

I turned and opened the gate.

âCome on, old man.â

Bob bounced through. There was a ball in his mouth.

âYou canât take that for a walk.â

Bob sighed, turned and slowly ejected the ball inside the gate. He looked at it anxiously then passed through.

He looked up at me.

âIf you say so, master, I suppose itâs all right.â

I drew a long breath.

âMy word, Poirot, itâs good to have a dog again.â

âThe spoils of war,â said Poirot. âBut I would remind you, my friend, that it was to me that Miss Lawson presented Bob, not to you.â

âPossibly,â I said. âBut youâre not really any good with a dog, Poirot. You donât understand dog psychology! Now Bob and I understand each other perfectly, donât we?â

âWoof,â said Bob in energetic assent.

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

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The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

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THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

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The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

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Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

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About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

www.AgathaChristie.com

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THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This title was previously published as Poirot Loses a Client.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® POIROTÂ® DUMB WITNESSâ„¢. Copyright Â© 1937 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved.

DUMB WITNESS. Â© 1937. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

EPub Edition Â© MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-174142-5

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