Dumb Witness (8 page)

“Yes, indeed, sir. As soon as Bob finished playing with his ball
she'd put it away. But that was all right because it had its own place—in the drawer I showed you.”

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

“Yes, sir, that was the way of it, and I asked Annie what she thought I'd better do. I didn't like to put it in the fire—and of course, I couldn't take upon myself to open it, and neither Annie nor I could see that it was any business of Miss Lawson's so after we'd talked it over a bit, I just put a stamp on it and ran out to the postbox and posted it.”

Poirot turned slightly to me.

“Voilà,”
he murmured.

I could not help saying, maliciously:

“Amazing how simple an explanation can be!”

I thought he looked a little crestfallen, and rather wished I hadn't been so quick to try and rub it in.

He turned again to Ellen.

“As 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.”

“Yes, I suppose you must have been, sir. We didn't think of that.”

“Also—” Poirot coughed. “I am in a little dilemma. That letter, you see—it was a commission with which Miss Arundell wished to entrust me. A matter of a somewhat private character.” He cleared his throat importantly. “Now 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 difficult—very difficult.”

Both women were looking at him respectfully.

“I shall have, I think, to consult Miss Arundell's lawyer. She had a lawyer, did she not?”

Ellen answered, quickly.

“Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Purvis from Harchester.”

“He knew all her affairs?”

“I think so, sir. He's done everything for her ever since I can remember. It was him she sent for after the fall she had.”

“The fall down the stairs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now let me see when was that exactly?”

The cook broke in.

“Day 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.”

Poirot whipped out his pocket almanac.

“Precisely—precisely. 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 late—” he paused. “I rather fancy that the—er—commission she wished me to perform was connected with one of the—er—guests you mentioned just now.”

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

“That'll be Mr. Charles,” she said.

“If you would tell me just who was there—” Poirot suggested.

“Dr. Tanios and his wife, Miss Bella that was, and Miss Theresa and Mr. Charles.”

“They were all nephews and nieces?”

“That's right, sir. Dr. Tanios, of course, is no relation. In fact he's a foreigner, a Greek or something of the sort, I believe. He married Miss Bella, Miss Arundell's niece, her sister's child. Mr. Charles and Miss Theresa are brother and sister.”

“Ah, yes, I see. A family party. And when did they leave?”

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

“And Mr. Charles and Miss Theresa?”

“They came the weekend after. The weekend before she died.”

Poirot's 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.

“
Eh bien,
” he said. “This 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.”

He stooped and patted Bob.

“
Brave chien, va!
You loved your mistress.”

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.

“These women,” he seemed to say. “Generous with the food, but not really sportsmen!”

“W
ell, Poirot,” I said, as the gate of Littlegreen House closed behind us. “You are satisfied now, I hope!”

“Yes, my friend. I am satisfied.”

“Thank 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 dog's ball shown in their true colours. Everything settled satisfactorily and according to Cocker!”

Poirot gave a dry little cough and said:

“I would not use the word
satisfactorily,
Hastings.”

“You did a minute ago.”

“No, no. I did not say the matter was
satisfactory.
I said that, personally, my curiosity was
satisfied.
I know the truth of the Dog's Ball incident.”

“And very simple it was too!”

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

“And what is that?” I asked somewhat sceptically.

“I know that there is a nail driven into the skirting board at the top of the stairs.”

I stared at him. His face was quite grave.

“Well,” I said after a minute or two. “Why shouldn't there be?”

“The question is, Hastings, why should there be.”

“How do I know. Some household reason, perhaps. Does it matter?”

“Certainly 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.”

“What are you driving at, Poirot? Do
you
know the reason?”

“I 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.”

“Poirot!” I cried. “What on earth are you driving at?”

“
Mon cher ami,
I am reconstructing
the incident of the Dog's Ball!
Would you like to hear my reconstruction?”

“Go ahead.”

“
Eh 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 do—it might lead to an accident.” Poirot paused a minute, then said in a slightly different tone. “If you wished to kill someone, Hastings, how would you set about it?”

“I—well really—I don't know. Fake up some
alibi
or something, I suppose.”

“A 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 sometimes—Hastings—they
can be helped to happen!
”

He paused a minute then went on:

“I think the dog's 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 about—her 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 out—there, plain to see, is the
cause
of the accident—
Bob's ball!
”

“How horrible!” I cried.

Poirot said, gravely:

“Yes, it was horrible… It was also unsuccessful… 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 o'clock the next morning.

“This, I admit, is something in the way of guesswork but I believe I am right.
Miss Arundell had put away Bob's 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.”

“That is pure guesswork, Poirot,” I objected.

He demurred.

“Not quite, my friend. There are the significant words uttered by Miss Arundell when she was delirious—something about Bob's ball and a ‘picture ajar.' You see the point, do you not?”

“Not in the least.”

“Curious. 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.
”

“Or simply crooked.”

“Or simply crooked, as you say. So I realized at once that Ellen has mistaken the meaning of the words she heard. It is not ajar—but 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 woman's thoughts? Bob was like the dog in the picture on the jar—out all night—
so it was not he who left the ball on the stairs.
”

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

“You're an ingenious devil, Poirot! How you think of these things beats me!”

“I do not ‘think of them.' They are
there
—plain—for 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. ‘
Since the incident of the dog's ball I have been increasingly uneasy.
' And so—and 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?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “It does.”

Poirot went on:

“There is another point worthy of consideration. Miss Lawson was exceedingly anxious that the fact of Bob's being out all night should not get to Miss Arundell's ears.”

“You think that she—”

“I think that the fact should be noted very carefully.”

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

“Well,” I said at last with a sigh. “It's all very interesting—as a mental exercise that is. And I take off my hat to you. It's been a masterful piece of reconstruction. It's almost a pity really that the old lady has died.”

“A pity—yes. 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.”

“Yes,” I said. “And it's a grand disappointment to you that she died a natural death, isn't it? Come, admit it.”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“Or perhaps you think she was poisoned,” I said maliciously. Poirot shook his head somewhat despondently.

“It certainly seems,” he admitted, “as though Miss Arundell died from natural causes.”

“And therefore,” I said, “we return to London with our tail between our legs.”

“
Pardon,
my friend, but we do
not
return to London.”

“What do you mean, Poirot,” I cried.

“If you show the dog the rabbit, my friend, does he return to London? No, he goes into the rabbit hole.”

“What do you mean?”

“The dog hunts rabbits. Hercule Poirot hunts murderers. We have here a murderer—a murderer whose crime failed, yes, perhaps, but nevertheless a murderer. And I, my friend, am going into the burrow after him—or her as the case may be.”

He turned sharply in at the gate.

“Where are you off to, Poirot?”

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

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.

“Well, what can I do for you?” he asked abruptly.

Poirot swept into speech in the most flamboyant manner.

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

Dr. Grainger said drily:

“Glad to hear it. You look healthy enough!”

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

The doctor looked rather surprised.

“Yes, General Arundell lived here till his death. At Littlegreen House—just up the road past the Bank—you've been there, perhaps?” Poirot nodded assent. “But you understand that was a good bit before my time. I came here in 1919.”

“You knew his daughter, however, the late Miss Arundell?”

“I knew Emily Arundell well.”

“You comprehend, it has been a severe blow to me to find that Miss Arundell has recently died.”

“End of April.”

“So I discovered. I counted, you see, on her giving me various personal details and reminiscences of her father.”

“Quite—quite. But I don't see what I can do about it.”

Poirot asked:

“General Arundell has no other sons or daughters living?”

“No. All dead, the lot of them.”

“How many were there?”

“Five. Four daughters, one son.”

“And in the next generation?”

“Charles Arundell and his sister Theresa. You could get onto them. I doubt, though, if it would be much use to you. The younger generation doesn't take much interest in its grandfathers. And there's a Mrs. Tanios, but I doubt if you'd get much there either.”

“They might have family papers—documents?”

“They might have. Doubt it, though. A lot of stuff was cleared out and burnt after Miss Emily's death, I know.”

Poirot uttered a groan of anguish.

Grainger looked at him curiously.

“What's the interest in old Arundell? I never heard he was a big pot in any way?”

“My dear sir.” Poirot's eyes gleamed with the excitement of the fanatic. “Is 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 fascinating—fascinating! And let me tell you, my dear sir, it is of especial interest at the present time. India—the English policy in regard to it—is the burning question of the hour.”

“H'm,” said the doctor. “I 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.”

“Who told you that?”

“A Miss Peabody. You might call on her, by the way. She's our oldest inhabitant—knew the Arundells intimately. And gossip is her chief recreation. She's worth seeing for her own sake—a character.”

“Thank 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.”

“Charles? Yes, I can put you onto him. But he's an irreverent young devil. Family history means nothing to him.”

“He is quite young?”

“He's what an old fogy like me calls young,” said the doctor with a twinkle. “Early thirties. The kind of young man that's born to be a trouble and responsibility to their families. Charm of personality and nothing else. He's been shipped about all over the world and done no good anywhere.”

“His aunt was doubtless fond of him?” ventured Poirot. “It is often that way.”

“H'm—I don't 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.”

“Was her death sudden?”

“Yes, in a way. Mind you, she'd been in poor health for some years. But she'd pulled through some narrow squeaks.”

“There was some story—I apologize for repeating gossip—” Poirot spread out his hands deprecatingly—“that she had quarrelled with her family?”

“She didn't exactly
quarrel
with them,” said Dr. Grainger slowly. “No, there was no open quarrel as far as I know.”

“I beg your pardon. I am, perhaps, being indiscreet.”

“No, no. After all, the information's public property.”

“She left her money away from her family, I understand?”

“Yes, left it all to a frightened, fluttering hen of a companion. Odd thing to do. Can't understand it myself. Not like her.”

“Ah, well,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “One 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.”