Dumb Witness (4 page)

Emily Arundell's head ached. Her shoulder throbbed. Her bruised body suffered….

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 o'clock yes
terday evening… She retraced every step…till she came to the moment when she arrived at the stairhead and started to descend the stairs….

A thrill of incredulous horror shot through her….

Surely—surely, she must be mistaken… One often had queer fancies after an event had happened. She tried—earnestly she tried—to recall the slippery roundness of Bob's ball under her foot….

But she could recall nothing of the kind.

Instead—

“Sheer nerves,” said Emily Arundell. “Ridiculous fancies.”

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.

I
t 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 “quite quiet.”

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.

“It's the
shock,
poor dear,” said Miss Lawson.

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

“I daresay she'll never be quite herself again.”

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

He told her that she'd 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 spirit—she and old Dr. Grainger were allies of long-standing. He bullied and she defied—they always got a good deal of pleasure out of each other's company!

But now, after the doctor had stumped away, the old lady lay with a frown on her face, thinking—thinking—responding absentmindedly to Minnie Lawson's well-meant fussing—and then suddenly coming back to consciousness and rending her with a vitriolic tongue.

“Poor little Bobsie,” twittered Miss Lawson, bending over Bob who had a rug spread on the corner of his mistress's bed. “Wouldn't little Bobsie be unhappy if he knew what he'd done to his poor, poor Missus?”

Miss Arundell snapped:

“Don't be idiotic, Minnie. And where's your English sense of justice? Don't you know that everyone in this country is accounted innocent until he or she is proved guilty?”

“Oh, but we do know—”

Emily snapped:

“We don't know anything at all. Do stop fidgeting, Minnie. Pulling this and pulling that. Haven't you any idea how to behave in a sickroom? Go away and send Ellen to me.”

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 lady's 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.

“Mary Fox,” said Miss Arundell.

“A box, dear?” said Miss Lawson. “Did you say you wanted a box?”

“You're getting deaf, Minnie. I didn't 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. You've spilt it into the saucer. And don't tiptoe when you come into a room. You don't know how irritating it is. Now go downstairs and get me the London telephone book.”

“Can I find the number for you, dear? Or the address?”

“If I'd wanted you to do that I'd have told you so. Do what I tell you. Bring it here, and put my writing things by the bed.”

Miss Lawson obeyed orders.

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

“You're a good, faithful creature, Minnie. Don't mind my bark. It's a good deal worse than my bite. You're very patient and good to me.”

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 page—for 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 addressing—the letter to Hercule Poirot—inside the flap of her writing case.

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

She called “Come in” and lay back on her pillows with a sigh of relief.

She had taken steps to deal with the situation.

T
he 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 Arundell's 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 breakfast—a revolting habit.) All this with a machinelike regularity!

So much was this the case that the least interruption of the rhythm attracted one's attention.

I was sitting by the window, looking out at the passing traf
fic. 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:

“Poirot, I—the humble Watson—am going to hazard a deduction.”

“Enchanted, my friend. What is it?”

I struck an attitude and said pompously:

“You have received this morning
one
letter of particular interest!”

“You are indeed the Sherlock Holmes! Yes, you are perfectly right.”

I laughed.

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

“You shall judge for yourself, Hastings.”

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.

“Must I read this, Poirot?” I complained.

“Ah, no, there is no compulsion. Assuredly not.”

“Can't you tell me what it says?”

“I would prefer you to form your own judgement. But do not trouble if it bores you.”

“No, no, I want to know what it's all about,” I protested.

My friend remarked drily:

“You can hardly do
that.
In effect, the letter says nothing at all.”

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

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

“Poirot,” I said. “Must I go on? Does she ever get to the point?”

“Continue, my friend. Patience.”

“Patience!” I grumbled. “It's exactly as though a spider had got into an inkpot and was walking over a sheet of notepaper! I remember my Great-Aunt Mary's writing used to be much the same!”

Once more I plunged into the epistle.

“I haven't left out a sheet?” I murmured in some perplexity.

Poirot chuckled.

“No, no.”

“Because this doesn't seem to make sense. What is it she is talking about?”

“Continuez toujours.”

I turned the letter over and scanned each page closely. “But, Poirot,” I expostulated, “what is it all
about?
”

My friend shrugged his shoulders.

“What indeed?”

I tapped the sheets with some impatience.

“What a woman! Why can't Mrs.—or Miss Arundell—”

“Miss, I think. It is typically the letter of a spinster.”

“Yes,” I said. “A real, fussy old maid. Why can't she say what she's talking about?”

Poirot sighed.

“As you say—a regrettable failure to employ order and method in the mental processes, and without order and method, Hastings—”

“Quite so,” I interrupted hastily. “Little grey cells practically nonexistent.”

“I would not say that, my friend.”

“I would. What's the
sense
of writing a letter like that?”

“Very little—that is true,” Poirot admitted.

“A long rigmarole all about nothing,” I went on. “Probably some upset to her fat lapdog—an asthmatic pug or a yapping Pekinese!” I looked at my friend curiously. “And yet you read that letter through twice. I do not understand you, Poirot.”

Poirot smiled.

“You, Hastings, you would have put it straight in the wastepaper basket?”

“I'm afraid I should.” I frowned down on the letter. “I suppose I'm being dense, as usual, but
I
can't see anything of interest in this letter!”

“Yet there is one point in it of great interest—a point that struck me at once.”

“Wait,” I cried. “Don't tell me. Let me see if I can't discover it for myself.”

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

“No, I don't see it. The old lady's got the wind up, I realize that—but then, old ladies often do! It may be about nothing—it may conceivably be about something, but I don't see that you can tell that that is so. Unless your instinct—”

Poirot raised an offended hand.

“Instinct! You know how I dislike that word. ‘Something
seems to tell me'—that 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.”

“Oh, well,” I said wearily. “I'll buy it.”

“Buy it? Buy what?”

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

“Not a fool, Hastings, merely unobservant.”

“Well, out with it. What's the interesting point? I suppose, like the ‘incident of the dog's ball,' the point
is
that there is no interesting point!”

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

“The interesting point is the
date.
”

“The date?”

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

“Yes,” I said slowly. “That
is
odd. April 17th.”

“And we are today June 28th.
C'est curieux, n'est ce pas?
Over two months ago.”

I shook my head doubtfully.

“It probably doesn't mean anything. A slip. She meant to put June and wrote April instead.”

“Even then it would be ten or eleven days old—an 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?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“That's easy. The old pussy changed her mind.”

“Then why did she not destroy the letter? Why keep it over two months and post it now?”

I had to admit that that was harder to answer. In fact I couldn't think of a really satisfactory answer. I merely shook my head and said nothing.

Poirot nodded.

“You see—it is a point! Yes, decidedly a curious point.”

“You are answering the letter?” I asked.

“Oui, mon ami.”

The room was silent except for the scratching of Poirot's 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.

“
Non!
” he exclaimed. “That is the wrong thing I do.” He tore the letter across and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

“Not so must we tackle this matter! We will
go,
my friend.”

“You mean to go down to Market Basing?”

“Precisely. Why not? Does not one stifle in London today? Would not the country air be agreeable?”

“Well, if you put it like that,” I said. “Shall we go in the car?”

I had acquired a secondhand Austin.

“Excellent. A very pleasant day for motoring. One will hardly need the muffler. A light overcoat, a silk scarf—”

“My dear fellow, you're not going to the North Pole!” I protested.

“One must be careful of catching the chill,” said Poirot sententiously.

“On a day like this?”

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.