Dumb Witness (6 page)

“Miss Arundell died very suddenly, didn't she?”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that. Anno domini—anno domini. She had passed her threescore and ten some time ago. And she'd been ailing for a long time. The last of her family—you know something about the family, perhaps?”

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

“Very 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.”

He leant forward and handed Poirot the orders.

“You'll drop in again and let me know what you think of it, eh? Of course, it may need a little modernizing here and there. That's only to be expected. But I always say, ‘What's a bathroom or two? That's easily done.'”

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

“Mrs. Samuels rang up, sir. She'd like you to ring her—Holland 5391.”

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.

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

“He'll be rather disappointed when you don't return,” I said. “I think he feels he has as good as sold you that house already.”

“Indeed, yes, I fear there is a deception in store for him.”

“I 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?”

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

I stared.

“Do you mean—but, my dear fellow, that's all a washout. The old lady is dead.”

“Exactly.”

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.

“But if she's dead, Poirot,” I said gently, “what's the use? She can't tell you anything now. Whatever the trouble was, it's over and finished with.”

“How 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!”

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

“But since she is dead—”

“Exactly, Hastings. Exactly—exactly—exactly… 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.
”

“But my dear Poirot, her death was perfectly natural and ordinary! There wasn't anything odd or unexplained about it. We have old Gabler's word for that.”

“We have his word that Littlegreen House is a bargain at £2,850. Do you accept that as gospel also?”

“No, indeed. It struck me that Gabler was all out to get the place sold—it probably needs modernizing from top to toe. I'd swear he—or rather his client—will 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.”

“
Eh bien,
then,” said Poirot. “Do not say, ‘But Gabler says so!' as though he were an inspired prophet who could not lie.”

I was about to protest further, but at this minute we passed the
threshold of the George and with an emphatic “Chut!” 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 waiter's aid.

“Yes, sir. I know where most of these are. Hemel Down is three miles away—on the Much Benham road—quite a little place. Naylor's Farm is about a mile away. There's a kind of lane goes off to it not long after the King's Head. Bisset Grange? No, I've never heard of that. Littlegreen House is just close by, not more than a few minutes' walk.”

“Ah, I think I have already seen it from the outside. That is the most possible one, I think. It is in good repair—yes?”

“Oh, yes, sir. It's in good condition—roof and drains and all that. Old-fashioned, of course. It's never been modernized in any way. The gardens are a picture. Very fond of her garden Miss Arundell was.”

“It belongs, I see, to a Miss Lawson.”

“That's right, sir. Miss Lawson, she was Miss Arundell's companion and when the old lady died everything was left to her—house and all.”

“Indeed? I suppose she had no relations to whom to leave it?”

“Well, 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 and—well—that's how it was.”

“In any case I suppose there was just the house and not much money?”

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.

“Very 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 hadn't lived up to her income for many a long year. Something like three or four hundred thousand pounds she left.”

“You astonish me,” cried Poirot. “It is like a fairy tale—eh? The poor companion suddenly becomes unbelievably wealthy. Is she still young, this Miss Lawson? Can she enjoy her newfound wealth?”

“Oh, no, sir, she's a middle-aged person, sir.”

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.

“It must have been disappointing for the nephews and nieces,” mused Poirot.

“Yes, sir, I believe it came as somewhat of a shock to them. Very unexpected. There's been feeling over it here in Market Basing. There are those who hold it isn't right to leave things away from your own flesh and blood. But, of course, there's others as hold that everyone's got a right to do as they like with their
own. There's something to be said for both points of view, of course.”

“Miss Arundell had lived for many years here, had she not?”

“Yes, 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.”

“There were several daughters?”

“Three 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.”

“That was quite recently?”

“Beginning of May—or it may have been the end of April.”

“Had she been ill some time?”

“On and off—on 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, she'd had poor health for the last five years of her life.”

“I suppose you have some good doctors down here?”

“Well, there's Dr. Grainger. Been here close on forty years, he has, and folks mostly go to him. He's a bit crotchety and he has his fancies but he's a good doctor, none better. He's got a young partner, Dr. Donaldson. He's more the newfangled kind. Some folk prefer him. Then, of course, there's Dr. Harding, but he doesn't do much.”

“Dr. Grainger was Miss Arundell's doctor, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes. He's pulled her through many a bad turn. He's the kind that fair bullies you into living whether you want to or not.”

Poirot nodded.

“One should learn a little about a place before one comes to settle in it,” he remarked. “A good doctor is one of the most important people.”

“That's very true, sir.”

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

“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir. I'm sure I hope you'll settle here, sir.”

“I hope so, too,” said Poirot mendaciously.

We set forth from the George.

“Satisfied yet, Poirot?” I asked as we emerged into the street.

“Not in the least, my friend.”

He turned in an unexpected direction.

“Where are you off to now, Poirot?”

“The church, my friend. It may be interesting. Some brasses—an old monument.” I shook my head doubtfully.

Poirot's 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

“FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT WITH ALL THY MIGHT”

ALSO OF

MATILDA ANN ARUNDELL

DIED MARCH 10TH
1912

“I WILL ARISE AND GO TO MY FATHER”

ALSO OF

AGNES GEORGINA MARY ARUNDELL

DIED NOVEMBER 20TH
1921

“ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE”

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

ALSO OF

EMILY HARRIET LAVERTON ARUNDELL DIED MAY 1ST
1936

“THY WILL BE DONE”

Poirot stood looking for some time.

He murmured softly:

“May 1st… May 1st… And today, June 28th, I receive her
letter. You see, do you not, Hastings, that that fact has got to be explained?”

I saw that it had.

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

O
n 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 distance—I 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.

“Yes, sir, the house agent telephoned. Will you step this way, sir?”

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.

“This is the morning room, sir.”

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 “very nice.” “A very pleasant room.” “The morning room, you say?”

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

“The dining room, sir.”

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.

“
Who's
come into the house?
I'll
tear him limb from limb,” was clearly the “burden of his song.”

He arrived in the doorway, sniffing violently.

“Oh, Bob, you naughty dog,” exclaimed our conductress. “Don't mind him, sir. He won't do you no harm.”

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

“Pleased to meet you, I'm sure,” he observed as he sniffed round our ankles. “Excuse the noise, won't you, but I have my job to do. Got to be careful who we let in, you know. But it's a dull life and I'm really quite pleased to see a visitor. Dogs of your own, I fancy?”

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

“Nice little fellow,” I said to the woman. “Needs plucking a bit, though.”

“Yes, sir, he's usually plucked three times a year.”

“Is he an old dog?”

“Oh, no, sir. Bob's not more than six. And sometimes he behaves just like a puppy. Gets hold of cook's slippers and prances about with them. And he's very gentle though you wouldn't 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.”

Bob was now investigating the legs of Poirot's trousers. Having learned all he could he gave vent to a prolonged sniff (“H'm, not too bad, but not really a doggy person”) and returned to me cocking his head on one side and looking at me expectantly.

“I don't know why dogs always go for postmen, I'm sure,” continued our guide.

“It's a matter of reasoning,” said Poirot. “The 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 not—that 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 day—and 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 dog's duty is clear, to aid in driving this undesirable man away, and to bite him if possible. A most reasonable proceeding.”

He beamed on Bob.

“And a most intelligent person, I fancy.”

“Oh, he is, sir. He's almost human, Bob is.”

She flung open another door.

“The drawing room, sir.”

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 china—fragile 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 “ladies and gentlemen” closed round me. This was indeed a “withdrawing room.” 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.

“What does he want?” I asked.

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

“It's his ball, sir. It was always kept in that drawer. That's why he sits there and asks.”

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

“It isn't there any longer, beautiful. Bob's ball is in the kitchen. In the kitchen, Bobsie.”

Bob shifted his gaze impatiently to Poirot.

“This woman's a fool,” he seemed to be saying. “You look a brainy sort of chap. Balls are kept in certain places—this drawer is one of those places. There always has been a ball here. Therefore there should be a ball there now. That's obvious dog logic, isn't it?”

“It's not there now, boy,” 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, “where the mistress used to do the flowers, sir.”

“You were with your mistress a long time?” asked Poirot.

“Twenty-two years, sir.”

“You are alone here caretaking?”

“Me and cook, sir.”

“She was also a long time with Miss Arundell?”

“Four years, sir. The old cook died.”

“Supposing I were to buy the house, would you be prepared to stay on?”

She blushed a little.

“It's very kind of you, sir, I'm sure, but I'm going to retire from service. The mistress left me a nice little sum, you see, and
I'm going to my brother. I'm only remaining here as a convenience to Miss Lawson until the place is sold—to look after everything.”

Poirot nodded.

In the momentary silence a new sound was heard.

“Bump, bump, BUMP.”

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

“It's Bob, sir.” She was smiling. “He's got hold of his ball and he's bumping it down the stairs. It's a little game of his.”

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.

“He'll stay like that for hours, sir. Regular game of his. He'd go on all day at it. That'll do now, Bob. The gentlemen have got something else to do than play with you.”

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 Bob's 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.

“There were four Miss Arundells lived here, did they not?” he asked.

“Originally, 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.”

“I suppose she was not so strong as her sister?”

“No, sir, it's odd that. My Miss Arundell, Miss Emily, she was always the delicate one. She'd 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 who'd been delicate from a child outlived all the family. Very odd the way things happen.”

“Astonishing how often that is the case.”

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.

“Was Miss Arundell's illness a long and painful one?”

“No, I wouldn't say that, sir. She'd been ailing, if you know what I mean, for a long time—ever since two winters before. Very bad she was then—this here jaundice. Yellow in the face they go and the whites of their eyes—”

“Ah, yes, indeed—” (Anecdote of Poirot's cousin who appeared to have been the Yellow Peril in person.)

“That's right—just as you say, sir. Terribly ill she was, poor dear. Couldn't keep anything down. If you ask me, Dr. Grainger hardly thought she'd pull through. But he'd a wonderful way with her—bullying, you know. ‘Made up your mind to lie back and order your tombstone?' he'd say. And she'd say, ‘I've a bit of fight in me still, doctor,' and he'd say, ‘That's right—that's what I like to hear.' A hospital nurse we had, and she made up her mind that it was all over—even said to the doctor once that she supposed she'd better not worry the old lady too much by forcing her to take food—but the doctor rounded on her. ‘Nonsense,' he said, ‘Worry her? You've got to bully her into taking nourishment.' Valentine's beef juice at such and such a time, Brand's essence—teaspoonfuls of brandy. And at the end he said something that I've never forgotten. ‘You're young, my girl,' he said to her, ‘you don't realize what fine fighting material there is in age. It's young people who turn up their toes and die because they're not interested enough to live. You show me anyone who's lived to over seventy and you show me a fighter—someone who's got the will to live.' And it's true, sir—we're always saying how wonderful old people are—their vitality and the way they've kept their faculties—but as the doctor put it that's just
why
they've lived so long and got to be so old.”

“But it is profound what you say there—very profound! And Miss Arundell was like that? Very alive. Very interested in life?”

“Oh, 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 hers—surprised 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.”

“A fine recovery.”

“Yes, 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 wasn't allowed to eat eggs either. Very monotonous it was for her.”

“Still the main thing is she got well.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, she had her little turns. What I'd call bilious attacks. She wasn't always very careful about her food after a time—but still they weren't very serious until the last attack.”

“Was it like her illness of two years before?”

“Yes, just the same sort of thing, sir. That nasty jaundice—an awful yellow colour again—and the terrible sickness and all the rest of it. Brought it on herself I'm afraid she did, poor dear. Ate a lot of things she shouldn't have done. That very evening she was took bad she'd had curry for supper and as you know, sir, curry's rich and a bit oily.”

“Her illness came on suddenly, did it?”

“Well, it seemed so, sir, but Dr. Grainger he said it had been working up for some time. A chill—the weather had been very changeable—and too rich feeding.”

“Surely her companion—Miss Lawson was her companion was she not—could have dissuaded her from rich dishes?”

“Oh, I don't think Miss Lawson would have much say. Miss Arundell wasn't one to take orders from anyone.”

“Had Miss Lawson been with her during her previous illness?”