Dumb Witness

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

She was wide awake in a minute.

Bob—naughty Bob! He was barking outside the front door—his own particular ‘out all night very ashamed of himself’ 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 murmur—Minnie’s futile reproaches—‘Oh, you naughty little doggie—a very naughty little Bobsie—’ She heard the pantry door open. Bob’s 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 commotion—her fall, people running—normally 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 now—Bob, 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 virtue—though 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 accident—something to do with her accident.

Ah, yes, somebody had said—Charles—that she had slipped on Bob’s ball which he had left on the top of the stairs…

The ball had been there—he had held it up in his hand…

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 yesterday 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.

CHAPTER 4

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 ‘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 dare say 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 absent-mindedly 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 sick-room? 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.

CHAPTER 5

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 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 machine-like 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 traffic. I had recently returned from the Argentine 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.

‘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-law’s 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.

‘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.

‘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 fact—and I need hardly say how sincerely I hope and pray (pray underlined twice) that this may be the case—I may, in fact, be completely mistaken. One is apt sometimes to attribute too much significance to facts capable of a natural explanation.’

‘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.’

‘The matter is such, as you will readily understand—No, I’d 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 mare’s 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 dog’s 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.’

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 non-existent.’

‘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 waste-paper 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 waste-paper 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 second-hand 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.

CHAPTER 6

We Go to Littlegreen House

I don’t 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 summer’s 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 o’clock when we came into the little town of Market Basing. Originally on the main road, a modern by-pass 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, ‘I 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 new-fangled road; I was built to endure in a day when solidarity and beauty went hand in hand.’

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, ‘Sorry, but I’m a stranger in these parts.’ 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.

‘Littlegreen House?’ The man, a burly, ox-eyed fellow, looked us over thoughtfully. ‘You go straight up the High Street and you can’t miss it. On your left. There’s no name on the gate, but it’s the first big house after the bank.’ He repeated again, ‘You can’t miss it.’

His eyes followed us as we started on our course.

‘Dear me,’ I complained. ‘There is something about this place that makes me feel extremely conspicuous. As for you, Poirot, you look positively exotic.’

‘You think it is noticed that I am a foreigner—yes?’

‘The fact cries aloud to heaven,’ I assured him.

‘And yet my clothes are made by an English tailor,’ mused Poirot.

‘Clothes are not everything,’ I said. ‘It cannot be denied, Poirot, that you have a noticeable personality. I have often wondered that it has not hindered you in your career.’

Poirot sighed.

‘That 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.’

‘Which explains why we are walking along this exceedingly hot street on an exceedingly hot morning.’

‘That is very neatly replied, Hastings. For once, I admit, you have made the score off me.’

We found Littlegreen House easily enough, but a shock awaited us—a house-agent’s board.

As we were staring at it, a dog’s bark attracted my attention.

The bushes were thin at that point and the dog could be easily seen. He was a wire-haired 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.

‘Good watchdog, aren’t I?’ he seemed to be saying. ‘Don’t mind me! This is just my fun! My duty too, of course. Just have to let ’em know there’s a dog about the place! Deadly dull morning. Quite a blessing to have something to do. Coming into our place? Hope so. It’s darned dull. I could do with a little conversation.’