Dumb Witness (19 page)

“What? What's that?”

Poirot said quietly:

“Miss Arundell had a fall, did she not? A fall down the stairs shortly before her death?”

“Yes, what of it? She slipped on that damned dog's ball.”

Poirot shook his head.

“No, Doctor,
she did not. A thread
was fastened across the top of the stairs so as to trip her up.”

Dr. Grainger stared.

“Then why didn't she tell me so?” he demanded. “Never said a word to me about it.”

“That is perhaps understandable—if it were a
member of her own family
who placed that thread there!”

“H'm—I see.” Grainger cast a sharp glance at Poirot, then threw himself into a chair. “Well?” he said. “How did you come to be mixed up in this affair?”

“Miss Arundell wrote to me, stressing the utmost secrecy. Unfortunately the letter was delayed.”

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. “You can comprehend my position was a difficult one,” Poirot finished. “I was employed, you see, by a dead woman. But I counted the obligation none the less strong for that.”

Dr. Grainger's brows were drawn together in thought.

“And you've no idea who it was stretched that thread across the head of the stairs?” he asked.

“I have no
evidence
as to who it was. I will not say I have no
idea.
”

“It's a nasty story,” said Grainger, his face grim.

“Yes. You can understand, can you not, that to begin with I was uncertain whether there had or had not been a sequel?”

“Eh? What's that?”

“To 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!”

Grainger nodded thoughtfully.

“I suppose you are
sure,
Dr. Grainger—please do not get angry—that Miss Arundell's death
was
a natural one? I have come across certain evidence today—”

He detailed the conversation he had had with old Angus, Charles Arundell's interest in the weed killer, and finally the old man's surprise at the emptiness of the tin.

Grainger listened with keen attention. When Poirot had finished he said, quietly:

“I see your point. Many a case of arsenical poisoning has been diagnosed as acute gastro enteritis and a certificate given—especially when there are no suspicious contributing circumstances. In any case, arsenical poisoning presents certain difficulties—it has so many different forms. It may be acute, subacute, nervous or chronic. There may be vomiting and abdominal pain—these symptoms may be entirely absent—the person may fall suddenly to
the ground and expire shortly afterwards—there may be narcotism and paralysis. The symptoms vary widely.”

Poirot said:

“
Eh bien,
taking the facts into account, what is your opinion?”

Dr. Grainger was silent for a minute or two. Then he said slowly:

“Taking 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 Arundell's 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.” 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.

“Miss Arundell took these, I believe?” he said. “I suppose they could not be injurious in any way?”

“That stuff? No harm at all.
Aloes
—podophyllin—all quite mild and harmless,” said Grainger. “She liked trying the stuff. I didn't mind.”

He got up.

“You dispensed certain medicines for her yourself?” asked Poirot.

“Yes—a mild liver pill to be taken after food.” His eyes twinkled. “She could have taken a boxful without hurting herself. I'm not given to poisoning my patients, M. Poirot.”

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.

“They look like a seasick remedy I once took,” I remarked.

Poirot opened a capsule, examined its contents and tasted it gingerly with his tongue. He made a grimace.

“Well,” I said, throwing myself back in my chair and yawning, “everything seems harmless enough. Dr. Loughbarrow's specialities, and Dr. Grainger's pills! And Dr. Grainger seems definitely to negative the arsenic theory. Are you convinced at last, my stubborn Poirot?”

“It is true that I am pigheaded—that is your expression, I think?—Yes, definitely I have the head of the pig,” said my friend, meditatively.

“Then, in spite of having the chemist, the nurse and the doctor, against you, you still think that Miss Arundell was murdered?”

Poirot said, quietly:

“That is what I believe. No—more than believe. I am
sure
of it, Hastings.”

“There's one way of proving it, I suppose,” I said slowly. “Exhumation.”

Poirot nodded.

“Is that the next step?”

“My friend, I have to go carefully.”

“Why?”

“Because,” his voice dropped, “I am afraid of a second tragedy.”

“You mean—?”

“I am afraid, Hastings, I am afraid. Let us leave it at that.”

O
n the following morning a note arrived by hand. It was in a rather weak, uncertain handwriting slanting very much uphill.

“So
she's
down here,” I remarked.

“Yes.”

“Why has she come, I wonder?”

Poirot smiled.

“I do not suppose there is any sinister reason. After all, the house belongs to her.”

“Yes, that's true, of course. You know, Poirot, that's the worst
of this game of ours. Every single little thing that anyone does is open to the most sinister constructions.”

“It is true that I myself have enjoined upon you the motto, ‘suspect everyone.'”

“Are you still in that state yourself?”

“No—for me it has boiled down to this. I suspect one particular person.”

“Which one?”

“Since, 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 psychology—that is important. The character of the murder—implying as it does a certain temperament in the murderer—that is an essential clue to the crime.”

“I can't consider the character of the murderer if I don't know who the murderer is!”

“No, no, you have not paid attention to what I have just said. If you reflect sufficiently on the character—the necessary character of the
murder
—then you will realize
who
the murderer is!”

“Do you really know, Poirot?” I asked, curiously.

“I cannot say I
know
because I have no proofs. That is why I cannot say more at the present. But I am quite sure—yes, my friend, in my own mind I am very sure.”

“Well,” I said, laughing, “mind he doesn't get
you!
That
would
be a tragedy!”

Poirot started a little. He did not take the matter as a joke. Instead he murmured: “You are right. I must be careful—extremely careful.”

“You ought to wear a coat of chain mail,” I said, chaffingly.
“And employ a taster in case of poison! In fact, you ought to have a regular band of gunmen to protect you!”

“
Merci,
Hastings, I shall rely on my wits.”

He then wrote a note to Miss Lawson saying that he would call at Littlegreen House at eleven o'clock.

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: “Hi!”

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:

“Ha! Thought it was you. Don't often make a mistake.”

I said rather coldly:

“Er—Good morning. Can I do anything for you?”

“You can tell me how that friend of yours is getting on with his book—Life of General Arundell?”

“He hasn't actually started to write it yet,” I said.

Miss Peabody indulged in a little silent but apparently satisfying laughter. She shook like a jelly. Recovering from that attack, she remarked:

“No, I don't suppose he will be starting to write it.”

I said, smiling:

“So you saw through our little fiction?”

“What d'you take me for—a fool?” asked Miss Peabody. “I
saw soon enough what your downy friend was after! Wanted me to talk! Well,
I
didn't mind. I like talking. Hard to get anyone to listen nowadays. Quite enjoyed myself that afternoon.”

She cocked a shrewd eye at me.

“What's it all about, eh? What's it all about?”

I was hesitating what exactly to reply when Poirot joined us. He bowed with
empressement
to Miss Peabody.

“Good morning, mademoiselle. Enchanted to encounter you.”

“Good mornin',” said Miss Peabody. “What are you this morning, Parotti or Poirot—eh?”

“It was very clever of you to pierce my disguise so rapidly,” said Poirot, smiling.

“Wasn't much disguise to pierce! Not many like you about, are there? Don't know if that's a good thing or a bad one. Difficult to say.”

“I prefer, mademoiselle, to be unique.”

“You've got your wish, I should say,” said Miss Peabody, drily. “Now then, Mr. Poirot, I gave you all the gossip you wanted the other day. Now it's my turn to ask questions. What's it all about? Eh? What's it all about?”

“Are you not asking a question to which you already know the answer?”

“I wonder.” She shot a glance at him. “Something fishy about that will? Or is it something else? Going to dig Emily up? Is that it?”

Poirot did not answer.

Miss Peabody nodded her head slowly and thoughtfully as though she had received a reply.

“Often wondered,” she said inconsequently, “what it would
feel like… Readin' the papers, you know—wondered if anyone would ever be dug up in Market Basing… Didn't think it would be Emily Arundell….”

She gave him a sudden, piercing look.

“She wouldn't have liked it, you know. I suppose you've thought of that—hey?”

“Yes, I have thought of it.”

“I suppose you would do—you're not a fool! Don't think you're particularly officious either.”

Poirot bowed.

“Thank you, mademoiselle.”

“And that's more than most people would say—looking at your moustache. Why d'you have a moustache like that? D'you like it?”

I turned away convulsed with laughter.

“In England the cult of the moustache is lamentably neglected,” said Poirot. His hand surreptitiously caressed the hirsute adornment.

“Oh, I see! Funny,” said Miss Peabody. “Knew a woman who once had a goitre and was proud of it! Wouldn't believe that, but it's true! Well, what I say is, it's lucky when you're pleased with what the Lord has given you. It's usually the other way about.” She shook her head and sighed.

“Never thought there would be a murder in this out of the world spot.” Again she shot a sudden, piercing look at Poirot. “Which of 'em did it?”

“Am I to shout that to you here in the street?”

“Probably means you don't know. or do you? Oh, well—bad blood—bad blood. I'd like to know whether that Varley woman poisoned her husband or not. Makes a difference.”

“You believe in heredity?”

Miss Peabody said, suddenly:

“I'd rather it was Tanios. An outsider! But wishes ain't horses, worse luck. Well, I'll be getting along. I can see you're not goin' to tell me anything… Who are you actin' for, by the way?”

Poirot said, gravely:

“I am acting for the dead, mademoiselle.”

I am sorry to say that Miss Peabody received this remark with a sudden shriek of laughter. Quickly subduing her mind she said:

“Excuse me. It sounded like Isabel Tripp—that's all! What an awful woman! Julia's worse, I think. So painfully girlish. Never did like mutton dressed lamb fashion. Well, good-bye. Seen Dr. Grainger at all?”

“Mademoiselle, I have the bone to pick with you. You betrayed my secret.”

Miss Peabody indulged in her peculiar throaty chuckle.

“Men are simple! He'd swallowed that preposterous tissue of lies you told him. Wasn't he mad when I told him? Went away snorting with rage! He's looking for you.”

“He found me last night.”

“Oh! I wish I'd been there.”

“I wish you had, mademoiselle,” said Poirot gallantly.

Miss Peabody laughed and prepared to waddle away. She addressed me over her shoulder.

“Good-bye, young man. Don't go buying those chairs. They're a fake.”

She moved off, chuckling.

“That,” said Poirot, “is a very clever old woman.”

“Even although she did not admire your moustaches?”

“Taste is one thing,” said Poirot coldly. “Brains are another.”

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.

“I hope you'll excuse my coming in like this, M. Poirot. I've been going through some locked-up cupboards—so many things—old people are inclined to
hoard
a little, I'm afraid—dear Miss Arundell was no exception—and one gets so much dust in one's
hair
—astonishing, you know, the things people collect—if you can believe me, two dozen needlebooks—actually, two dozen.”

“You mean that Miss Arundell had bought two dozen needlebooks?”

“Yes, and put them away and forgot about them—and, of course, now the needles are all rusty—such a pity. She used to give them to the maids as Christmas presents.”

“She was very forgetful—yes?”

“Oh,
very.
Especially in the way of putting things away. Like a dog with a bone, you know. That's what we used to call it between us. ‘Now don't go and dog and bone it,' I used to say to her.”

She laughed and then producing a small handkerchief from her pocket suddenly began to sniff.

“Oh, dear,” she said tearfully. “It seems so dreadful of me to be laughing here.”

“You have too much sensibility,” said Poirot. “You feel things too much.”

“That's what my mother always used to say to me, M. Poirot. ‘You take things to heart too much, Minnie,' she used to say. It's a great drawback, M. Poirot, to be so sensitive. Especially when one has one's living to get.”

“Ah, yes, indeed, but that is all a thing of the past. You are now your own mistress. You can enjoy yourself—travel—you have absolutely no worries or anxieties.”

“I suppose that's true,” said Miss Lawson, rather doubtfully.

“Assuredly it is true. Now talking of Miss Arundell's forgetfulness I see how it was that her letter to me never reached me for so long a time.”

He explained the circumstances of the finding of the letter. A red spot showed in Miss Lawson's cheek. She said sharply:

“Ellen 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!”

“Oh, my dear lady, I am sure it was done in all good faith.”

“Well, 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.”

She drew herself up, importantly.

“Ellen was very devoted to her mistress, was she not?” said Poirot.

“Oh, I agree that it's no good making a fuss after things have happened, but all the same I think Ellen ought to be told that she
mustn't take it upon herself to do things without asking first!” She stopped, a red spot on each cheekbone.

Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said:

“You wanted to see me today? In what way can I be of service to you?”

Miss Lawson's annoyance subsided as promptly as it had arisen. She began to be flustered and incoherent again.

“Well, really—you see, I just
wondered
… 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 wondered—well, as you hadn't
mentioned
to me that you were coming—Well, it seemed rather
odd
—that I couldn't see—”

“You couldn't see what I was doing down here?” Poirot finished for her.

“I—well—no, that's exactly it. I couldn't.”

She looked at him, flushed but inquiring.

“I must make a little confession to you,” said Poirot. “I 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 by—in all possibility—Mr. Charles Arundell.”

Miss Lawson nodded.

“But that, you see, was not the case… In fact, the first I heard of the stolen money was from you… Miss Arundell wrote to me on the subject of her accident.”

“Her accident?”

“Yes, she had a fall down the stairs, I understand.”

“Oh, quite—quite—” Miss Lawson looked bewildered. She
stared vacantly at Poirot. She went on. “But—I'm sorry—I'm sure it's very stupid of me—but why should she write to
you?
I understand—in fact, I think you said so—that you are a detective. You're not a—a doctor, too? Or a faith healer, perhaps?”

“No, I am not a doctor—nor a faith healer. But, like the doctor, I concern myself sometimes with so-called accidental deaths.”

“With accidental deaths?”

“With
so-called
accidental deaths, I said. It is true that Miss Arundell did not
die
—but she might have died!”

“Oh, dear me, yes, the doctor said so, but I don't understand—”

Miss Lawson sounded still bewildered.