CHAPTER 8. Interior of Littlegreen House

On 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 diningroom 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 work-boxes 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 fancy-work, 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 Ar undell 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?’

‘No, she came after that. She’d been with her about a year.’

‘I suppose she’d had companions before that?’

‘Oh, quite a number, sir.’

‘Her companions didn’t stay as long as her servants,’ said Poirot, smiling.

The woman flushed.

‘Well, you see, sir, it was different. Miss Arundell didn’t get out much and what with one thing and another—’ she paused.

Poirot eyed her for a minute then he said:

‘I understand a little the mentality of elderly ladies. They crave, do they not, for novelty. They get, perhaps, to the end of a person.’

‘Well, now, that’s very clever of you, sir. You’ve hit it exactly. When a new lady came Miss Arundell was always interested to start with—about her life and her childhood and where she’d been and what she thought about things, and then, when she knew all about her, well, she’d get— well, I suppose bored is the real word.’

‘Exactly. And between you and me, these ladies who go as companions, they are not usually very interesting—very amusing, eh?’

‘No, indeed, sir. They’re poor-spirited creatures, most of them. Downright foolish, now and then. Miss Arundell soon got through with them, so to speak. And then she’d make a change and have someone else.’

‘She must have been unusually attached to Miss Lawson, though.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, sir.’

‘Miss Lawson was not in any way a remarkable woman?’

‘I shouldn’t have said so, sir. Quite an ordinary person.’

‘You liked her, yes?’

The woman shrugged her shoulders slightly.

‘There wasn’t anything to like or dislike. Fussy she was—a regular old maid and full of this nonsense about spirits.’

‘Spirits?’’ Poirot looked alert.

‘Yes, sir, spirits. Sitting in the dark round a table and dead people came back and spoke to you. Downright irreligious I call it—as if we didn’t know departed souls had their rightful place and aren’t likely to leave it.’

‘So Miss Lawson was a spiritualist! Was Miss Arundell a believer too?’

‘Miss Lawson would have liked her to be!’ snapped the other. There was a spice of satisfied malice in her tone.

‘But she wasn’t?’ Poirot persisted.

‘The mistress had too much sense.’ She snorted. ‘Mind you, I don’t say it didn’t amuse her. “I’m willing to be convinced,” she’d say. But she’d often look at Miss Lawson as much as to say, “My poor dear, what a fool you are to be so taken in!”’

‘I comprehend. She did not believe in it, but it was a source of amusement to her.’

‘That’s right, sir. I sometimes wondered if she didn’t—well have a bit of quiet fun, so to speak, pushing the table and that sort of thing. And the others all as serious as death.’

‘The others?’

‘Miss Lawson and the two Miss Tripps.’

‘Miss Lawson was a very convinced spiritualist?’

‘Took it all for gospel, sir.’

‘And Miss Arundell was very attached to Miss Lawson, of course.’

It was the second time Poirot had made this certain remark and he got the same response.

‘Well, hardly that, sir.’

‘But surely,’ said Poirot. ‘If she left her everything. She did, did she not?’

The change was immediate. The human being vanished. The correct maid-servant returned. The woman drew herself up and said in a colourless voice that held reproof for familiarity in it:

‘The way the mistress left her money is hardly my business, sir.’

I felt that Poirot had bungled the job. Having got the woman in a friendly mood, he was now proceeding to throw away his advantage. He was wise enough to make no immediate attempt to recover lost ground. After a commonplace remark about the size and number of the bedrooms he went towards the head of the stairs.

Bob had disappeared, but as I came to the stair-head, I stumbled and nearly fell. Catching at the baluster to steady myself I looked down and saw that I had inadvertently placed my foot on Bob’s ball which he had left lying on the top of the stairs.

The woman apologized quickly.

‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s Bob’s fault. He leaves his ball there. And you can’t see it against the dark carpet. Death of someone some day it’ll be. The poor mistress had a nasty fall through it. Might easily have been the death of her.’

Poirot stopped suddenly on the stairs.

‘She had an accident you say?’

‘Yes, sir. Bob left his ball there, as he often did, and the mistress came out of her room and fell over it and went right down the stairs. Might have been killed.’

‘Was she much hurt?’

‘Not as much as you’d think. Very lucky she was, Dr Grainger said. Cut her head a little, and strained her back, and of course there were bruises and it was a nasty shock. She was in bed for about a week, but it wasn’t serious.’

‘Was this long ago?’

‘Just a week or two before she died.’

Poirot stooped to recover something he had dropped.

‘Pardon—my fountain pen—ah, yes, there it is.’

He stood up again.

‘He is careless, this Master Bob,’ he observed.

‘Ah well, he don’t know no better, sir,’ said the woman in an indulgent voice. ‘Nearly human he may be, but you can’t have everything. The mistress, you see, usedn’t to sleep well at night and often she’d get up and wander downstairs and round and about the house.’

‘She did that often?’

‘Most nights. But she wouldn’t have Miss Lawson or anyone fussing after her.’

Poirot had turned into the drawing-room again.

‘A beautiful room this,’ he observed. ‘I wonder, would there be space in this recess for my bookcase? What do you think, Hastings?’

Quite fogged I remarked cautiously that it would be difficult to say.

‘Yes, sizes are so deceptive. Take, I pray you, my little rule and measure the width of it and I will write it down.’

Obediently I took the folding rule that Poirot handed me and took various measurements under his direction whilst he wrote on the back of an envelope.

I was just wondering why he adopted such an untidy and uncharacteristic method instead of making a neat entry in his little pocket-book when he handed the envelope to me, saying:

‘That is right, is it not? Perhaps you had better verify it.’

There were no figures on the envelope. Instead was written: ‘When we go upstairs again, pretend to remember an appointment and ask if you can telephone. Let the woman come with you and delay her as long as you can.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said, pocketing the envelope. ‘I should say both bookcases would go in perfectly.’

‘It is as well to be sure though. I think, if it is not too much trouble, I would like to look at the principal bedroom again. I am not quite sure of the wall space there.’

‘Certainly, sir. It’s no trouble.’

We went up again. Poirot measured a portion of wall, and was just commenting aloud on the respective possible positions of bed, wardrobe and writing table, when I looked at my watch, gave a somewhat exaggerated start and exclaimed:

‘By Jove, do you know it’s three o’clock already? What will Anderson think? I ought to telephone to him.’ I turned to the woman. ‘I wonder if I might use your telephone if you have one.’

‘Why, certainly, sir. It’s in the little room off the hall. I’ll show you.’

She bustled down with me, indicating the instrument, and then I got her to help me in finding a number in the telephone directory. In the end I made a call—to a Mr Anderson in the neighbouring town of Harchester. Fortunately he was out and I was able to leave a message saying it was unimportant and that I would ring up later!

When I emerged Poirot had descended the staircase and was standing in the hall. His eyes had a slightly green tinge. I had no clue to his excitement but I realized that he was excited.

Poirot said:

‘That fall from the top of the stairs must have given your mistress a great shock. Did she seem perturbed about Bob and his ball after it?’

‘It’s funny your saying that, sir. It worried her a lot. Why, just as she was dying, she was delirious and she rambled on a lot about Bob and his ball and something about a picture that was ajar.’

‘A picture that was ajar,’ said Poirot thoughtfully.

‘Of course, it didn’t make sense, sir, but she was rambling, you see.’

‘One moment—I must just go into the drawing-room once more.’

He wandered round the room examining the ornaments. In especial, one big jar with a lid on it seemed to attract him. It was not, I fancy, a particularly good bit of china. A piece of Victorian humour—it had on it a rather crude picture of a bulldog sitting outside a front door with a mournful expression on its face. Below was written: Out all night and no key.

Poirot, whose taste I have always been convinced, is hopelessly Bourgeois, seemed lost in admiration.

‘Out all night and no key,’ he murmured. ‘It is amusing, that! Is that true of our Master Bob? Does he sometimes stay out all night?’

‘Very occasional, sir. Oh, very occasional. He’s a very good dog, Bob is.’

‘I am sure he is. But even the best of dogs—’

‘Oh, it’s quite true, sir. Once or twice he’s gone off and come home perhaps at four in the morning. Then he sits down on the step and barks till he’s let in.’

‘Who lets him in—Miss Lawson?’

‘Well, anyone who hears him, sir. It was Miss Lawson, sir, last time. It was the night of the mistress’s accident. And Bob came home about five. Miss Lawson hurried down to let him in before he could make a noise. She was afraid of waking up the mistress and hadn’t told her Bob was missing for fear of worrying her.’

‘I see. She thought it was better Miss Arundell shouldn’t be told?’

‘That’s what she said, sir. She said, “He’s sure to come back. He always does, but she might worry and that would never do.” So we didn’t say anything.’

‘Was Bob fond of Miss Lawson?’

‘Well, he was rather contemptuous of her if you know what I mean, sir. Dogs can be. She was kind to him. Called him a good doggie and a nice doggie, but he used to look at her kind of scornful like and he didn’t pay any attention at all to what she told him to do.’

Poirot nodded. ‘I see,’ he said.

Suddenly he did something which startled me.

He pulled a letter from his pocket—the letter he had received this morning.

‘Ellen,’ he said, ‘do you know anything about this?’

The change that came over Ellen’s face was remarkable.

Her jaw dropped and she stared at Poirot with an almost comical expression of bewilderment.

‘Well,’ she ejaculated. ‘I never did!’

The observation lacked coherency, perhaps, but it left no doubt of Ellen’s meaning.

Gathering her wits about her she said slowly:

‘Are you the gentleman that letter was written to then?’

‘I am. I am Hercule Poirot.’

Like most people, Ellen had not glanced at the name on the order Poirot had held out to her on his arrival. She nodded her head slowly.

‘That was it,’ she said. ‘Hercules Poirot.’ She added an S to the Christian name and sounded the T of the surname.

‘My word!’ she exclaimed. ‘Cook will be surprised.’

Poirot said, quickly:

‘Would it not be advisable, perhaps, for us to go to the kitchen and there in company with your friend, we could talk this matter over?’

‘Well—if you don’t mind, sir.’

Ellen sounded just a little doubtful. This particular social dilemma was clearly new to her. But Poirot’s matter of fact manner reassured her and we departed forthwith to the kitchen, Ellen elucidating the situation to a large, pleasantfaced woman who was just lifting a kettle from a gas ring.

‘You’ll never believe it, Annie. This is actually the gentleman that letter was to. You know, the one I found in the blotter.’

‘You must remember I am in the dark,’ said Poirot. ‘Perhaps you will tell me how the letter came to be posted so late in the day?’

‘Well, sir, to tell the truth I didn’t know what to do. Neither of us did, did we?’

‘Indeed, we didn’t,’ the cook confirmed.

‘You see, sir, when Miss Lawson was turning out things after the mistress’s death a good lot of things were given away or thrown away. Among them was a little papier- mache, I think they call it, blotter. Very pretty it was, with a lily of the valley on it. The mistress always used it when she wrote in bed. Well, Miss Lawson didn’t want it so she gave it to me along with a lot of other little odds and ends that had belonged to the mistress. I put it away in a drawer, and it wasn’t till yesterday that I took it out. I was going to put some new blotting-paper in it so that it was ready for me to use. There was a sort of pocket inside and I just slipped my hand in it when what should I find but a letter in the mistress’s handwriting, tucked away.

‘Well, as I say I didn’t know rightly what to do about it. It was the mistress’s hand all right, and I saw as she’d written it and slipped it in there waiting to post it the next day and then she’d forgot, which is the kind of thing she did many a time, poor dear. Once it was a dividend warrant to her bank and no one could think where it had got to, and at last it was found pushed right back in the pigeon-holes of the desk.’

‘Was she untidy?’

‘Oh, no, sir, just the opposite. She was always putting things away and clearing them up. That was half the trouble. If she’d left things about it would really have been better. It was their being tidied away and then forgotten that was always happening.’

‘Things like Bob’s ball, for instance?’ asked Poirot with a smile.

The sagacious terrier had just trotted in from outdoors and greeted us anew in a very friendly manner.

‘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 post box 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!’