Dumb Witness

  The lawyer bowed his head.

  “That is so. I fancied that Miss Arundell had had some violent altercation with her family. I thought it probable that when she cooled down, she would repent of her rash decision.”

  “In which case she would have done—what?”

  “She would have given me instructions to prepare a new will.”

  “She might have taken the simpler course of merely destroying the will lately made, in which case the older will would have been good?”

  “That is a somewhat debatable point. All earlier wills, you understand, had been definitely revoked by the testator.”

  “But Miss Arundell would not have had the legal knowledge to appreciate that point. She may have thought that by destroying the latter will, the earlier one would stand.”

  “It is quite possible.”

  “Actually, if she died intestate, her money would pass to her family?”

  “Yes. One half to Mrs. Tanios, one half divisible between Charles and Theresa Arundell. But the fact remains, however, that she did not change her mind! She died with her decision unchanged.”

  “But that,” said Poirot, “is where I come in.”

  The lawyer looked at him inquiringly.

  Poirot leaned forward.

  “Supposing,” he said, “that Miss Arundell, on her deathbed, wished to destroy that will. Supposing that she believed that she had destroyed it—but that, in reality, she only destroyed the first will.”

  Mr. Purvis shook his head.

  “No, both wills were intact.”

  “Then supposing she destroyed a dummy will—under the impression that she was destroying the genuine document. She was very ill, remember, it would be easy to deceive her.”

  “You would have to bring evidence to that effect,” said the lawyer sharply.

  “Oh! undoubtedly—undoubtedly….”

  “Is there—may I ask—is there any reason to believe something of that kind happened?”

  Poirot drew back a little.

  “I should not like to commit myself at this stage—”

  “Naturally, naturally,” said Mr. Purvis, agreeing with a phrase that was familiar to him.

  “But may I say, strictly in confidence, that there are some curious features about this business!”

  “Really? You don’t say so?”

  Mr. Purvis rubbed his hands together with a kind of pleasurable anticipation.

  “What I wanted from you and what I have got,” continued Poirot, “is your opinion that Miss Arundell would, sooner or later, have changed her mind and relented towards her family.”

  “That is only my personal opinion, of course,” the lawyer pointed out.

  “My dear sir, I quite understand. You do not, I believe, act for Miss Lawson?”

  “I advised Miss Lawson to consult an independent solicitor,” said Mr. Purvis.

  His tone was wooden.

  Poirot shook hands with him, thanking him for his kindness and the information he had given us.

  Twenty

  SECOND VISIT TO LITTLEGREEN HOUSE

  On our way from Harchester to Market Basing, a matter of some ten miles, we discussed the situation.

  “Have you any grounds at all, Poirot, for that suggestion you threw out?”

  “You mean that Miss Arundell may have believed that that particular will was destroyed? No, mon ami—frankly, no. But it was incumbent upon me—you must perceive that—to make some sort of suggestion! Mr. Purvis is a shrewd man. Unless I threw out some hint of the kind I did, he would ask himself what I could be doing in this affair.”

  “Do you know what you remind me of, Poirot?” I said.

  “No, mon ami.”

  “Of a juggler juggling with a lot of different coloured balls! They are all in the air at once.”

  “The different coloured balls are the different lies I tell—eh?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “And some day, you think, there will come the grand crash?”

  “You can’t keep it up forever,” I pointed out.

  “That is true. There will come the grand moment when I catch the balls one by one, make my bow, and walk off the stage.”

  “To the sound of thunderous applause from the audience.”

  Poirot looked at me rather suspiciously.

  “That well may be, yes.”

  “We didn’t learn very much from Mr. Purvis,” I remarked, edging away from the danger point.

  “No, except that it confirmed our general ideas.”

  “And it confirmed Miss Lawson’s statement that she knew nothing about the will until after the old lady’s death.”

  “Me, I do not see that it confirmed anything of the sort.”

  “Purvis advised Miss Arundell not to tell her, and Miss Arundell replied that she had no intention of doing so.”

  “Yes, that is all very nice and clear. But there are keyholes, my friend, and keys that unlock locked drawers.”

  “Do you really think that Miss Lawson would eavesdrop and poke and pry around?” I asked rather shocked.

  Poirot smiled.

  “Miss Lawson—she is not an old school tie, mon cher. We know that she overheard one conversation which she was not supposed to have heard—I refer to the one in which Charles and his aunt discussed the question of bumping off miserly relatives.”

  I admitted the truth of that.

  “So you see, Hastings, she may easily have overheard some of the conversation between Mr. Purvis and Miss Arundell. He has a good resonant voice.”

  “As for poking and prying,” went on Poirot. “More people do it than you would suppose. Timid and easily frightened people such as Miss Lawson often acquire a number of mildly dishonourable habits which are a great solace and recreation to them.”

  “Really, Poirot!” I protested.

  He nodded his head a good many times.

  “But yes, it is so, it is so.”

  We arrived at the George and took a couple of rooms. Then we strolled off in the direction of Littlegreen House.

  When we rang the bell, Bob immediately answered the challenge. Dashing across the hall, barking furiously, he flung himself against the front door.

  “I’ll have your liver and your lights!” he snarled. “I’ll tear you limb from limb! I’ll teach you to try and get into this house! Just wait until I get my teeth into you.”

  A soothing murmur added itself to the clamour.

  “Now then, boy. Now then, there’s a good doggie. Come in here.”

  Bob, dragged by the collar, was immured in the morning room much against his will.

  “Always spoiling a fellow’s sport,” he grumbled. “First chance I’ve had of giving anyone a really good fright for ever so long. Just aching to get my teeth into a trouser leg. You be careful of yourself without me to protect you.”

  The door of the morning room was shut on him, and Ellen drew back bolts and bars and opened the front door.

  “Oh, it’s you, sir,” she exclaimed.

  She drew the door right back. A look of highly pleasurable excitement spread over her face.

  “Come in, sir, if you please, sir.”

  We entered the hall. From beneath the door on the left, loud snuffling sounds proceeded, interspersed with growls. Bob was endeavouring to “place” us correctly.

  “You can let him out,” I suggested.

  “I will, sir. He’s quite all right, really, but he makes such a noise and rushes at people so it frightens them. He’s a splendid watchdog though.”

  She opened the morning room door, and Bob shot through like a suddenly projected cannonball.

  “Who is it? Where are they? Oh, there you are. Dear me, don’t I seem to remember—” sniff—sniff—sniff—prolonged snort. “Of course! We have met!”

  “Hullo, old man,” I said. “How goes it?”

  Bob wagged his tail perfunctorily.

  “Nicely, thank you. Let me just see—” he resumed his researches. “Been
talking to a spaniel lately, I smell. Foolish dogs, I think. What’s this? A cat? That is interesting. Wish we had her here. We’d have rare sport. H’m—not a bad bull terrier.”

  Having correctly diagnosed a visit I had lately paid to some doggy friends, he transferred his attention to Poirot, inhaled a noseful of benzine and walked away reproachfully.

  “Bob,” I called.

  He threw me a look over his shoulder.

  “It’s all right. I know what I’m doing. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  “The house is all shut up. I hope you’ll excuse—” Ellen hurried into the morning room and began to unfasten the shutters.

  “Excellent, this is excellent,” said Poirot, following her in and sitting down. As I was about to join him, Bob reappeared from some mysterious region, ball in mouth. He dashed up the stairs and sprawled himself on the top step, his ball between his paws. His tail wagged slowly.

  “Come on,” he said. “Come on. Let’s have a game.”

  My interest in detection momentarily eclipsed, we played for some minutes, then with a feeling of guilt I hurried into the morning room.

  Poirot and Ellen seemed to be well away on the subject of illness and medicines.

  “Some little white pills, sir, that’s all she used to take. Two or three after every meal. That was Dr. Grainger’s orders. Oh, yes, she was very good about it. Tiny little things they were. And then there was some stuff Miss Lawson swore by. Capsules, they were, Dr. Loughbarrow’s Liver Capsules. You can see advertisements of them on all the hoardings.”

  “She took those too?”

  “Yes. Miss Lawson got her them to begin with, and she thought they did her good.”

  “Did Dr. Grainger know?”

  “Oh, sir, he didn’t mind. ‘You take ’em if you think they do you good,’ he’d say to her. And she said, ‘Well, you may laugh, but they do do me good. A lot better than any of your physic.’ And Dr. Grainger, he laughed, and said faith was worth all the drugs ever invented.”

  “She didn’t take anything else?”

  “No. Miss Bella’s husband, the foreign doctor, he went out and got her a bottle of something, but although she thanked him very politely she poured it away and that I know for a fact! And I think she was right. You don’t know where you are with these foreign things.”

  “Mrs. Tanios saw her pouring it away, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, and I’m afraid she was rather hurt about it, poor lady. I’m sorry, too, for no doubt it was kindly meant on the doctor’s part.”

  “No doubt. No doubt. I suppose any medicines that were left in the house were thrown away when Miss Arundell died?”

  Ellen looked a little surprised at the question.

  “Oh, yes, sir. The nurse threw away some and Miss Lawson got rid of all the old lot in the medicine cupboard in the bathroom.”

  “Is that where the—er—Dr. Loughbarrow’s Liver Capsules were kept?”

  “No, they were kept in the corner cupboard in the dining room so as to be handy for taking after meals as directed.”

  “What nurse attended Miss Arundell? Can you give me her name and address?”

  Ellen could supply that at once and did.

  Poirot continued to ask questions about Miss Arundell’s last illness.

  Ellen gave details with relish, describing the sickness, the pain, the onset of jaundice, and the final delirium. I don’t know whether Poirot got any satisfaction out of the catalogue. He listened patiently enough and occasionally interpolated some pertinent little question, usually about Miss Lawson and the amount of time she spent in the sickroom. He was also exceedingly interested in the diet administered to the ill woman, comparing it with that administered to some dead relative (nonexistent) of his own.

  Seeing that they were enjoying themselves so much, I stole out in the hall again. Bob had gone to sleep on the landing, his ball lying under his chin.

  I whistled to him and he sprang up, alert at once. This time, however, doubtless out of offended dignity, he made a protracted business of despatching the ball down to me, several times catching it back at the last minute.

  “Disappointed, aren’t you? Well, perhaps I will let you have it this time.”

  When I next went back to the morning room, Poirot was talking about Dr. Tanios’ surprise visit on the Sunday before the old lady’s death.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Charles and Miss Theresa were out for a walk. Dr. Tanios wasn’t expected, I know. The mistress was lying down and she was very surprised when I told her who it was. ‘Dr. Tanios?’ she said. ‘Is Mrs. Tanios with him?’ I told her no, the gentleman had come alone. So she said to tell him she’d be down in a minute.”

  “Did he stay long?”

  “Not above an hour, sir. He didn’t look too pleased when he went away.”

  “Have you any idea of the—er—purpose of his visit?”

  “I couldn’t say, I’m sure, sir.”

  “You did not happen to hear anything?”

  Ellen’s face flushed suddenly.

  “No, I did not, sir! I’ve never been one to listen at doors, no matter what some people will do—and people who ought to know better!”

  “Oh, but you misunderstand me.” Poirot was eager, apologetic. “It just occurred to me that perhaps you might have brought in tea while the gentleman was there and if so, you could hardly have helped hearing what he and your mistress were talking about.”

  Ellen was mollified.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I misunderstood you. No, Dr. Tanios didn’t stay for tea.”

  Poirot looked up at her and twinkled a little.

  “And if I want to know what he came down for—well, it is possible that Miss Lawson might be in a position to know? Is that it?”

  “Well, if she doesn’t know, sir, nobody does,” said Ellen with a sniff.

  “Let me see,” Poirot frowned as though trying to remember. “Miss Lawson’s bedroom—was it next to Miss Arundell’s?”

  “No, sir. Miss Lawson’s room is right at the top of the staircase. I can show you, sir.”

  Poirot accepted the offer. As he went up the stairs he kept close to the wall side, and just as he reached the top uttered an exclamation and stooped to his trouser leg.

  “Ah—I have just caught a thread—ah, yes, there is a nail here in the skirting board.”

  “Yes, there is, sir. I think it must have worked loose or something. I’ve caught my dress on it once or twice.”

  “Has it been like that long?”

  “Well, some time, I’m afraid, sir. I noticed it first when the mistress was laid up—after her accident, that was, sir—I tried to pull it out but I couldn’t.”

  “It had a thread round it sometime, I think.”

  “That’s right, sir, there was a little loop of thread, I remember. I can’t think what for, I’m sure.”

  But there was no suspicion in Ellen’s voice. To her it was just one of the things that occur in houses and which one does not bother to explain!

  Poirot had stepped into the room at the top of the stairs. It was of moderate size. There were two windows directly facing us. There was a dressing table across one corner and between the windows was a wardrobe with a long mirror. The bed was to the right behind the door facing the windows. On the left-hand wall of the room was a big mahogany chest of drawers and a marble-topped washstand.

  Poirot looked round the room thoughtfully and then came out again on the landing. He went along the passage, passing two other bedrooms and then came to the large bedchamber which had belonged to Emily Arundell.

  “The nurse had the little room next door,” Ellen explained.

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

  As we descended the stairs, he asked if he might walk round the garden.

  “Oh, yes, sir, certainly. It looks lovely just now.”

  “The gardener is still employed?”

  “Angus? Oh, yes, Angus is still here. Miss Lawson wants everything kept nice because she thinks it will sell better that wa
y.”

  “I think she is wise. To let a place run to seed is not the good policy.”

  The garden was very peaceful and beautiful. The wide borders were full of lupins and delphiniums and great scarlet poppies. The peonies were in bud. Wandering along we came presently to a potting shed where a big, rugged old man was busy. He saluted us respectfully and Poirot engaged him in conversation.

  A mention that we had seen Mr. Charles that day thawed the old man and he became quite garrulous.

  “Always a one, he was! I’ve known him come out here with half a gooseberry pie and the cook hunting high and low for it! And he’d go back with such an innocent face that durned if they wouldn’t say it must have been the cat, though I’ve never known a cat eat a gooseberry pie! Oh, he’s a one, Mr. Charles is!”

  “He was down here in April, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, down here two weekends. Just before the missus died, it was.”

  “Did you see much of him?”

  “A good bit, I did. There wasn’t much for a young gentleman to do down here, and that’s a fact. Used to stroll up to the George and have one. And then he’d potter round here, asking me questions about one thing and another.”

  “About flowers?”

  “Yes—flowers—and weeds too.” The old man chuckled.

  “Weeds?”

  Poirot’s voice held a sudden, tentative note. He turned his head and looked searchingly along the shelves. His eye stopped at a tin.

  “Perhaps he wanted to know how you got rid of them?”

  “He did that!”

  “I suppose this is the stuff you use.”

  Poirot turned the tin gently round and read the label.

  “That’s it,” said Angus. “Very handy stuff it is.”

  “Dangerous stuff?”

  “Not if you use it right. It’s arsenic, of course. Had a bit of a joke about that, Mr. Charles and I did. Said as how when he had a wife and didn’t like her, he’d come to me and get a little of that stuff to put her away with! Maybe, I sez, she’ll be the one that wants to do away with you! Ah, that made him laugh proper, that did! It was a good one, that!”

  We laughed as in duty bound. Poirot prised up the lid of the tin.

  “Nearly empty,” he murmured.

  The old man had a look.