“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.”
Twenty-two
THE WOMAN ON THE STAIRS
On the following morning a note arrived by hand. It was in a rather weak, uncertain handwriting slanting very much uphill.
Dear M. Poirot,
I hear from Ellen that you were at Littlegreen House yesterday. I shall be much obliged if you would call and see me sometime today.
Yours truly,
Wilhelmina Lawson.
“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 t
hat’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.
“The cause of the accident was supposed to be the ball of the little Bob, was it not?”
“Yes, yes, that was it. It was Bob
’s ball.”
“Oh, no, it was not Bob’s ball.”
“But, excuse me, M. Poirot, I saw it there myself—as we all ran down.”
“You saw it—yes, perhaps. But it was not the cause of the accident. The cause of the accident, Miss Lawson, was a dark-coloured thread stretched about a foot above the top of the stairs!”
“But—but a dog couldn’t—”
“Exactly,” said Poirot quickly. “A dog could not do that—he is not sufficiently intelligent—or, if you like, he is not sufficiently evil…A human being put that thread in position….”
Miss Lawson’s face had gone deadly white. She raised a shaking hand to her face.
“Oh, M. Poirot—I can’t believe it—you don’t mean—but that is awful—really awful. You mean it was done on purpose?”
“Yes, it was done on purpose.”
“But that’s dreadful. It’s almost like—like killing a person.”
“If it had succeeded it would have been killing a person! In other words—it would have been murder!”
Miss Lawson gave a little shrill cry.
Poirot went on in the same grave tone.
“A nail was driven into the skirting board so that the thread could be attached. That nail was varnished so as not to show. Tell me, do you ever remember a smell of varnish that you could not account for?”
Miss Lawson gave a cry.
“Oh, how extraordinary! To think of that! Why, of course! And to think I never thought—never dreamed—but then, how could I? And yet it did seem odd to me at the time.”
Poirot leant forward.
“So—you can help us, mademoiselle. Once again you can help us. C’est épatant!”
“To think that was it! Oh, well, it all fits in.”
“Tell me, I pray of you. You smelt varnish—yes?”
“Yes. Of course, I didn’t know what it was. I thought—dear me—is it paint—no, it’s more like floor stain, and then, of course, I thought I must have imagined it.”
“When was this?”
“Now let me see—when was it?”
“Was it during that Easter weekend when the house was full of guests?”
“Yes, that was the time—but I’m trying to recall just which day it was… Now, let me see, it wasn’t Sunday. No, and it wasn’t on Tuesday—that was the night Dr. Donaldson came to dinner. And on the Wednesday they had all left. No, of course, it was the Monday—Bank Holiday. I’d been lying awake—rather worried, you know. I always think Bank Holiday is such a worrying day! There had been only just enough cold beef to go round at supper and I was afraid Miss Arundell might be annoyed about it. You see I’d ordered the joint on the Saturday, and of course I ought to have said seven pounds but I thought five pounds would do nicely, but Miss Arundell was always so vexed if there was any shortage—she was so hospitable—”