Miss Lawson paused to draw a deep breath and then rushed on.
“And so I was lying awake and wondering whether she’d say anything about it tomorrow, and what with one thing and another I was a long time dropping off—and then just as I was going off something seemed to wake me up—a sort of rap or tap—and I sat up in bed, and then I sniffed. Of course, I’m always terrified of fire—sometimes I think I smell fire two or three times a night—(so awful wouldn’t it be if one were trapped?) Anyway there was a smell, and I sniffed hard but it wasn’t smoke or anything like that. And I said to myself it’s more like paint or floor stain—but of course, one wouldn’t smell that in the middle of the night. But it was quite strong and I sat up sniffing and sniffing, and then I saw her in the glass—”
“Saw her? Saw whom?”
“In my looking glass, you know, it’s really most convenient. I left my door open a little always, so as to hear Miss Arundell if she were to call, and if she went up and down stairs I could see her. The one light was always left switched on in the passage. That’s how I came to see her kneeling on the stair—Theresa, I mean. She was kneeling on about the third step with her head bent down over something and I was just thinking, ‘How odd, I wonder if she’s ill?’ when she got up and went away, so I supposed she’d just slipped or something. Or perhaps was stooping to pick something up. But, of course, I never thought about it again one way or another.”
“The tap that aroused you would be the tap of the hammer on the nail,” mused Poirot.
“Yes, I suppose it would. But oh, M. Poirot, how dreadful—how truly dreadful. I’ve always felt Theresa was, perhaps a little wild, but to do a thing like that.”
“You are sure it was Theresa?”
“Oh, dear me, yes.”
“It couldn’t have been Mrs. Tanios or one of the maids, for instance?”
“Oh, no, it was Theresa.”
Miss Lawson shook her head and murmured to herself:
“Oh dear. Oh dear,” several times.
Poirot was staring at her in a way I found it hard to understand.
“Permit me,” he said suddenly, “to make an experiment. Let us go upstairs and endeavour to reconstruct this little scene.”
“Reconstruction? Oh, really—I don’t know—I mean I don’t quite see—”
“I will show you,” said Poirot, cutting in upon these doubts in an authoritative manner.
Somewhat flustered, Miss Lawson led the way upstairs.
“I hope the room’s tidy—so much to do—what with one thing and another—” she tailed off incoherently.
The room was indeed somewhat heavily littered with miscellaneous articles, obviously the result of Miss Lawson’s turning out of cupboards. With her usual incoherence Miss Lawson managed to indicate her own position and Poirot was able to verify for himself the fact that a portion of the staircase was reflected in the wall mirror.
“And now, mademoiselle,” he suggested, “if you will be so good as to go out and reproduce the actions that you saw.”
Miss Lawson, still murmuring, “Oh, dear—” bustled out to fulfil her part. Poirot acted the part of the observer.
The performance concluded, he went out on the landing and asked which electric light had been left switched on.
“This one—this one along here. Just outside Miss Arundell’s door.”
Poirot reached up, detached the bulb and examined it.
“A forty watt lamp, I see. Not very powerful.”
“No, it was just so that the passage shouldn’t be quite dark.”
Poirot retraced his steps to the top of the stairs.
“You will pardon me, mademoiselle, but with the light being fairly dim and the way that shadow falls it is hardly possible that you can have seen very clearly. Can you be positive it was Miss Theresa Arundell and not just an indeterminate female figure in a dressing gown?”
Miss Lawson was indignant.
“No, indeed, M. Poirot! I’m perfectly sure! I know Theresa well enough, I should hope! Oh, it was her all right. Her dark dressing gown and that big shining brooch she wears with the initials—I saw that plainly.”
“So that there is no possible doubt. You saw the initials?”
“Yes, T.A. I know the brooch. Theresa often wore it. Oh, yes, I could swear to its being Theresa—and I will swear to it if necessary!”
There was a firmness and decision in those last two sentences that was quite at variance with her usual manner.
Poirot looked at her. Again there was something curious in his glance. It was aloof, appraising—and had also a queer appearance of finality about it.
“You would swear to that, yes?” he said.
“If—if—it’s necessary. But I suppose it—will it be necessary?”
Again Poirot turned that appraising glance upon her.
“That will depend on the result of the exhumation,” he said.
“Ex—exhumation?”
Poirot put out a restraining hand. In her excitement Miss Lawson very nearly went headlong down the stairs.
“It may possibly be a question of exhumation,” he said.
“Oh, but surely—how very unpleasant! But I mean, I’m sure the family would oppose the idea very strongly—very strongly indeed.”
“Probably they will.”
“I’m quite sure they won’t hear of such a thing!”
“Ah, but if it is an order from the Home Office.”
“But M. Poirot—why? I mean it’s not as though—not as though—”
“Not as though what?”
“Not as though there were anything—wrong.”
“You think not?”
“No, of course not. Why, there couldn’t be! I mean the doctor and the nurse and everything—”
“Do not upset yourself,” said Poirot calmly and soothingly.
“Oh, but I can’t help it! Poor dear Miss Arundell! It’s not even as though Theresa had been here in the house when she died.”
“No, she left on the Monday before she was taken ill, did she not?”
“Quite early in the morning. So you see, she can’t have had anything to do with it!”
“Let us hope not,” said Poirot.
“Oh, dear.” Miss Lawson clasped her hands together. “I’ve never known anything so dreadful as all this! Really, I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels.”
Poirot glanced at his watch.
“We must depart. We are returning to London. And you, mademoiselle, you are remaining down here some little time?”
“No—no… I have really no settled plans. Actually I’m going back myself today… I only came down just for a night to—to settle things a little.”
“I see. Well, good-bye, mademoiselle, and forgive me if I have upset you at all.”
“Oh, M. Poirot. Upset me? I feel quite ill! Oh dear—Oh, dear, it’s such a wicked world! Such a dreadfully wicked world.”
Poirot cut short her lamentations by taking her hand firmly in his.
“Quite so. And you are still ready to swear that you saw Theresa Arundell kneeling on the stairs on the night of Easter Bank Holiday?”
“Oh, yes, I can swear to that.”
“And you can also swear that you saw a halo of light round Miss Arundell’s head during the séance?”
Miss Lawson’s mouth fell open.
“Oh, M. Poirot, don’t—don’t joke about these things.”
“I am not joking. I am perfectly serious.”
Miss Lawson said with dignity:
“It wasn’t exactly a halo. It was more like the beginning of a manifestation. A ribbon of some luminous material. I think it was beginning to form into a face.”
“Extremely interesting. Au revoir, mademoiselle, and please keep all this to yourself.”
“Oh, of course—of course. I shouldn’t dream of doing anything else….”
The last we saw of Miss Lawson was her rather sheeplike face gazing after us from the front doorstep.
 
; Twenty-three
DR. TANIOS CALLS ON US
No sooner had we left the house than Poirot’s manner changed. His face was grim and set.
“Dépêchons nous, Hastings,” he said. “We must get back to London as soon as possible.”
“I’m willing.” I quickened my pace to suit his. I stole a look at his grave face.
“Who do you suspect, Poirot?” I asked. “I wish you’d tell me. Do you believe it was Theresa Arundell on the stairs or not?”
Poirot did not reply to my questions. Instead he asked a question of his own.
“Did it strike you—reflect before you answer—did it strike you that there was something wrong with that statement of Miss Lawson’s?”
“How do you mean—wrong with it?”
“If I knew that I should not be asking you!”
“Yes, but wrong in what way?”
“That is just it. I cannot be precise. But as she was talking I had, somehow, a feeling of unreality…as though there was something—some small point that was wrong—that was, yes, that was the feeling—something that was impossible.…”
“She seemed quite positive it was Theresa!”
“Yes, yes.”
“But after all, the light couldn’t have been very good. I don’t see how she can be quite so sure.”
“No, no, Hastings, you are not helping me. It was some small point—something connected with—yes, I am sure of it—with the bedroom.”
“With the bedroom?” I repeated, trying to recall the details of the room. “No,” I said at last. “I can’t help you.”
Poirot shook his head, vexedly.
“Why did you bring up that spiritualistic business again?” I asked.
“Because it is important.”
“What is important? Miss Lawson’s luminous ‘ribbon development?’”
“You remember the Misses Tripp’s description of the séance?”
“I know they saw a halo round the old lady’s head.” I laughed in spite of myself. “I shouldn’t think she was a saint by all accounts! Miss Lawson seems to have been terrified by her. I felt quite sorry for the poor woman when she described how she lay awake, worried to death because she might get into trouble over ordering too small a sirloin of beef.”
“Yes, it was an interesting touch that.”
“What are we going to do when we get to London?” I asked as we turned into the George and Poirot asked for the bill.
“We must go and see Theresa Arundell immediately.”
“And find out the truth? But won’t she deny the whole thing anyway?”
“Mon cher, it is not a criminal offence to kneel upon a flight of stairs! She may have been picking up a pin to bring her luck—something of that sort!”
“And the smell of varnish?”
We could say no more just then, as the waiter arrived with the bill.
On the way to London we talked very little. I am not fond of talking and driving, and Poirot was so busy protecting his moustaches with his muffler from the disastrous effects of wind and dust that speech was quite beyond him.
We arrived at the flat at about twenty to two.
George, Poirot’s immaculate and extremely English manservant, opened the door.
“A Dr. Tanios is waiting to see you, sir. He has been here for half an hour.”
“Dr. Tanios? Where is he?”
“In the sitting room, sir. A lady also called to see you, sir. She seemed very distressed to find you were absent from home. It was before I received your telephone message, sir, so I could not tell her when you would be returning to London.”
“Describe this lady.”
“She was about five foot seven, sir, with dark hair and light blue eyes. She was wearing a grey coat and skirt and a hat worn very much to the back of the head instead of over the right eye.”
“Mrs. Tanios,” I ejaculated in a low voice.
“She seemed in a condition of great nervous excitement, sir. Said it was of the utmost importance she should find you quickly.”
“What time was this?”
“About half past ten, sir.”
Poirot shook his head as he passed on towards the sitting room.
“That is the second time I have missed hearing what Mrs. Tanios has to say. What would you say, Hastings? Is there a fate in it?”
“Third time lucky,” I said consolingly.
Poirot shook his head doubtfully.
“Will there be a third time? I wonder. Come, let us hear what the husband has to say.”
Dr. Tanios was sitting in an armchair reading one of Poirot’s books on psychology. He sprang up and greeted us.
“You must forgive this intrusion. I hope you don’t mind my forcing my way in and waiting for you like this.”
“Du tout, du tout. Pray sit down. Permit me to offer you a glass of sherry.”
“Thank you. As a matter of fact I have an excuse. M. Poirot, I am worried, terribly worried, about my wife.”
“About your wife? I’m very sorry. What’s the matter?”
Tanios said:
“You have seen her perhaps lately?”
It seemed quite a natural question, but the quick look that accompanied it was not so natural.
Poirot replied in the most matter-of-fact manner.
“No, not since I saw her at the hotel with you yesterday.”
“Ah—I thought perhaps she might have called upon you.”
Poirot was busy pouring out three glasses of sherry.
He said in a slightly abstracted voice:
“No. Was there any—reason for her calling on me?”
“No, no.” Dr. Tanios accepted his sherry. “Thank you. Thank you very much. No, there was no exact reason, but to be frank I am very much concerned about my wife’s state of health.”
“Ah, she is not strong?”
“Her bodily health,” said Tanios slowly, “is good. I wish I could say the same for her mind.”
“Ah?”
“I fear, M. Poirot, that she is on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown.”
“My dear Dr. Tanios, I am extremely sorry to hear this.”
“This condition has been growing for some time. During the last two months her manner towards me has completely changed. She is nervous, easily startled, and she has the oddest fancies—actually they are more than fancies—they are delusions!”
“Really?”
“Yes. She is suffering from what is commonly known as persecution mania—a fairly well-known condition.”
Poirot made a sympathetic noise with his tongue.
“You can understand my anxiety!”
“Naturally. Naturally. But what I do not quite understand is why you have come to me. How can I help you?”
Dr. Tanios seemed a little embarrassed.
“It occurred to me that my wife might have—or may yet—come to you with some extraordinary tale. She may conceivably say that she is in danger from me—something of the kind.”
“But why should she come to me?”
Dr. Tanios smiled—it was a charming smile—genial yet wistful.
“You are a celebrated detective, M. Poirot. I saw—I could see at once—that my wife was very impressed at meeting you yesterday. The mere fact of meeting a detective would make a powerful impression on her in her present state. It seems to me highly probable that she might seek you out and—and—well, confide in you. That is the way these nervous affections go! There is a tendency to turn against those nearest and dearest to you.”
“Very distressing.”
“Yes, indeed. I am very fond of my wife.” There was a rich tenderness in his voice. “I always feel it was so brave of her to marry me—a man of another race—to come out to a far country—to leave all her own friends and surroundings. For the last few days I have been really distraught… I can see only one thing for it….”
“Yes?”
“Perfect rest and quiet—and suitable psychological treatment. There is a splendid home
I know of run by a first-class man. I want to take her there—it is in Norfolk—straightaway. Perfect rest and isolation from outside influence—that is what is needed. I feel convinced that once she has been there a month or two under skilled treatment there will be a change for the better.”
“I see,” said Poirot.
He uttered the words in a matter-of-fact manner without any clue to the feelings that prompted him.
Tanios again shot a quick glance at him.
“That is why, if she should come to you, I should be obliged if you will let me know at once.”
“But certainly. I will telephone you. You are at the Durham Hotel still?”
“Yes. I am going back there now.”
“And your wife is not there?”
“She went out directly after breakfast.”
“Without telling you where she was going?”
“Without saying a word. That is most unlike her.”
“And the children?”
“She took them with her.”
“I see.”
Tanios got up.
“I thank you so much, M. Poirot. I need hardly say that if she does tell you any high-flown stories of intimidation and persecution pay no attention to them. It is, unfortunately, a part of her malady.”
“Most distressing,” said Poirot with sympathy.
“It is indeed. Although one knows, medically speaking, that it is part of a recognized mental disease, yet one cannot help being hurt when a person very near and dear to you turns against you and all their affection changes to dislike.”
“You have my deepest sympathy,” said Poirot as he shook hands with his guest.
“By the way—” Poirot’s voice recalled Tanios just as he was at the door.