POIROT LOSES
R CLIENT
Copyright, 1937, by Agatha Christie Mallowan.
All rights reserved.
Published in Large Print by arrangement with
Putnam Publishing Group, Inc.
G.K. Hall Large Print Book Series.
Set in 18 pt. Plantin.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Christie, Agatha, 1890-1976.
Poirot loses a client / Agatha Christie.
p. cm.--(G.K. Hall large print book series)
"Published in large print"--T.p. verso.
ISBN 0-8161-4591-1 (he). -- ISBN 0- 8161-4592-X (pb)
1. Large type books. I. Title.
[PR6005.H66P65 1991b]
823'.912--dc20 9110341
Also available in Large Print
by Agatha Christie:
*The A.B.C. Murders
*The Body in the Library
^The Boomerang Clue
^Crooked House
*Evil Under the Sun
*Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories
*Mr. Parker Pyne, Detective
*The Murder at the Vicarage
*A Murder is Announced
^The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
^The Patriotic Murders
^Peril at End House
*The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories
^The Secret Adversary
* Three Blind Mice and Other Stories
* Toward Zero
^Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories
^Endless Night
*The Moving Finger
^Murder in Three Acts
^Ordeal by Innocence
^Thirteen at Dinner
*A Caribbean Mystery
*What Mrs. McGillicuddy Saw!
*They Came to Baghdad
*The Murder on the Links
^Double Sin and Other Stories
*Easy to Kill
^Elephants Can Remember
^Sleeping Murder
*The Golden Ball and Other Stories
*Nemesis
*Third Girl
The Mystery of the Blue Train
The Under Dog and Other Stories
The Hollow
Murder in Mesopotamia
So Many Steps to Death
At Bertram's Hotel
There is a Tide
The Mysterious Mr. Quin
The Big Four
^Available in hardcover and paperback
TO
DEAR PETER,
MOST FAITHFUL OF FRIENDS
AND DEAREST OF COMPANIONS, A DOG IN A
THOUSAND
Contents
the mistress OF littlegreen
house l
the relations 19
the accident 31
Miss arundell writes
A letter 45
hercule poirot receives
A letter 51
we go TO littlegreen
house 63
lunch AT the george 78
interior OF littlegreen
house 88
reconstruction OF THE
dog's ball incident 118
visit to Miss peabody 133
visit TO THE misses
tripp 151
poirot discusses THE
case 164
XIII theresa arundell 175
XIV charles arundell 189
XV Miss lawson 204
XVI mrs. tanios 228
XVII dr. tanios 238
XVIII "A nigger IN THE
woodpile" 248
XIX visit to mr. purvis 261
XX second visit to
littlegreen
house 278
XXI the chemist. the nurse.
the doctor 293
XXII the woman ON THE
stairs 311
XXIII dr. tanios calls on Us 334
XXIV theresa's denial 347
XXV I lie back and reflect 359
XXVI mrs. tanios refuses to
speak 371
XXVII visit of dr. donaldson 387
XXVIII another victim 394
XXIX inquest at littlegreen
house 403
XXX the last word 427
The Mistress of Littlegreen
House
Miss arundell died on May 1st. Though
her illness was short her death did not occasion
much surprise in the little country
town of Market Basing, where she had lived
since she was a girl of sixteen. For Emily
Arundell was well over seventy, the last of
a family of five, and she had been known to
be in delicate health for many years and had
indeed nearly died of a similar attack to the
one that killed her some eighteen months
before.
But though Miss ArundelFs death surprised
no one, something else did. The provisions
of her will gave rise to varying
emotions, astonishment, pleasurable excitement, deep condemnation, fury, despair, anger
and general gossip. For weeks and even
months Market Basing was to talk of nothing
Miss Arundell was saying:
"Now then, Minnie, where have you put
them all?"
"Well, I thought--I hope I've done
right--Dr. and Mrs. Tanios in the Oak
room and Theresa in the Blue room and Mr.
Charles in the Old Nursery--"
Miss Arundell interrupted:
"Theresa can have the Old Nursery and
Charles will have the Blue room."
"Oh, yes--I'm sorry--I thought the Old
Nursery being rather more inconvenient--"
"It will do very nicely for Theresa."
In Miss Arundell's day, women took second
place. Men were the important members
of society.
"I'm so sorry the dear little children aren't
coming," murmured Miss Lawson sentimentally.

She loved children and was quite incapable
of managing them.
"Four visitors will be quite enough," said
Miss Arundell. "In any case, Bella spoils her
children abominably. They never dream of
doing what they are told."
Minnie Lawson murmured:
"Mrs. Tanios is a very devoted mother."
Miss Arundell said with grave approval:
"Bella is a good woman."
Miss Lawson sighed and said:
"It must be very hard for her sometimes
--living in an outlandish place like Smyrna."
Emily Arundell replied:
"She has made her bed and she must lie
on it."
And having uttered this final Victorian
pronouncement she went on:
"I am going to the village now to speak
about the orders for the weekend."
"Oh, Miss Arundell, do let me. I mean--"
"Nonsense. I prefer to go myself. Rogers
needs a sharp word. The trouble with you
is, Minnie, that you're not emphatic enough.
Bob! Bob! Where is the dog?"
A wire-haired terrier came tearing down
the stairs. He circled round and round his
mistress, uttering short staccato barks of delight
and expectation.
Together mistress and dog passed out of
the front door and down the short path to
the gate.
Miss Lawson stood in the doorway smiling rather foolishly after them, her mouth a little
open. Behind her a voice said tartly:
"Them pillowcases you gave me, miss,
isn't a pair."
"What? How stupid of me. -. . ."
Minnie Lawson plunged once more into
household routine.
Emily Arundell, attended by Bob, made
a royal progress down the main street of Market
Basing.
It was very much of a royal progress. In
each shop she entered the proprietor always
hurried forward to attend to her.
She was Miss Arundell of Littlegreen
House. She was "one of our oldest customers." She was "one of the old school. Not
many about like her nowadays."
"Good-morning, miss. What can I have
the pleasure of doing for you-- Not tender?
Well, I'm sorry to hear that. I thought myself
it was as nice a little saddle-- Yes, of course, Miss Arundell. If you say so, it is so-- No, indeed, I wouldn't think of sending Canterbury
to you, Miss Arundell-- Yes, I'll see
to it myself. Miss Arundell."
Bob and Spot, the butcher's dog, circled
slowly round each other, hackles raised, growling gently. Spot was a stout dog of nondescript
breed. He knew that he must not
fight with customers' dogs, but he permitted
himself to tell them, by subtle indication, just exactly what mincemeat he would make
of them were he free to do so.
Bob, a dog of spirit, replied in kind.
Emily Arundell said "Bob!" sharply and
passed on.
In the greengrocer's there was a meeting
of heavenly bodies. Another old lady, spherical
in outline, but equally distinguished by
that air of royalty, said:
"Mornin5, Emily."
"Good-morning, Caroline."
Caroline Peabody said:
"Expecting any of your young people
down?"
"Yes, all of them. Theresa, Charles and
Bella."
"So Bella's home, is she? Husband too?"
"Yes."
It was a simple monosyllable, but underlying
it was knowledge common to both ladies.

For Bella Biggs, Emily Arundell5 s niece, had married a Greek. And Emily ArundelPs
people, who were what is known as "all service
people," simply did not marry Greeks.
By way of being obscurely comforting
(for, of course, such a matter could not be
referred to openly) Miss Peabody said:
"Bella's husband's got brains. And charming
manners!"
"His manners are delightful," agreed Miss
Arundell.
Moving out into the street Miss Peabody
asked:
"What's this about Theresa being engaged
to young Donaldson?"
Miss Arundell shrugged her shoulders.
"Young people are so casual nowadays.
I'm afraid it will have to be a rather long
engagement--that is, if anything comes of
it. He has no money."
"Of course Theresa has her own money,"
said Miss Peabody.
Miss Arundell said stiffly:
"A man could not possibly wish to live on
his wife's money."
Miss Peabody gave a rich, throaty chuckle.

"They don't seem to mind doing it, nowadays.
You and I are out of date, Emily.
What I can't understand is what the child sees in him. Of all the namby-pamby young
men!"
"He's a clever doctor, I believe."
"Those pince-nez--and that stiff way of
talking! In my young days we'd have called
him a poor stick!"
There was a pause while Miss Peabody's
memory, diving into the past, conjured up
visions of dashing, bewhiskered young
men. . . .
She said with a sigh:
"Send that young dog Charles along to see
me--if he'll come."
"Of course. I'll tell him."
The two ladies parted.
They had known each other for considerably
over fifty years. Miss Peabody knew
of certain regrettable lapses in the life of General
Arundell, Emily's father. She knew just
precisely what a shock Thomas ArundelFs
marriage had been to his sisters. She had a
very shrewd idea of certain troubles connected
with the younger generation.
But no word had ever passed between the
two ladies on any of these subjects. They
were both upholders of family dignity, family
solidarity, and complete reticence on family
matters.
Miss Arundell walked home. Bob trotting
sedately at her heels. To herself, Emily
Arundell admitted what she would never
have admitted to another human being, her
dissatisfaction with the younger generation
of her family.
Theresa, for instance. She had no control
over Theresa since the latter had come into
her own money at the age of twenty-one.
Since then the girl had achieved a certain
lotoriety. Her picture was often in the papers. She belonged to a young, bright, goahead
set in London--a set that had freak
parties and occasionally ended up in the police
courts. It was not the kind of notoriety
that Emily Arundell approved of for an
Arundell. In fact, she disapproved very
much of Theresa's way of living. As regards
the girl's engagement, her feelings were
slightly confused. On the one hand she did
not consider an upstart Dr. Donaldson good
enough for an Arundell. On the other she
was uneasily conscious that Theresa was a
most unsuitable wife for a quiet country doctor.

With a sigh her thoughts passed on to
Bella. There was no fault to find with Bella.
She was a good woman--a devoted wife and
mother, quite exemplary in behavior--and
extremely dull! But even Bella could not be
regarded with complete approval. For Bella
had married a foreigner--and not only a
foreigner--but a Greek. In Miss Arundell5 s
prejudiced mind a Greek was almost as bad
as an Argentine or a Turk. The fact that Dr.
Tanios had a charming manner and was said
to be extremely able in his profession only
prejudiced the old lady slightly more against
him. She distrusted charm and easy compliments.
For this reason, too, she found it
difficult to be fond of the two children. They
had both taken after their father in looks--
there was really nothing English about them.
And then Charles. . . .
Yes, Charles. . . .
It was no use blinding one's eyes to facts.
Charles, charming though he was, was not
to be trusted. . . .
Emily Arundell sighed. She felt suddenly
tired, old, depressed. . . .
She supposed that she couldn't last much
longer. . . .
Her mind reverted to the will she had
made some years ago.
Legacies to the servants--to charities--
and the main bulk of her considerable fortune
to be divided equally between these, her three surviving relations. . . .
It still seemed to her that she had done
the right and equitable thing. It just crossed
her mind to wonder whether there might not
be some way of securing Bella's share of the
money so that her husband could not touch
it. ... She must ask Mr. Pur vis.
She turned in at the gate of Littlegreen
House.
Charles and Theresa Arundell arrived by
car--the Tanioses by train.
The brother and sister arrived first.
Charles, tall and good-looking with his
slightly mocking manner, said:
"Hallo, Aunt Emily, how's the girl? You
look fine."
And he kissed her.
Theresa put an indifferent young cheek
against her withered one.
"How are you. Aunt Emily?"
Theresa, her aunt thought, was looking
far from well. Her face, beneath its plentiful
make-up, was slightly haggard and there
were lines round her eyes.
They had tea in the drawing-room. Bella
Tanios, her hair inclined to straggle in wisps
from below the fashionable hat that she wore
at the wrong angle, stared at her cousin
Theresa with a pathetic eagerness to assimilate
and memorize her clothes. It was poor
Bella's fate in life to be passionately fond of
clothes without having any clothes sense.
Theresa's clothes were expensive, slightly bizarre, and she herself had an exquisite figure.

Bella, when she arrived in England from
Smyrna, had tried earnestly to copy Theresa's
elegance at an inferior price and cut.
Dr. Tanios, who was a big, bearded, jollylooking
man, was talking to Miss Arundell.
His voice was warm and full--an attractive
voice that charmed a listener almost against
his or her will. Almost in spite of herself, it
charmed Miss Arundell.
Miss Lawson was fidgeting a good deal.
She jumped up and down, handing plates, fussing over the tea table. Charles, whose
manners were excellent, rose more than once
to help her, but she expressed no gratitude.
When, after tea, the party went out to
make a tour of the garden Charles murmured
to his sister:
"Lawson doesn't like me. Odd, isn't it?"
Theresa said mockingly:
"Very odd. So there is one person who can
withstand your fatal fascination?"
Charles grinned--an engaging grin--and
said:
"Lucky it's only Lawson. ..."
In the garden Miss Lawson walked with
Mrs. Tanios and asked her questions about
the children. Bella Tanios's rather drab face
lighted up. She forgot to watch Theresa. She
talked eagerly and animatedly. Mary had
said such a quaint thing on the boat. . . .
She found Minnie Lawson a most sympathetic
listener.
Presently a fair-haired young man with a
solemn face and pince-nez was shown into
the garden from the house. He looked rather
embarrassed. Miss Arundell greeted him politely.

Theresa said:
"Hallo, Rex!"
She slipped an arm through his. They
wandered away.
Charles made a face. He slipped away to
have a word with the gardener, an ally of his
from old days.
When Miss Arundell re-entered the house
Charles was playing with Bob. The dog stood
at the top of the stairs, his ball in his mouth, his tail gently wagging.
"Come on, old man," said Charles.
Bob sank down on his haunches, nosed
his ball slowly and slowly nearer the edge.
As he finally bunted it over he sprang to his
feet in great excitement. The ball bumped
slowly down the stairs. Charles caught it and
tossed it up to him. Bob caught it neatly in
his mouth. The performance was repeated.
"Regular game of his, this," said Charles.
Emily Arundell smiled.
"He'll go on for hours," she said.
She turned into the drawing-room and
Charles followed her. Bob gave a disappointed
bark.
"T'
Glancing through the window, Charles
said:
"Look at Theresa and her young man.
They are an odd couple!"
"You think Theresa is really serious over
this?"
"Oh, she's crazy about him!" said Charles
with confidence. "Odd taste, but there it is.
I think it must be the way he looks at her, as though she were a scientific specimen and
not a live woman. That's rather a novelty for
Theresa. Pity the fellow's so poor. Theresa's
got expensive tastes."
Miss Arundell said drily:
"I've no doubt she can change her way of
living--if she wants to! And after all she has
her own income."
"Eh? Oh, yes, yes, of course."
Charles shot an almost guilty look at her.
That evening, as the others were assembled
in the drawing-room waiting to go in
to dinner, there was a scurry and a burst of
profanity on the stairs. Charles entered with
his face rather red.
"Sorry, Aunt Emily, am I late? That dog
of yours nearly made me take the most
frightful toss. He'd left that ball of his on
the top of the stairs."
"Careless little doggie," cried Miss Lawson,
bending down to Bob.
Bob looked at her contemptuously and
turned his head away.
"I know," said Miss Arundell. "It's most
dangerous. Minnie, fetch the ball and put it
away."
Miss Lawson hurried out.
Dr. Tanios monopolized the conversation
at the dinner table most of the time. He told
amusing stories of his life in Smyrna.
The party went to bed early. Miss Lawson
carrying wool, spectacles, a large velvet bag
and a book accompanied her employer to her
bedroom chattering happily.
"Really most amusing. Dr. Tanios. He is
such good company! Not that I should quite
care for that kind of life myself. . . . One
would have to boil the water, I expect. . . .
And goat's milk, perhaps--such a disagreeable
taste--"
Miss Arundell snapped:
"Don't be a fool, Minnie. You told Ellen
to call me at half-past six?"
"Oh, yes. Miss Arundell. I said no tea, but don't you think it might be wiser-- You
know, the vicar at Southbridge--a most conscientious
man, told me distinctly that there
was no obligation to come fasting--"
K Once more Miss Arundell cut her short.
"I've never yet taken anything before
Early Service and I'm not going to begin
now. You can do as you like."
"Oh, no--I didn't mean--I'm sure--"
Miss Lawson was flustered and upset. "Take Bob's collar off," said Miss Arundell.
The
slave hastened to obey.
Still trying to please, she said:
"Such a pleasant evening. They all seem
so pleased to be here."
"Hmph," said Emily Arundell. "All here
for what they can get."
"Oh, dear Miss Arundell--"
"My good Minnie, I'm not a fool, whatever
else I am! I just wonder which of them
will open the subject first."
She was not long left in doubt on that
point. She and Miss Lawson returned from
attending Early Service just after nine. Dr.
and Mrs. Tanios were in the dining-room, but there were no signs of the two Arundells.
After breakfast, when the others had
left. Miss Arundell sat on, entering up some
accounts in a little book.
Charles entered the room about ten. "Sorry I'm late. Aunt Emily. But Theresa's worse. She's not unclosed an eyelid
yet."
"At half-past ten breakfast will be cleared
away," said Miss Arundell. "I know it is the
fashion not to consider servants nowadays, but that is not the case in my house."
"Good. That's the true diehard spirit!"
Charles helped himself to kidneys and sat
down beside her.
His grin, as always, was very attractive.
Emily Arundell soon found herself smiling
indulgently at him. Emboldened by this sign
of favour, Charles plunged.
"Look here. Aunt Emily, sorry to bother
you, but I'm in the devil of a hole. Can you
possibly help me out? A hundred would do
it."
His aunt's face was not encouraging. A
certain grimness showed itself in her expression.

Emily Arundell was not afraid of speaking
her mind. She spoke it.
Miss Lawson bustling across the hall almost
collided with Charles as he left the dining-room.
She glanced at him curiously. She
entered the dining-room to find Miss Arundell
sitting very upright with a flushed face.
II
The Relations
charles ran lightly up the stairs and tapped
on his sister's door. Her answering "Come
in" came promptly and he entered.
Theresa was sitting up in bed yawning.
Charles took a seat on the bed.
"What a decorative female you are, Theresa,"
he remarked appreciatively.
Theresa said sharply:
"What's the matter?"
Charles grinned.
"Sharp, aren't you? Well, I stole a march
on you, my girl! Thought I'd make my touch
before you got to work."
"Well?"
Charles spread his hands downwards in
negation.
"Nothing doing! Aunt Emily ticked me
off good and proper. She intimated that she
was under no illusions as to why her affectionate
family had gathered round her! And
she also intimated that the said affectionate
family would be disappointed. Nothing
being handed out but affection—and not so
much of that."
"You might have waited a bit," said Theresa
drily.
Charles grinned again.
"I was afraid you or Tanios might get in
ahead of me. I'm sadly afraid, Theresa my
sweet, that there'll be nothing doing this
time. Old Emily is by no means a fool."
"I never thought she was."
"I even tried to put the wind up her."
"What d'you mean?" asked his sister
sharply.
"Told her she was going about it the right
way to get bumped off. After all, she can't
take the dibs to heaven with her. Why not
loosen up a bit?"
"Charles, you are a fool!"
"No, I'm not. I'm a bit of a psychologist
in my way. It's never a bit of good sucking
up to the old girl. She much prefers you to
stand up to her. And after all, I was only
talking sense. We get the money when she
dies—she might just as well part with a little
beforehand! Otherwise the temptation to
help her out of the way might become over- *
whelming." |
"Did she see your point?" asked Theresa 5
her delicate mouth curling up scornfully.
"I'm not sure. She didn't admit it. Just
thanked me rather nastily for my advice and
said she was perfectly capable of taking care
of herself. 'Well,' I said, 'I've warned you.' 'I'll remember it,' she said."
Theresa said angrily:
"Really, Charles, you are an utter fool."
"Damn it all, Theresa, I was a bit ratty
myself! The old girl's rolling--simply rolling.
I bet she doesn't spend a tenth part of
her income--what has she got to spend it
on, anyway? And here we are--young, able
to enjoy life--and to spite us she's capable
of living to a hundred. ... I want my fun
now. ... So do you. . . ."
Theresa nodded.
She said in a low, breathless voice:
"They don't understand--old people
don't . . . they can't. . . . They don't know
what it is to live!"
Brother and sister were silent for some
minutes.
Charles got up.
"Well, my love, I wish you better success
than I've had. But I rather doubt it."
Theresa said:
"I'm rather counting on Rex to do the
trick. If I can make old Emily realize how
brilliant he is, and how it matters terrifically
that he should have his chance and not have
to sink into a rut as a general practitioner
. . . Oh, Charles, a few thousands of capital
just at this minute would make all the difference
in the world to our lives!"
"Hope you get it, but I don't think you
will. You've got through a bit too much capital
in riotous living in your time. I say, Theresa, you don't think the dreary Bella or
the dubious Tanios will get anything, do
you?"
"I don't see that money would be any good
to Bella. She goes about looking like a rag
bag and her tastes are purely domestic."
"Oh, well," said Charles vaguely. "I expect
she wants things for those unprepossessing
children of hers, schools, and plates
for their front teeth and music lessons. And
anyway it isn't Bella--it's Tanios. I bet he's got a nose for money all right! Trust a Greek
for that. You know he's got through most
of Bella's? Speculated with it and lost it all."
"Do you think he'll get something out of
old Emily?"
"He won't if I can prevent him," said
Charles grimly.
He left the room and wandered downstairs. Bob was in the hall. He fussed up to
Charles agreeably. Dogs liked Charles.
He ran towards the drawing-room door
and looked back at Charles.
"What's the matter?" said Charles, strolling
after him.
Bob hurried into the drawing-room and
sat down expectantly by a small bureau.
Charles strolled over to him.
"What's it all about?"
Bob wagged his tail, looked hard at the
drawers of the bureau and uttered an appealing
squeak.
"Want something that's in here?"
Charles pulled open the top drawer. His
eyebrows rose.
"Dear, dear," he said.
At one side of the drawer was a little pile
of treasury notes.
Charles picked up the bundle and counted
them. With a grin he removed three one
pound notes and two ten shilling ones and
put them in his pocket. He replaced the rest
of the notes carefully in the drawer where
he had found them.
"That was a good idea. Bob," he said.
"Your uncle Charles will be able at any rate
to cover expenses. A little ready cash always
comes in handy."
Bob uttered a faint reproachful bark as
Charles shut the drawer.
"Sorry, old man," Charles apologized. He
opened the next drawer. Bob's ball was in
the corner of it. He took it out.
"Here you are. Enjoy yourself with it."
Bob caught the ball, trotted out of the
room and presently bump, bump, bump, was heard down the stairs.
Charles strolled out into the garden. It was
a fine sunny morning with a scent of lilac.
Miss Arundell had Dr. Tanios by her side.
He was speaking of the advantage of an English
education--a good education--for
children and how deeply he regretted that
he could not afford such a luxury for his own
children.
Charles smiled with satisfied malice. He
joined in the conversation in a lighthearted
manner, turning it adroitly into entirely different
channels.
Emily Arundell smiled at him quite ami
ably. He even fancied that she was amused
by his tactics and was subtly encouraging them.
Charles's spirits rose. Perhaps, after all
before he left--
Charles was an incurable optimist.
Dr. Donaldson called for Theresa in his
car that afternoon and drove her to Worthem
Abbey, one of the local beauty spots. They
wandered away from the Abbey itself into
the woods.
There Rex Donaldson told Theresa at
length about his theories and some of his
recent experiments. She understood very little, but listened in a spellbound manner, thinking to herself:
"How clever Rex is--and how absolutely
adorable!"
Her fiance paused once and said rather
doubtfully:
"I'm afraid this is dull stuff for you, The
resa."
"Darling,
it's too thrilling," said Theresa
firmly. "Go on. You take some of the blood
of the infected rabbit--"
Dr. Donaldson went on.
Presently Theresa said with a sigh:
"Your work means a terrible lot to you,
my sweet."
"Naturally," said Dr. Donaldson.
It did not seem at all natural to Theresa.
Very few of her friends did any work at all,
and if they did they made extremely heavy
weather about it.
She thought, as she had thought once or
twice before, how singularly unsuitable it
was that she should have fallen in love with
Rex Donaldson. Why did these things, these
ludicrous and amazing madnesses, happen
to one? A profitless question. This had happened
to her.
She frowned, wondering at herself. Her
crowd had been so gay--so cynical. Love
affairs were necessary to life of course, but
why take them seriously? One loved and
passed on.
But this feeling of hers for Rex Donaldson
was different; it went deeper. She felt instinctively
that here there would be no passing
on. ... Her need of him was simple and
profound. Everything about him fascinated
her. His calmness and detachment so different
from her own hectic, grasping life, the
clear, logical coldness of his scientific mind, and something else, imperfectly understood, a secret force in the man masked by his unassuming
slightly pedantic manner, but
which she nevertheless felt and sensed instinctively.

In Rex Donaldson there was genius--and
the fact that his profession was the main
preoccupation of his life and that she was
only a part--though a necessary part--of
existence to him only heightened his attraction
for her. She found herself for the first
time in her selfish pleasure-loving life content
to take second place. The prospect fascinated
her. For Rex she would do anything
--anything!
"What a damned nuisance money is," she
said petulantly. "If only Aunt Emily were
to die we could get married at once, and you
could come to London and have a laboratory
full of test tubes and guinea pigs, and never
bother any more about children with mumps
and old ladies with livers."
Donaldson said:
"There's no reason why your aunt
shouldn't live for many years to come--if
she's careful."
Theresa said despondently:
"I know that. ..."
In the big double-bedded room with the oldfashioned
oak furniture. Dr. Tanios said to
his wife:
"I think that I have prepared the ground
sufficiently. It is now your turn, my dear."
He was pouring water from the old-fashioned
copper can into the rose-patterned
china basin.
Bella Tanios sat in front of the dressingtable
wondering why, when she combed her
hair as Theresa did, it should not look like
Theresa's!
There was a moment before she replied.
Then she said:
"I don't think I want--to ask Aunt Emily
for money."
"It's not for yourself, Bella; it's for the
sake of the children. Our investments have
been so unlucky."
His back was turned; he did not see the
swift glance she gave him--a furtive, shrinking
glance.
She said with mild obstinacy:
"All the same, I think I'd rather not. . . .
Aunt Emily is rather difficult. She can be
generous, but she doesn't like being asked."
Drying his hands, Tanios came across
from the washstand.
"Really, Bella, it isn't like you to be so
obstinate. After all, what have we come
down here for?"
She murmured:
"I didn't--I never meant--it wasn't to
ask for money. ..."
"Yet you agreed that the only hope if we
are to educate the children properly is for
your aunt to come to the rescue."
Bella Tanios did not answer. She moved
uneasily.
But her face bore the mild, mulish look
that many clever husbands of stupid wives
know to their cost.
She said:
"Perhaps Aunt Emily herself may sug-
55
gest—
"It is possible, but I've seen no signs of
it so far."
Bella said:
"If we could have brought the children
with us. Aunt Emily couldn't have helped
loving Mary. And Edward is so intelligent."
Tanios said drily:
"I don't think your aunt is a great child
lover. It is probably just as well the children
aren't here."
"Oh, Jacob, but—"
"Yes, yes, my dear. I know your feelings.
But these desiccated English spinsters—
bah, they are not human. We want to do the
best we can, do we not, for our Mary and
our John? To help us a little would involve
no hardship to Miss Arundell."
Mrs. Tanios turned; there was a flush in
her cheeks.
"Oh, please, please, Jacob, not this time.
I'm sure it would be unwise. I would so very
very much rather not."
Tanios stood close behind her, his arm
encircling her shoulders. She trembled a little
and then was still--almost rigid.
He said and his voice was still pleasant:
"All the same, Bella, I think--I think you
will do what I ask. . . . You usually do, you
know--in the end. . . . Yes, I think you will
do what I say. ..."
Ill
The Accident
it was Tuesday afternoon. The side door to
the garden was open. Miss Arundell stood
on the threshold and threw Bob's ball the
length of the garden path. The terrier rushed
after it.
"Just one more. Bob," said Emily Arundell.
"A good one."
Once again the ball sped along the ground, with Bob racing at full speed in pursuit.
Miss Arundell stooped down, picked up
-the ball from where Bob laid it at her feet jand went into the house. Bob following her
closely. She shut the side door, went into
-the drawing-room. Bob still at her heels, and put the ball away in a drawer. J She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.
It was half-past six. . "A little rest before dinner, I think. Bob."
She ascended the stairs to her bedroom.
Bob accompanied her. Lying on the big
chintz-covered couch with Bob at her feet, Miss Arundell sighed. She was glad that it
was Tuesday and that her guests would be
going to-morrow. It was not that this weekend
had disclosed anything to her that she
had not known before. It was more the fact
that it had not permitted her to forget her
own knowledge.
She said to herself:
"I'm getting old, I suppose. ..." And
then, with a little shock of surprise: "I am
old. . . ."
She lay with her eyes closed for half an
hour, then the elderly house-parlour-maid, Ellen, brought hot water and she rose and
prepared for dinner.
Dr. Donaldson was to dine with them that
night. Emily Arundell wished to have an opportunity
of studying him at close quarters.
It still seemed to her a little incredible that
the exotic Theresa should want to marry this
rather stiff and pedantic young man. It also
seemed a little odd that this stiff and pedantic
young man should want to marry Theresa.
She did not feel as the evening progressed
that she was getting to know Dr. Donaldson
any better. He was very polite, very formal
and, to her mind, intensely boring. In her
own mind she agreed with Miss Peabody's
judgment. The thought flashed across her
brain, "Better stuff in our young days."
Dr. Donaldson did not stay late. He rose
to go at ten o'clock. After he had taken his
departure Emily Arundell herself announced
that she was going to bed. She went upstairs
and her young relations went up also. They
all seemed somewhat subdued to-night. Miss
Lawson remained downstairs performing
her final duties, letting Bob out for his run, poking down the fire, putting the guard up
and rolling back the hearthrug in case of fire.
She arrived rather breathless in her employer's
room about five minutes later.
"I think I've got everything," she said, putting down wool, work bag, and a library
book. "I do hope the book will be all right.
She hadn't got any of the ones on your list, but she said she was sure you'd like this
one."
"That girl's a fool," said Emily Arundell.
"Her taste in books is the worst I've ever
come across."
"Oh, dear. I'm so sorry. Perhaps I
ought--"
"Nonsense, it's not your fault," Emily
Arundell added kindly. "I hope you enjoyed
yourself this afternoon."
Miss Lawson's face lighted up. She looked
eager and almost youthful.
"Oh, yes, thank you very much. So kind
of you to spare me. I had the most interesting
time. We had the planchette and really—it
wrote the most interesting things. There were
several messages. . . . Of course if snot quite
the same thing as the sittings. . . . Julia
Tripp has been having a lot of success with
the automatic writing. Several messages
from Those who have Passed Over. It—it
really makes one feel so grateful—that such
things should be permitted. ..."
Miss Arundell said with a slight smile:
"Better not let the vicar hear you."
"Oh, but indeed, dear Miss Arundell, I
am convinced—quite convinced—there can
be nothing wrong about it. I only wish dear
Mr. Lonsdale would examine the subject. It
seems to me so narrow-minded to condemn
a thing that you have not even investigated.
Both Julia and Isabel Tripp are such truly
spiritual women.''
"Almost too spiritual to be alive," said
Miss Arundell.
She did not care much for Julia and Isabel
Tripp. She thought their clothes ridiculous,
their vegetarian and uncooked fruit meals
absurd, and their manner affected. They
were women of no traditions, no roots--in
fact--no breeding! But she got a certain
amount of amusement out of their earnestness
and she was at bottom kindhearted
enough not to grudge the pleasure that their
friendship obviously gave to poor Minnie.
Poor Minnie! Emily Arundell looked at
her companion with mingled affection and
contempt. She had had so many of these
foolish, middle-aged women to minister to
her--all much the same, kind, fussy, subservient
and almost entirely mindless.
Really poor Minnie was looking quite excited
to-night. Her eyes were shining. She
fussed about the room, vaguely touching
things here and there without the least idea
of what she was doing, her eyes all bright
and shining.
She stammered out rather nervously:
"I--I do wish you'd been there. ... I
feel, you know, that you're not quite a believer
yet. But to-night there was a message
--for E. A., the initials came quite definitely.
It was from a man who had passed over many
years ago--a very good-looking military
man--Isabel saw him quite distinctly. It
must have been dear General Arundell. Such
a beautiful message, so full of love and comfort, and how through patience all could be
attained."
"Those sentiments sound very unlike
Papa," said Miss Arundell.
"Oh, but our Dear Ones change so--on
the other side. Everything is love and understanding.
And then the planchette spelt
out something about a key--I think it was
the key of the Boule cabinet--could that be
it?"
"The key of the Boule cabinet?" Emily
Arundell's voice sounded sharp and interested.

"I think that was it. I thought perhaps it
might be important papers--something of
the kind. There was a well-authenticated
case where a message came to look in a certain
piece of furniture and actually a will was
discovered there."
"There wasn't a will in the Boule cabinet,"
said Miss Arundell. She added
abruptly: "Go to bed, Minnie. You're tired.
So am I. We'll ask the Tripps in for an evening
soon."
"Oh, that will be nice! Good-night, dear.
Sure you've got everything? I hope you
haven't been tired with so many people here.
I must tell Ellen to air the drawing-room very
well to-morrow, and shake out the curtains
^-all this smoking leaves such a smell. I must
say I think it's very good of you to let them
all smoke in the drawing-room!"
"I must make some concessions to modernity,"
said Emily Arundell. "Goodnight, Minnie."
As the other woman left the room, Emily
Arundell wondered if this spiritualistic business
was really good for Minnie. Her eyes
had been popping out of her head, and she
had looked so restless and excited.
Odd about the Boule cabinet, thought
Emily Arundell as she got into bed. She
smiled grimly as she remembered the scene
of long ago. The key that had come to light
after Papa's death, and the cascade of empty
brandy bottles that had tumbled out when
the cabinet had been unlocked! It was little
things like that, things that surely neither
Minnie Lawson nor Isabel and Julia Tripp
could possibly know, which made one wonder
whether, after all, there wasn't something
in this spiritualistic business. . . .
She felt wakeful lying on her big fourposter
bed. Nowadays she found it increas"igly
difficult to sleep. But she scorned Dr. Grainger's tentative suggestion of a sleeping
draught. Sleeping draughts were for weaklings, for people who couldn't bear a finger ache, or a little toothache, or the tedium of
a sleepless night.
Often she would get up and wander noiselessly
round the house, picking up a book, fingering an ornament, rearranging a vase
of flowers, writing a letter or two. In those
midnight hours she had a feeling of the
equal liveliness of the house through which
she wandered. They were not disagreeable,
those nocturnal wanderings. It was as though
ghosts walked beside her, the ghosts of her
sisters, Arabella, Matilda and Agnes, the
ghost of her brother Thomas, the dear fellow, as he was before That Woman got ahold
of him! Even the ghost of General John Laverton
Arundell, that domestic tyrant with the
charming manners who shouted and bullied
his daughters but who nevertheless was an
object of pride to them with his experiences
in the Indian Mutiny and his knowledge of
the world. What if there were days when he
was "not quite so well" as his daughters put
it evasively?
Her mind reverting to her niece's fiance,
Miss Arundell thought, "I don't suppose he'll ever take to drink! Calls himself a man and drank barley water this evening! Barley
water! And I opened Papa's special port."
Charles had done justice to the port all |
right. Oh! if only Charles were to be trusted.
If only one didn't know that with him--
Her thoughts broke off. . . . Her mind
ranged over the events of the week-end. . . .
Everything seemed vaguely disquieting.
. . .
She tried to put worrying thoughts out of
her mind.
It was no good.
She raised herself on her elbow, and by
the light of the night-light that always
burned in a little saucer she looked at the
time.
One o'clock and she had never felt less
like sleep.
She got out of bed and put on her slippers
and her warm dressing-gown. She would go
downstairs and just check over the weekly
books ready for the paying of them the following
morning.
Like a shadow she slipped from her room
and along the corridor, where one small electric
bulb was allowed to burn all night.
She came to the head of the stairs,
stretched out one hand to the baluster rail
and then, unaccountably, she stumbled, tried to recover her balance, failed and went
headlong down the stairs.
The sound of her fall, the cry she gave, stirred the sleeping house to wakefulness.
Doors opened, lights flashed on.
Miss Lawson popped out of her room at
the head of the staircase.
Uttering little cries of distress, she pattered
down the stairs. One by one the others
arrived--Charles, yawning, in a resplendent
dressing gown. Theresa, wrapped in dark
silk. Bella in a navy-blue kimono, her hair
bristling with combs to "set the wave."
Dazed and confused, Emily Arundell lay
in a crushed heap. Her shoulder hurt her
and her ankle--her whole body was a confused
mass of pain. She was conscious of
people standing over her, of that fool Min- me Lawson crying and making ineffectual
gestures with her hands, of Theresa with a
startled look in her dark eyes, of Bella standing
with her mouth open looking expectant,
of the voice of Charles saying from
somewhere--very far away so it seemed:
"It's that damned dog's ball! He must
have left it here and she tripped over it. See?
Here it is!"
And then she was conscious of authority,
putting the others aside, kneeling beside her, touching her with hands that did not fumble
but knew.
A feeling of relief swept over her. It would
be all right now.
Dr. Tanios was saying in firm, reassuring
tones:
"No, it's all right. No bones broken. . . .
Just badly shaken and bruised--and of
course she's had a bad shock. But she's been
very lucky that it's no worse."
Then he had cleared the others off a little
and picked her up quite easily and carried
her up to her bedroom, where he had held
her wrist for a minute, counting, then nodded his head, sent Minnie (who was still
crying and being generally a nuisance) out
of the room to fetch brandy and to heat water
for a hot bottle.
Confused, shaken, and racked with pain,
she felt acutely grateful to Jacob Tanios in
that moment. The relief of feeling oneself in
capable hands. He gave you just that feeling
of assurance--of confidence--that a doctor
ought to give.
There was something--something she
couldn't quite get hold of--something vaguely
disquieting--but she wouldn't think of it
now. She would drink this and go to sleep
as they told her.
But surely there was something missing ---some one.
Oh, well, she wouldn't think. . . . Her
shoulder hurt her. She drank down what she
was given.
She heard Dr. Tanios say--and in what a
comfortable assured voice: "She'll be all
right, now."
She closed her eyes.
She awoke to a sound that she knew--a soft, muffled bark.
She was wide awake in a minuie.
Bob--naughty Bob! He was barking outside
the front door--his own particular "out
all night very ashamed of myself bark, pitched in a subdued key but repeated hopefully.

Miss Arundell strained her ears. Ah, yes, that was all right. She could hear Minnie
going down to let him in. She heard the creak
of the opening front door, a confused low
murmur--Minnie's futile reproaches--
"Oh, you naughty little doggie--a very
naughty little Bobsie--" She heard the pantry
door open. Bob's bed was under the pantry
table.
And at that moment Emily realized what
it was she had subconsciously missed at the moment of her accident. It was Bob! All that
commotion--her fall, people running--nor-
mally Bob would have responded by a crescendo
of barking from inside the pantry.
So that was what had been worrying her
at the back of her mind. But it was explained
now--Bob, when he had been let out last
night, had shamelessly and deliberately gone
off on pleasure bent. From time to time he
had these lapses from virtue--though his
apologies afterwards were always all that
could be desired.
So that was all right. But was it? What
else was there worrying her, nagging at the
back of her head. Her accident--something
to do with her accident.
Ah, yes, somebody had said--Charles--
that she had slipped on Bob's ball which he
had left on the top of the stairs. . . .
The ball had been there--he had held it
up in his hand. . . .
Emily ArundelFs head ached. Her shoulder
throbbed. Her bruised body suffered.
. . .
But in the midst of her suffering her mind
was clear and lucid. She was no longer confused
by shock. Her memory was perfectly
clear.
She went over in her mind all the events
from six o'clock yesterday evening. . . . She
retraced every step . . . till she came to the
moment when she arrived at the stairhead
and started to descend the stairs. . . .
A thrill of incredulous horror shot through
her. . . .
Surely—surely, she must be mistaken
.... One often had queer fancies after an
event had happened. She tried—earnestly
she tried—to recall the slippery roundness
of Bob's ball under her foot. . . .
But she could recall nothing of the kind.
Instead—
"Sheer nerves," said Emily Arundell.
"Ridiculous fancies."
But her sensible, shrewd, Victorian mind
would not admit that for a moment. There
was no foolish optimism about the Victorians.
They could believe the worst with the
utmost ease.
Emily Arundell believed the worst.
IV
Miss Arundell Writes a Letter
it was Friday. The relations had left.
They left on the Wednesday as originally
planned. One and all, they had offered to
stay on. One and all they had been steadfastly
refused. Miss Arundell explained that
she preferred to be "quite quiet."
During the two days that had elapsed since
their departure, Emily Arundell had been
alarmingly meditative. Often she did not
hear what Minnie Lawson said to her. She
would stare at her and curtly order her to
begin all over again.
"It's the shock, poor dear," said Miss Lawson.
And
she added with the kind of gloomy
relish in disaster which brightens so many
otherwise drab lives:
"I dare say she'll never be quite herself
again."
Dr. Grainger, on the other hand, rallied
her heartily.
He told her that she'd be downstairs again
by the end of the week, that it was a positive
disgrace she had no bones broken, and what
kind of a patient was she for a struggling
medical man. If all his patients were like her, he might as well take down his shingle
straight away.
Emily Arundell replied with spirit--she
and old Dr. Grainger were allies of long
standing. He bullied and she defied--they
always got a good deal of pleasure out of each
other's company!
But now, after the doctor had stumped
away, the old lady lay with a frown on her
face, thinking--thinking--responding absentmindedly
to Minnie Lawson's wellmeant
fussing--and then suddenly coming
back to consciousness and rending her with
a vitriolic tongue.
"Poor little Bobsie," twittered Miss Lawson,
bending over Bob, who had a rug spread
on the corner of his mistress's bed.
"Wouldn't little Bobsie be unhappy if he
knew what he'd done to his poor, poor Mis- sus?"
Miss Arundell snapped:
"Don't be idiotic, Minnie. And where's
your English sense of justice? Don't you know that every one in this country is accounted
innocent until he or she is proved guilty?"
"Oh, but we do know--"
Emily snapped:
"We don't know anything at all. Do stop
fidgeting, Minnie. Pulling this and pulling
that. Haven't you any idea how to behave in
a sick-room? Go away and send Ellen to me."
Meekly Miss Lawson crept away.
Emily Arundell looked after her with a
slight feeling of self-reproach. Maddening as
Minnie was, she did her best.
Then the frown settled down again on her
face.
She was desperately unhappy. She had all
a vigorous strong-minded old lady's dislike
of inaction in any given situation. But in this
particular situation she could not decide
upon her line of action.
There were moments when she distrusted
her own faculties, her own memory of
events. And there was no one, absolutely no
one, in whom she could confide.
Half an hour later, when Miss Lawson
tiptoed creakingly into the room, carrying a
cup of beef-tea, and then paused irresolute
at the view of her employer lying with closed
eyes, Emily Arundell suddenly spoke two
words with such force and decision that Miss
Lawson nearly dropped the cup.
"Mary Fox," said Miss Arundell.
"A box, dear?" said Miss Lawson. "Did
you say you wanted a box?"
"You're getting deaf, Minnie. I didn't say
anything about a box. I said Mary Fox. The
woman I met at Cheltenham last year. She
was the sister of one of the Canons of Exeter
Cathedral. Give me that cup. You've spilt it
into the saucer. And don't tiptoe when you
come into a room. You don't know how irritating
it is. Now go downstairs and get me
the London telephone book."
"Can I find the number for you, dear? Or
the address?"
"If I'd wanted you to do that I'd have told
you so. Do what I tell you. Bring it here, and put my writing things by the bed."
Miss Lawson obeyed orders.
As she was going out of the room after
having done everything required of her, Emily
Arundell said unexpectedly:
"You're a good, faithful creature, Minnie.
Don't mind my bark. It's a good deal worse
than my bite. You're very patient and good
to me."
Miss Lawson went out of the room with
her face pink and incoherent words burbling
from her lips.
Sitting up in bed. Miss Arundell wrote a
letter. She wrote it slowly and carefully, with
numerous pauses for thought and copious
underlining. She crossed and recrossed the
page--for she had been brought up in a
school that was taught never to waste notepaper.
Finally, with a sigh of satisfaction,
she signed her name and put it into an envelope.
She wrote a name upon the envelope.
Then she took a fresh sheet of paper. This
time she made a rough draft and after having
reread it and made certain alterations and
erasures, she wrote out a fair copy. She read
the whole thing through very carefully, then
satisfied that she had expressed her meaning
she enclosed it in an envelope and addressed
it to William Pur vis, Esq., Messrs. Pur vis, Purvis, Charlesworth and Purvis, Solicitors, Harchester.
She took up the first envelope again, which was addressed to M. Hercule Poirot,
and opened the telephone directory. Having
found the address, she added it. ^ A tap sounded at the door.
Miss Arundell hastily thrust the letter she lad just finished addressing--the letter to
Hercule Poirot--inside the flap of her writing-case.
She
had no intention of rousing Minnie's
curiosity. Minnie was a great deal too inquisitive.

She called "Come in" and lay back on her
pillows with a sigh of relief.
She had taken steps to deal with the situation.

v
Hercule Poirot Receives a Letter
the events which I have just narrated were
not, of course, known to me until a long time
afterwards. But by questioning various
members of the family in detail, I have, I
think, set them down accurately enough.
Poirot and I were only drawn into the
affair when we received Miss ArundelFs letter.

I remember the day well. It was a hot, airless morning towards the end of June.
Poirot had a particular routine when opening
his morning correspondence. He picked
up each letter, scrutinized it carefully and
neatly slit the envelope open with his papercutter.
Its contents were perused and then
placed in one of four piles beyond the chocolate-pot.
(Poirot always drank chocolate for
breakfast--a revolting habit.) All this with a machine-like regularity!
So much was this the case that the least
S1
interruption of the rhythm attracted one's
attention.
I was sitting by the window, looking out
at the passing traffic. I had recently returned
from the Argentine and there was something
particularly exciting to me in being once
more in the roar of London.
Turning my head, I said with a smile:
"Poirot, I--the humble Watson--am going
to hazard a deduction."
"Enchanted, my friend. What is it?"
I struck an attitude and said pompously:
"You have received this morning one letter
of particular interest!"
"You are indeed the Sherlock Holmes!
Yes, you are perfectly right."
I laughed.
"You see, I know your methods, Poirot. If
you read a letter through twice it must mean
that it is of special interest."
"You shall judge for yourself, Hastings."
With a smile my friend tendered me the
letter in question.
I took it with no little interest, but immediately
made a slight grimace. It was written
in one of those old-fashioned spidery
handwritings, and it was, moreover, crossed
on two pages.
"Must I read this, Poirot?" I complained.
C")
I "Ah, no, there is no compulsion. Assuredly
not."
"Can't you tell me what it says?"
"I would prefer you to form your own
judgment. But do not trouble if it bores
you."
"No, no, I want to know what it's all
about," I protested.
My friend remarked drily:
"You can hardly do that. In effect, the
letter says nothing at all."
Taking this as an exaggeration, I plunged
without more ado into the letter.
?
.';
M. Hercule Poirot. Dear Sir,
After much doubt and indecision, I
am writing [the last word was crossed
out and the letter went on] I am emboldened
to write to you in the hope that
you may be able to assist me in a matter
of a strictly private nature. [The words strictly private were underlined three
times.] I may say that your name is not
unknown to me. It was mentioned to me
by a Miss Fox of Exeter, and although
Miss Fox was not herself acquainted
with you, she mentioned that her
brother-in-law's sister (whose name I
cannot, I am sorry to say, recall) had
spoken of your kindness and discretion
in the highest terms [highest terms underlined
once]. I did not inquire, of course, as to the nature [nature underlined] of
the inquiry you had conducted on her
behalf, but I understood from Miss Fox
that it was of a painful and confidential
nature [last four words underlined heavily].

I broke off my difficult task of spelling
out the spidery words.
"Poirot," I said. "Must I go on? Does she
ever get to the point?"
"Continue, my friend. Patience."
"Patience!" I grumbled. "It's exactly as
though a spider had got into an inkpot and
were walking over a sheet of notepaper! I
remember my great-aunt Mary's writing
used to be much the same!"
Once more I plunged into the epistle.
In my present dilemma, it occurs to me
that you might undertake the necessary
investigations on my behalf. The matter
is such, as you will readily understand, as calls for the utmost discretion and I
may, in fact--and I need hardly say ^
how sincerely I hope and pray [pray underlined
twice] that this may be the case
--I may, in fact, be completely mistaken.
One is apt sometimes to attribute
too much significance to facts capable of
a natural explanation.
"I haven't left out a sheet?" I murmured
in some perplexity.
Poirot chuckled.
"No, no."
"Because this doesn't seem to make sense.
What is it she is talking about?"
"Continues toujours."
"The matter is such, as you will readily
understand-- No, Pd got past that. Oh!
here we are. In the circumstances as I am
sure you will be the first to appreciate, it is quite impossible for me to consult
any one in Market Basing [I glanced
back at the heading of the letter. Littlegreen
House, Market Basing, Berks], but at the same time you will naturally
understand that I feel uneasy [uneasy underlined.] During the last few days I
have reproached myself with being unduly
fanciful [fanciful underlined three
times] but have only felt increasingly
perturbed. I may be attaching undue
importance to what is, after all, a trifle [trifle underlined twice] but my uneasiness
remains. I feel definitely that my
mind must be set at rest on the matter.
It is actually preying on my mind and
affecting my health, and naturally I am
in a difficult position as I can say nothing
to any one [nothing to any one underlined
with heavy lines]. In your wisdom
you may say, of course, that the whole
thing is nothing but a mare's nest. The
facts may be capable of a perfectly innocent
explanation [innocent underlined].
Nevertheless, however trivial it may
seem, ever since the incident of the
dog's ball, I have felt increasingly
doubtful and alarmed. I should therefore
welcome your views and counsel on the
matter. It would, I feel sure, take a
great weight off my mind. Perhaps you
would kindly let me know what your
fees are and what you advise me to do in
the matter?
"I must impress on you again that nobody
here knows anything at all. The
facts are, I know, very trivial and unimportant, but my health is not too good
and my nerves [nerves underlined three
TT
times] are not what they used to be.
Worry of this kind, I am convinced, is
very bad for me, and the more I think
over the matter, the more I am convinced
that I was quite right and no
mistake was possible. Of course, I shall not dream of saying anything [underlined]
to any one [underlined].
"Hoping to have your advice in the
matter at an early date,
"I remain, "Yours faithfully, "Emily Arundell."
I turned the letter over and scanned each
page closely.
"But, Poirot," I expostulated, "what is it
all about?"
My friend shrugged his shoulders.
"What, indeed?"
I tapped the sheets with some impatience.
"What a woman! Why can't Mrs.--or
Miss Arundell--"
"Miss, I think. It is typically the letter of
a spinster."
"Yes," I said. "A real fussy old maid. Why can't she say what she's talking about?" ^» Poirot sighed.
hk- "As you say--a regrettable failure to em-
^^B C-7
ploy order and method in the mental processes, and without order and method, Hastings--"
"Quite so," I interrupted hastily. "Little
grey cells practically nonexistent."
"I would not say that, my friend."
"I would! What's the sense of writing a
letter like that?"
"Very little--that is true," Poirot admitted.

"A long rigmarole all about nothing," I
went on. "Probably some upset to her fat
lapdog--an asthmatic pug or a yapping Pekingese!"
I looked at my friend curiously.
"And yet you read that letter through twice.
I do not understand you, Poirot."
Poirot smiled.
"You, Hastings, you would have put it
straight in the waste-paper basket?"
"I'm afraid I should." I frowned down on
the letter. "I suppose I'm being dense, as
usual, but / can't see anything of interest in
this letter!"
"Yet there is one point in it of great
interest--a point that struck me at once."
"Wait," I cried. "Don't tell me. Let me
see if I can't discover it for myself."
It was childish of me, perhaps. I examined
the letter very thoroughly. Then I shook my
head.
"No, I don't see it. The old lady's got the
wind up, I realize that--but then, old ladies
often do! It may be about nothing--it may
conceivably be about something, but I don't
see that you can tell that that is so. Unless
your instinct--"
Poirot raised an offended hand.
"Instinct! You know how I dislike that
word. 'Something seems to tell me'--that is
what you infer. Jamais de la me! Me, I reason. I employ the little grey cells. There is one
interesting point about that letter which you
have overlooked utterly, Hastings."
"Oh, well," I said wearily. "I'll buy it."
"Buy it? Buy what?"
"An expression. Meaning that I will permit
you to enjoy yourself by telling me just
where I have been a fool."
"Not a fool, Hastings, merely unobservant."

"Well, out with it. What's the interesting
point? I suppose, like the 'incident of the
dog in the nighttime,' the point is that there
is no interesting point!"
Poirot disregarded this sally on my part.
He said quietly and calmly:
1^ "The interesting point is the date."
"The date?"
I picked up the letter. On the top lefthand
corner was written April 17th.
"Yes," I said slowly. "That is odd. April
17th."
"And we are to-day June 28th. C'est curieux,
n'est-ce pas? Over two months ago."
I shook my head doubtfully.
"It probably doesn't mean anything. A
slip. 'She meant to put June and wrote April
instead."
"Even then it would be ten or eleven days
old--an odd fact. But actually you are in
error. Look at the colour of the ink. That
letter was written more than ten or eleven
days ago. No, April 17th is the date assuredly.
But why was the letter not sent?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"That's easy. The old pussy changed her
mind."
"Then why did she not destroy the letter" Why keep it over two months and post n
now?"
I had to admit that that was harder to
answer. In fact, I couldn't think of a really
satisfactory answer. I merely shook my head
and said nothing.
Pmrnt nodded.
"You see--it is a point! Yes, decidedly a
curious point."
He went over to his writing-table and took
up a pen.
"You are answering the letter?" I asked.
^Oui, mon ami."
The room was silent except for the
scratching of Poirofs pen. It was a hot, airless
morning. A smell of dust and tar came
in through the window.
Poirot rose from his desk, the completed
letter in his hand. He opened a drawer and
drew out a little square box. From this he
took out a stamp. Moistening this with a
little sponge, he prepared to affix it to the
letter.
Then suddenly he paused, stamp in hand, shaking his head with vigour.
"Non!" he exclaimed. "That is the wrong
thing I do." He tore the letter across and
threw it into the waste-paper basket.
"Not so must we tackle this matter! We
will^o, my friend."
"You mean to go down to Market Basing?"

"Precisely. Why not? Does not one stifle
in London today? Would not the country air
be agreeable?"
^i
"Well, if you put it like that," I said.
"Shall we go in the car?"
I had acquired a second-hand Austin.
"Excellent. A very pleasant day for motoring.
One will hardly need the muffler. A
light overcoat, a silk scarf--"
"My dear fellow, you're not going to the
North Pole!" I protested.
"One must be careful of catching the
chill," said Poirot sententiously.
"On a day like this?"
Disregarding my protests, Poirot proceeded
to don a fawn-coloured overcoat and
wrap his neck up with a white silk handkerchief.
Having carefully placed the wetted
stamp face downwards on the blotting-paper
to dry, we left the room together.
VI
We Co to Littlegreen House
I dont know what Poirot felt like in his coat
and muffler, but I myself felt roasted before
we got out of London. An open car in traffic
is far from being a refreshing place on a hot
summer's day.
Once we were outside London, however, and getting a bit of pace on the Great West
Road my spirits rose.
Our drive took us about an hour and a
half, and it was close upon twelve o'clock
when we came into the little town of Market
Basing. Originally on the main road, a modern
by-pass now left it some three miles to
the north of the main stream of traffic and
in consequence it had kept an air of oldfashioned
dignity and quietude about it. Its
one wide street and ample market square
seemed to say, "I was a place of importance
once and to any person of sense and breeding
I am still the same. Let this modern speeding
I I ^
world dash along their new-fangled road; I
was built to endure in a day when solidarity
and beauty went hand in hand."
There was a parking area in the middle of
the big square, though there were only a few
cars occupying it. I duly parked the Austin, Poirot divested himself of his superfluous
garments, assured himself that his moustaches
were in their proper condition of symmetrical
flamboyance, and we were then
ready to proceed.
For once in a way our first tentative inquiry
did not meet with the usual response, "Sorry, but I'm a stranger in these parts."
It would seem indeed probable that there
were no strangers in Market Basing! It had
that effect! Already, I felt, Poirot and myself
(and especially Poirot) were somewhat noticeable.
We tended to stick out from the
mellow background of an English market
town secure in its traditions.
"Littlegreen House?" The man, a burly,
ox-eyed fellow looked us over thoughtfully.
"You go straight up the High Street and you
can't miss it. On your left. There's no name
on the gate, but it's the first big house after
the bank." He repeated again, "You can't
miss it."
£.A
His eyes followed us as we started on our
course.
"Dear me," I complained. "There is
something about this place that makes me
feel extremely conspicuous. As for you, Poirot, you look positively exotic."
"You think it is noticed that I am a
foreigner--yes?"
"The fact cries aloud to heaven," I assured
him.
"And yet my clothes are made by an English
tailor," mused Poirot.
"Clothes are not everything," I said. "It
cannot be denied, Poirot, that you have a
noticeable personality. I have often wondered
that it has not hindered you in your
career."
Poirot sighed.
"That is because you have the mistaken
idea implanted in your head that a detective
is necessarily a man who puts on a false beard
and hides behind a pillar! The false beard, it is vieux jeu, and shadowing is only done
by the lowest branch of my profession. The
Hercule Poirots, my friend, need only to sit
I back in a chair and think."
"Which explains why we are walking
along this exceedingly hot street on an ex- a I ceedingly hot morning."
"That is very neatly replied, Hastings. For
once, I admit, you have made the score off
me."
We found Littlegreen House easily
enough, but a shock awaited us--a houseagent's
board.
As we were staring at it, a dog's bark attracted
my attention.
The bushes were thin at that point and
the dog could be easily seen. He was a wirehaired
terrier, somewhat shaggy as to coat.
His feet were planted wide apart, slightly to
one side, and he barked with an obvious
enjoyment of his own performance that
showed him to be actuated by the most amiable
motives.
"Good watchdog, aren't I?" he seemed to
be saying. "Don't mind me! This is just my
fun! My duty too, of course. Just have to let
'em know there's a dog about the place!
Deadly dull morning. Quite a blessing to
have something to do. Coming into our
place? Hope so. It's durned dull. I could do
with a little conversation."
"Hallo, old man," I said, and shoved forward
a fist.
Craning his neck through the railings, he
sniffed suspiciously, then gently wagged his f^} ntt^nncr a fpw short, staccato barks.
"Not been properly introduced, of course, ave to keep this up! But I see you know
the proper advances to make."
"Good old boy," I said.
"Wuff," said the terrier amiably.
"Well, Poirot?" I said, desisting from this
conversation and turning to my friend.
There was an odd expression on his face
--one that I could not quite fathom. A kind
of deliberately suppressed excitement seems
to describe it best.
"The Incident of the Dog's Ball," he murmured.
"Well, at least, we have here a dog."
"Wuff," observed our new friend. Then
he sat down, yawned widely and looked at
us hopefully.
"What next?" I asked.
The dog seemed to be asking the same
question.
"Parbleu, to Messrs.--what is it--Messrs.
Gabler and Stretcher."
"That does seem indicated,^ I agreed.
We turned and retraced oursteps, our canine
acquaintance sending a few disgusted
barks after us.
The premises of Messrs.1 Gabler and
Stretcher were situated in the Market a Square. We entered a dim outer office where
ifiH ~
we were received by a young woman with
adenoids and a lack-lustre eye.
"Good-morning," said Poirot politely.
The young woman was at the moment
speaking into a telephone, but she indicated
a chair and Poirot sat down. I found another
and brought it forward.
"I couldn't say, I'm sure," said the young
woman into the telephone vacantly. "No, I
don't know what the rates would be. ...
Pardon? Oh, main water, I think, but, of
course, I couldn't be certain. ... I'm very
sorry, I'm sure . . . No, he's out. . . . No, I couldn't say. . . . Yes, of course I'll ask
him. . . . Yes . . .8135? I'm afraid I haven't
quite got it. Oh ... 8935 ... 39 ... Oh,
5135. . . . Yes, I'll ask him to ring you . . .
after six. . . . Oh, pardon, before six. . . .
Thank you so much."
She replaced the receiver, scribbled 5319
on the blotting-pad and turned a mildly inquiring
but uninterested gaze on Poirot.
Poirot began briskly.
"I observe that there is a house to be sold
just on the outskirts of this town. Littlegreen
House, I think is the name."
"Pardon?"
"A house to be let or sold," said Poirot dnwiv and distinctly. "Littlegreen House."
"Oh, Littlegreen House," said the young
woman vaguely. "Littlegreen House, did you
say?"
"That is what I said."
"Littlegreen House," said the young
woman, making a tremendous mental effort.
"Oh, well, I expect Mr. Gabler would know
about that."
"Can I see Mr. Gabler?"
"He's out," said the young woman with
a kind of faint, anaemic satisfaction as of one
who says, "A point to me."
"Do you know when he will be in?"
"I couldn't say, I'm sure," said the young
woman.
"You comprehend, I am looking for a
house in this neighborhood," said Poirot.
"Oh, yes," said the young woman, uninterested.

"And Littlegreen House seems to me just
what I am looking for. Can you give me
particulars?"
"Particulars?" The young woman seemed
startled.
"Particulars of Littlegreen House."
Unwillingly she opened a drawer and took
out an untidy file of papers.
Then she called "John."
^Q
A lanky youth sitting in a corner looked
up.
"Yes, miss."
"Have we got any particulars of--what
did you say?"
"Littlegreen House," said Poirot distinctly.

"You've got a large bill of it here," I remarked, pointing to the wall.
She looked at me coldly. Two to one, she
seemed to think, was an unfair way of playing
the game. She called up her own reinforcements.

"You don't know anything about Littlegreen
House, do you, John?"
"No, miss. Should be in the file."
"I'm sorry," said the young woman without
looking so in the least. "I rather fancy
we must have sent all the particulars out."
"C'est dommage."
"Pardon?"
"A pity."
"We've a nice bungalow at Hemel End, two bed, one sit."
She spoke without enthusiasm, but with
the air of one willing to do her duty by her
employer.
"I thank you, no."
"And a semi-detached with small con-
^ir\
servatory. I could give you particulars of
that."
"No, thank you. I desired to know what
rent you were asking for Littlegreen House."
"It's not to be rented," said the young
woman, abandoning her position of complete
ignorance of anything to do with Littlegreen
House in the pleasure of scoring a
point. "Only to be sold outright."
"The board says, 'To be Let or Sold.5 "
"I couldn't say as to that, but it's for sale
only."
At this stage in the battle the door opened
and a grey-haired, middle-aged man entered
with a rush. His eye, a militant one, swept
over us with a gleam. His eyebrows asked a
question of his employee.
"This is Mr. Gabler," said the young
woman.
Mr. Gabler opened the door of an inner
sanctum with a flourish.
"Step in here, gentlemen." He ushered us
in, an ample gesture swept us into chairs and
he himself was facing us across a flat-topped
desk.
"And now what can I do for you?"
Poirot began again perse veringly.
"I desired a few particulars of Littlegreen
House--"
71
He got no further. Mr. Gabler took command.

"Ah! Littlegreen House--there's a property!
An absolute bargain. Only just come
into the market. I can tell you, gentlemen, we don't often get a house of that class going
at the price. Taste's swinging round. People
are fed up with jerry-building. They want
sound stuff. Good, honest building. A beautiful
property--character--feeling--Georgian
throughout. That's what people want
nowadays--there's a feeling for period
houses if you understand what I mean. Ah, yes, Littlegreen House won't be long in the
market. It'll be snapped up. Snapped up! A
member of Parliament came to look at it only
last Saturday. Liked it so much he's coming
down again this week-end. And there's a
stock exchange gentleman after it too. People
want quiet nowadays when they come to the
country, want to be well away from main
roads. That's all very well for some people,
but we attract class here. And that's what
that house has got. Class! You've got to admit, they knew how to build for gentlemen
in those days. Yes, we shan't have Littlegreen
long on our books."
Mr. Gabler, who, it occurred to me, lived
'y'l
up to his name very happily, paused for
breath.
"Has it changed hands often in the last
few years?" inquired Poirot.
"On the contrary. Been in one family over
fifty years. Name of Arundell. Very much
respected in the town. Ladies of the old
school."
He shot up, opened the door and called:
"Particulars of Littlegreen House, Miss
Jenkins. Quickly now."
He returned to the desk.
"I require a house about this distance from
London," said Poirot. "In the country, but
not in the dead country, if you understand
me--"
"Perfectly--perfectly. Too much in the
country doesn't do. Servants don't like it for
one thing. Here, you have the advantages of
the country but not the disadvantages." Miss
Jenkins flitted in with a typewritten sheet of
paper which she placed in front of her employer, who dismissed her with a nod.
"Here we are," said Mr. Gabler, reading
with practised rapidity. "Period house of
character: four recep., eight bed and dressing, usual offices, commodious kitchen
premises, ample outbuildings, stables, etc.
Main water, old-world gardens, inexpensive
upkeep, amounting in all to three acres, two
summer-houses, etc., etc. Price £2,850 or
near offer."
"You can give me an order to view?"
"Certainly, my dear sir." Mr. Gabler began
writing in a flourishing fashion. "Your
name and address?"
Slightly to my surprise, Poirot gave his
name as Mr. Parotti.
"We have one or two other properties on
our books which might interest you," Mr.
Gabler went on.
Poirot allowed him to add two further additions.

"Littlegreen House can be viewed any
time?" he inquired.
"Certainly, my dear sir. There are servants
in residence. I might perhaps ring up
to make certain. You will be going there
immediately? Or after lunch?"
"Perhaps after lunch would be better."
"Certainly--certainly. I'll ring up and tell
them to expect you about two o'clock--eh?
Is that right?"
"Thank you. Did you say the owner of
the house--a Miss Arundell, I think you
said?"
"Lawson. Miss Lawson. That is the name of the nresent owner. Miss Arundell, I am
sorry to say, died a short time ago. That is
how the place has come into the market. And
I can assure you it will be snapped up. Not
a doubt of it. Between you and me, just in
confidence, if you do think of making an
offer I should make it quickly. As I've told
you, there are two gentlemen after it already, and I shouldn't be surprised to get an offer
for it any day from one or other of them.
Each of them knows the other's after it, you
see. And there's no doubt that competition
spurs a man on. Ha, ha! I shouldn't like you
to be disappointed."
"Miss Lawson is anxious to sell, I gather."
Mr. Gabler lowered his voice confidentially.

"That's just it. The place is larger than
she wants--one middle-aged lady living by
herself. She wants to get rid of this and take
a house in London. Quite understandable.
That's why the place is going so ridiculously
cheap."
"She would be open, perhaps, to an offer?"

"That's the idea, sir. Make an offer and
set the ball rolling. But you can take it from me that there will be no difficulty in getting
a price very near the figure named. Why, it's ridiculous! To build a house like that
nowadays would cost every penny of six
thousand, let alone the land value and the
valuable frontages."
"Miss Arundell died very suddenly, didn't
she?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Anno domini--
anno domini. She had passed her threescore
years and ten some time ago. And she'd been
ailing for a long time. The last of her
family--you know something about the family, perhaps?"
"I know some people of the same name
who have relations in this part of the world.
I fancy it must be the same family."
"Very likely. Four sisters there were. One
married fairly late in life and the other three
lived on here. Ladies of the old school. Miss
Emily was the last of them. Very highly
thought of in the town."
He leant forward and handed Poirot the
orders.
"You'll drop in again and let me know
what you think of it, eh? Of course, it may
need a little modernizing here and there.
That's only to be expected. But I always say,
'What's a bathroom or two? That's easily
done.' "
We took our leave and the last thing we
heard was the vacant voice of Miss Jenkins
saying:
"Mrs. Samuels rang up, sir. She'd like you
to ring her--Holland 5391."
As far as I could remember that was neither
the number Miss Jenkins had scribbled
on her pad nor the number finally arrived at
through the telephone.
I felt convinced that Miss Jenkins was having
her revenge for having been forced to
find the particulars of Littlegreen House.
VII
Lunch at The George
As we emerged into the market square, I
remarked that Mr. Gabler lived up to his
name! Poirot assented with a smile.
"He'll be rather disappointed when you
don't return," I said. "I think he feels he
has as good as sold you that house already."
"Indeed, yes, I fear there is a deception
in store for him."
"I suppose we might as well have lunch
here before returning to London, or shall we
lunch at some more likely spot on our way
back?"
"My dear Hastings, I am not proposing
to leave Market Basing so quickly. We have
not yet accomplished that which we came to
do."
I stared.
"Do you mean—but, my dear fellow,
that's all a washout. The old lady is dead.
55
"Exactly."
? P The tone of that one word made me stare
at him harder than ever. It was evident that
he had some bee in his bonnet over this incoherent
letter.
"But if she's dead, Poirot," I said gently,
"what's the use? She can't tell you anything
now. Whatever the trouble was, it's over and
finished with."
"How lightly and easily you put the matter
aside! Let me tell you that no matter is finished
with until Hercule Poirot ceases to concern
himself with it!"
I should have known from experience that
to argue with Poirot is quite useless. Unwarily
I proceeded:
| "But since she is dead--"
"Exactly, Hastings. Exactly--exactly--
exactly. . . . You keep repeating the significant
point with a magnificently obtuse
disregard of its significance. Do you not see
the importance of the point? Miss Arundell
is dead."
"But, my dear Poirot, her death was perfectly
natural and ordinary! There wasn't
anything odd or unexplained about it. We
have old Gabler's word for that."
"We have his word that Littlegreen House
is a bargain at £2,850. Do you accept that
as gospel also?"
"No, indeed. It struck me that Gabler was
all out to get the place sold--it probably
needs modernizing from top to toe. I'd swear
he--or rather his client--will be willing to
accept a very much lower figure than that.
These large Georgian houses fronting right
on the street must be the devil to get rid of."
"Eh bien, then," said Poirot. "Do not say,
'But Gabler says so!' as though he were an
inspired prophet who could not lie."
I was about to protest further, but at this
minute we passed the threshold of The
George and with an emphatic "Chut!" Poirot
put a damper on further conversation.
We were directed to the coffee-room, a
room of fine proportions, tightly shut windows
and an odour of stale food. An elderly
waiter attended to us, a slow, heavy-breathing
man. We appeared to be the only lunchers.
We had some excellent mutton, large
slabs of watery cabbage and some dispirited
potatoes. Some rather tasteless stewed fruit
and custard followed. After gorgonzola and
biscuits the waiter brought us two cups of a
doubtful fluid called coffee.
At this point Poirot produced his orders
to view and invited the waiter's aid.
"Yes, sir, I know where most of these are.
Hemel Down is three miles away--on the J
Much Benham road—quite a little place.
Nay tor's Farm is about a mile away. There's
a kind of lane goes off to it not long after
the King's Head. Bissett Grange? No, I've
never heard of that. Littlegreen House is just
close by, not more than a few minutes'
walk."
"Ah, I think I have already seen it from
the outside. That is the most possible one,
I think. It is in good repair—yes?"
"Oh, yes, sir. It's in good condition—roof
and drains and all that. Old-fashioned, of
course. It's never been modernized in any
way. The gardens are a picture. Very fond
of her garden Miss Arundell was."
"It belongs, I see, to a Miss Lawson."
"That's right, sir. Miss Lawson, she was
Miss Arundell's companion, and when the
old lady died everything was left to her—
house and all."
"Indeed? I suppose she had no relations
to whom to leave it."
"Well, it was not quite like that, sir. She
had nieces and nephews living. But, of
course. Miss Lawson was with her all the
time. And, of course, she was an old lady
and—well—that's how it was."
"In any case I suppose there was just the
house and not much money?"
81
I have often had occasion to notice how. where a direct question would fail to elicit a
response, a false assumption brings instant
information in the form of a contradiction.
"Very far from that, sir. Very far indeed.
Every one was surprised at the amount the
old lady lefL^The will was in the paper and
the amount and everything. It seems she
hadn't lived up to her income for many a
long year. Something like three or four
hundred thousand pounds she left."
"You astonish me," cried Poirot. "It is
like a fairy tale--eh? The poor companion
suddenly becomes unbelievably wealthy. Is
she still young, this Miss Lawson? Can she
enjoy her new-found wealth?"
"Oh, no, sir, she's a middle-aged person,
sir."
His enunciation of the word "person" was
quite an artistic performance. It was clear
that Miss Lawson, ex-companion, had cut
no kind of a figure in Market Basing.
"It must have been disappointing for the
nephews and nieces," mused Poirot.
"Yes, sir, I believe it came as somewhat
of a shock to them. Very unexpected.
There's been feeling over it here in Market
Basing. There are those who hold it isn't
right to leave things away from your own
QJ
flesh and blood. But, of course, there's others
as hold that every one's got a right to do
as they like with their own. There's something
to be said for both points of view, of
course."
"Miss Arundell had lived for many years
here, had she not?"
"Yes, sir. She and her sisters and old General
Arundell, their father, before them. Not
that I remember him, naturally, but I believe
he was quite a character. Was in the Indian
Mutiny."
"There were several daughters?"
"Three of them that I remember, and I
believe there was one that married. Yes, Miss Matilda, Miss Agnes, and Miss Emily.
Miss Matilda, she died first, and then Miss
Agnes, and finally Miss Emily."
"That was quite recently?"
"Beginning of May--or it may have been
the end of April."
"Had she been ill some time?"
"On and off--on and off. She was on the
sickly side. Nearly went off a year ago with
that there jaundice. Yellow as an orange
she was for some time after. Yes, she'd had
poor health for the last five years of her
life."
"I suppose you have some good doctors
down here?"
"Well, there's Dr. Grainger. Been here
close on forty years, he has, and folks mostly
go to him. He's a bit crotchety and he has
his fancies, but he's a good doctor, none
better. He's got a young partner. Dr. Donaldson.
He's more the new-fangled kind.
Some folk prefer him. Then, of course, there's
Dr. Harding, but he doesn't do much."
"Dr. Grainger was Miss Arundell's doctor, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes. He'd pulled her through many
a bad turn. He's the kind that fair bullies
you into living whether you want to or
not."
Poirot nodded.
"One should learn a little about a place
before one comes to settle in it," he remarked.
"A good doctor is one of the most
important people."
"That's very true, sir."
Poirot then asked for his bill to which he
added a substantial tip.
"Thank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir. I'm sure I hope you'll settle here, sir."
"I hope so too," said Poirot mendaciously.
We set forth from The George.
FR1;"Satisfied yet, Poirot?" I asked as we
emerged into the street.
"Not in the least, my friend."
He turned in an unexpected direction.
"Where are you off to now, Poirot?"
"The church, my friend. It may be interesting.
Some brasses--an old monument."
I shook my head doubtfully.
Poirofs scrutiny of the interior of the
church was brief. Though an attractive specimen
of what the guidebook calls Early Perp.
it had been so conscientiously restored in
Victorian vandal days that little of interest
remained.
Poirot next wandered seemingly aimlessly
about the churchyard reading some of the
epitaphs, commenting on the number of
deaths in certain families, occasionally exclaiming
over the quaintness of a name.
I was not surprised, however, when he
finally halted before what I was pretty
sure had been his objective from the beginning.

An imposing marble slab bore a partly effaced
inscription:
sacred
TO THE MEMORY OF
JOHN LAVERTON ARUNDELL
FR1;FR2;GENERAL 24TH SIKHS
WHO FELL ASLEEP IN CHRIST MAY 19, 1888
AGED 69
FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT WITH ALL THY
MIGHT"
ALSO OF
MATILDA ARM ARUNDELL
DIED MARCH 10, 1912 "I WILL ARISE AND GO UNTO MY FATHER"
ALSO OF
AGNES GEORGINA MARY ARUNDELL
DIED NOVEMBER 20 1921
ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE"
Then came a brand-new piece of lettering,
evidently just done:
also of
EMILY HARRIET LAVERTON ARUNDELL
DIED MAY 1, 1936
"THY WILL BE DONE"
Poirot stood looking for some time.
He murmured softly:
"May 1st. . . . May 1st. . . . And today,
June 28th, I receive her letter. You see, do
you not, Hastings, that that fact has got to
be explained?"
I saw that it had.
That is to say, I saw that Poirot was determined
that it should be explained.
VIII
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 pleasantfaced
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, oldfashioned
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 leathercovered
dining-room chairs. On the wall
j^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? Fll 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 and I
stopped 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, I 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 workboxes
and tea caddies. Most fascinating of all to
me were two exquisitely cut tissue-paper ladies
under glass stands. One with a spinningwheel,
one with a cat on her knee.
The atmosphere of a bygone day, a day of
leisure, of refinement, of "ladies and gentlemen," 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, Bob-
she."
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?5 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 any one who's
lived to over seventy and you show me a
fighter--some one 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 Arundell was like
that? Very alive? Very interested in life?" i
"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 stuckup
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 any one."
"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 some one
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 some one 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 stopped 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 nights 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 any one 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 of
making a neat entry in his little pocketbook
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. Pll 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, any one 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 the 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, pleasant-faced 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 paper-matchie,
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." fl
"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.
| "Voild," 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
ArundelFs 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 had 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 that 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 week-end because they were worried
about Miss Arundell."
"And Mr. Charles and Miss Theresa?"
"They came the week-end after. The
week-end 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. Pur vis, I think you said? Thank
you very much for all your help."
|
[ He stopped 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," it seemed to say. "Generous
with the food, but not really sportsmen!"

IX
Reconstruction of the Dog's
Ball Incident
"well, poirot," I said as the gate of Littiegreen
House closed behind us. "You are
satisfied now, I hope!"
"Yes, my friend. I am satisfied."
"Thank Heaven for that! All the mysteries
explained! The Wicked Companion and the
Rich Old Lady myth exploded. The delayed
letter and even the famous incident of the
dog's ball shown in their true colours. Everything
settled satisfactorily and according to
Cocker!"
Poirot gave a dry little cough and said:
"I would not use the word satisfactorily, Hastings."
"You did a minute ago."
"No, no. I did not say the matter was satisfactory. I said that, personally, my curiosity
was satisfied. I know the truth of the
Dog's Ball incident."
"And very simple it was too!"
"Not quite so simple as you think." He
nodded his head several times. Then he went on: "You see, I know one little thing which
you do not."
"And what is that?" I asked somewhat
sceptically.
{<I know that there is a nail driven into the
skirting board at the top of the stairs."
I stared at him. His face was quite grave.
"Well," I said after a minute or two.
"Why shouldn't there be?"
"The question is, Hastings, why should
there be."
"How do I know. Some household reason, perhaps. Does it matter?"
"Certainly it matters. And I can think of
no household reason for a nail to be driven
in at the top of the skirting board in that
particular place. It was carefully varnished, too, so as not to show."
"What are you driving at, Poirot? Do you know the reason?"
"I can imagine it quite easily. If you
wanted to stretch a piece of strong thread or
wire across the top of the stairs about a foot
from the ground, you could tie it one side
to the balusters, but on the inner wall side
you would need something like a nail to attach
the thread to."
"Poiroti" I cried. "What on earth are you
driving at?"
"Mon cher ami, I am reconstructing the
incident of the Dog's Ball! Would you like to
hear my reconstruction?"
"Go ahead."
"Eh bien, here it is. Some one had noticed
the habit Bob had of leaving his ball at the
top of the stairs. A dangerous thing to do--
it might lead to an accident." Poirot paused
a minute, then said in a slightly different
tone, "If you wished to kill some one, Hastings,
how would you set about it?"
"I--well, really--I don't know. Fake up
some alibi or something, I suppose."
"A proceeding, I assure you, both difficult
and dangerous. But then you are not the type
of a cold-blooded cautious murderer. Does
it not strike you that the easiest way of removing
some one you want to remove from
your path is to take advantage of accident? Accidents are happening all the time. And
sometimes--Hastings--they can be helped to
happen!"
He paused a minute, then went on:
"I think the dog's ball left so fortuitously
at the top of the stairs gave our murderer an
idea. Miss Arundell was in the habit of coming
out of her room in the night and wandering
about--her eyesight was not good; it
was quite within the bounds of probability
that she might stumble over it and fall headlong
down those stairs. But a careful murderer
does not leave things to chance. A thread stretched across the top of the stairs
would be a much better way. It would send
her pitching head foremost. Then, when the
household came rushing out--there, plain
to see, is the cause of the accident--Bob's
balir
"How horrible!" I cried.
Poirot said gravely:
"Yes, it was horrible. ... It was also unsuccessful.
. . . Miss Arundell was very little
hurt, though she might easily have broken
her neck. Very disappointing for our unknown
friend! But Miss Arundell was a
sharp-witted old lady. Every one told her she
had slipped on the ball, and there the ball
was as evidence, but she herself, recalling
the happening, felt that the accident had
arisen differently. She had not slipped on the
ball. And in addition she remembered something
else. She remembered hearing Bob barking
for admission at five o'clock the next morning.
"This, I admit, is something in the way
of guess-work, but I believe I am right. Miss
Arundell had put away Bob's ball herself the
evening before in its drawer. After that he
went out and did not return. In that case it
was not Bob who put that ball on the top of
the stairs."
"That is pure guess-work, Poirot," I objected.

He demurred.
"Not quite, my friend. There are the significant
words uttered by Miss Arundell
when she was delirious--something about
Bob's ball and a 'picture ajar.5 You see the
point, do you not?"
"Not in the least."
"Curious. I know your language well
enough to realize that one does not talk of a
picture being ajar. A door is ajar. A picture
is awry."
"Or simply crooked."
"Or simply crooked, as you say. So I realized
at once that Ellen has mistaken the
meaning of the words she heard. It is not
ajar--but a or the jar that was meant. Now
in the drawing-room there is a rather noticeable
china jar. There is, I have already
observed, a picture of a dog on it. With the
remembrance of these delirious ravings in
my mind I go up and examine it more
closely. I find that it deals with the subject
of a dog who has been out all night. You see
the trend of the feverish woman's thoughts?
Bob was like the dog in the picture on the
jar--out all night--so it was not he who left
the ball on the stairs."
I cried out, feeling some admiration in
spite of myself.
"You're an ingenious devil, Poirot! How
you think of these things beats me!"
"I do not 'think of them.' They are there
--plain--for any one to see. Eh bien, you
realize the position? Miss Arundell, lying in
bed after her fall, becomes suspicious. That
suspicion she feels is perhaps fanciful and
absurd, but there it is. (Since the incident of
the Dog's Ball I have been increasingly uneasy.' And so--and so she writes to me, and by a
piece of bad luck her letter does not reach
me until over two months have gone by. Tell
me, does her letter not fit in perfectly with
these facts?"
"Yes," I admitted. "It does."
Poirot went on:
"There is another point worthy of consideration.
Miss Lawson was exceedingly anxious
that the fact of Bob's being out all night
should not get to Miss ArundelFs ears."
"You think that she--"
"I think that the fact should be noted very
carefully."
I turned the thing over in my mind for a
minute or two.
"Well," I said at last with a sigh, "it's all
very interesting--as a mental exercise, that
is. And I take off my hat to you. It's been
a masterful piece of reconstruction. It's almost
a pity really that the old lady has died."
"A pity--yes. She wrote to me that some
one had attempted to murder her (that is
what it amounts to, after all) and a very short
time after, she was dead."
"Yes," I said, "and it's a grand disappointment
to you that she died a natural
death, isn't it? Come, admit it."
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"Or perhaps you think she was poisoned,"
I said maliciously.
Poirot shook his head somewhat despondently.

"It certainly seems," he admitted, "as
though Miss Arundell died from natural
causes."
"And therefore," I said, "we return to
London with our tail between our legs."
"Pardon, my friend, but we do not return
to London."
"What do you mean, Poirot?" I cried.
"If you show the dog the rabbit, my
friend, does he return to London? No, he
goes into the rabbit hole."
"What do you mean?"
"The dog hunts rabbits. Hercule Poirot
hunts murderers. We have here a murderer--a
murderer whose crime failed, yes, perhaps, but nevertheless a murderer. And
I, my friend, am going into the burrow after
him--or her as the case may be."
He turned sharply in at the gate.
"Where are you off to, Poirot?"
"Into the burrow, my friend. This is the
house of Dr. Grainger who attended Miss
Arundell in her last illness."
Dr. Grainger was a man of sixty odd. His
face was thin and bony with an aggressive
chin, bushy eyebrows, and a pair of very
shrewd grey eyes. He looked keenly from
me to Poirot.
"Well, what can I do for you?" he asked
abruptly.
Poirot swept into speech in the most flamboyant
manner.
"I must apologize. Dr. Grainger, for this
intrusion. I must confess straightaway that
I do not come to consult you professionally."
Dr. Grainger said drily:
"Glad to hear it. You look healthy
enough!"
"I must explain the purpose of my visit," went on Poirot. "The truth of the matter is
that I am writing a book--the life of the late
General Arundell, who I understand lived in
Market Basing for some years before his
death."
The doctor looked rather surprised.
"Yes, General Arundell lived here till his
death. At Littlegreen House--just up the
road past the Bank--you've been there perhaps?"
Poirot nodded assent. "But you understand
that was a good bit before my time.
I came here in 1919."
"You knew his daughter, however, the
late Miss Arundell?"
"I knew Emily Arundell well."
"You comprehend, it has been a severe
blow to me to find that Miss Arundell has
recently died."
"End of April."
"So I discovered. I counted, you see, on
her giving me various personal details and
reminiscences of her father."
"Quite--quite. But I don't see what I can
do about it."
Poirot asked:
"General Arundell has no other sons or
daughters living?" "No. All dead, the lot of them." "How many were there?" "Five. Four daughters, one son."
"And in the next generation?"
"Charles Arundell and his sister Theresa.
You could get on to them. I doubt, though, if it would be much use to you. The young
generation doesn't take much interest in its
grandfathers. And there's a Mrs. Tanios, but
I doubt if you'd get much there either."
"They might have family papers--documents?"

"They might have. Doubt it, though. A
lot of stuff was cleared out and burnt after
Miss Emily's death, I know."
Poirot uttered a groan of anguish.
Grainger looked at him curiously.
"What's the interest in old Arundell? I
never heard he was a big pot in any way?"
"My dear sir." Poirot's eyes gleamed with
the excitement of the fanatic. "Is there not
a saying that history knows nothing of its
greatest men? Recently certain papers have
come to light which throw an entirely different
light on the whole subject of the Indian
Mutiny. There is secret history there.
And in that secret history John Arundell
played a big part. The whole thing is fascinating—fascinating!
And let me tell you,
my dear sir, it is of especial interest at the
present time. India—the English policy in
regard to it—is the burning question of the
hour."
"H'm," said the doctor. "I have heard
that old General Arundell used to hold forth
a good deal on the subject of the Mutiny. As
a matter of fact, he was considered a prize
bore on the subject."
"Who told you that?"
"A Miss Peabody. You might call on her,
by the way. She's our oldest inhabitant—
knew the Arundells intimately. And gossip
is her chief recreation. She's worth seeing
for her own sake—a character."
"Thank you. That is an excellent idea.
Perhaps, too, you would give me the address
of young Mr. Arundell, the grandson of the
late General Arundell."
"Charles? Yes, I can put you on to him.
But he's an irreverent young devil. Family
history means nothing to him."
"He is quite young?"
"He's what an old fogy like me calls
young," said the doctor with a twinkle.
"Early thirties. The kind of young man
that's born to be in trouble and responsibility &
to their families. Charm of personality and
nothing else. He's been shipped about all
over the world and done no good anywhere."
"His aunt was doubtless fond of him?"
ventured Poirot. "It is often that way."
"H'm--I don't know. Emily Arundell
was no fool. As far as I knew he never succeeded
in getting any money out of her. Bit
of a tartar that old lady. I liked her. Respected
her too. An old soldier every inch
of her."
"Was her death sudden?"
"Yes, in a way. Mind you, she'd been in
poor health for some years. But she'd pulled
through some narrow squeaks."
"There was some story--I apologize for
repeating gossip--" Poirot spread out his
hands deprecatingly--"that she had quarrelled
with her family?"
"She didn't exactly quarrel with them,"
said Dr. Grainger slowly. "No, there was no
open quarrel as far as I know."
"I beg your pardon. I am, perhaps, being
indiscreet."
"No, no. After all, the information's public
property."
"She left her money away from her family, I understand?"
"Yes, left it all to a frightened, fluttering
hen of a companion. Odd thing to do. Can't
understand it myself. Not like her."
"Ah, well," said Poirot thoughtfully.
"One can imagine such a thing happening.
An old lady, frail and in ill-health. Very dependent
on the person who attends and cares
for her. A clever woman with a certain
amount of personality could gain a great ascendency
that way."
The word "ascendency" seemed to act like
a red rag to a bull.
Dr. Grainger snorted out:
"Ascendency? Ascendency? Nothing of
the kind! Emily Arundell treated Minnie
Lawson worse than a dog. Characteristic of
that generation! Anyway, women who earn
their living as companions are usually fools.
If they've got brains they're earning a better
living some other way. Emily Arundell
didn't suffer fools gladly. She usually wore
out one poor devil a year. Ascendency?
Nothing of the sort!"
Poirot hastened off the treacherous
ground.
"It is possible, perhaps," he suggested, "that there are old family letters and documents
in this Miss--er--Lawson's possession?"

"Might be," agreed Grainger. "Usually
7
B are a lot of things tucked away in an old if maid's house. I don't suppose Miss Lawson's
been through half of it yet."
JPoirot rose. "Thank you very much. Dr. Grainger.
You have been most kind."
"Don't thank me," said the doctor. "Sorry I can't do anything helpful. Miss Peabody's
your best chance. Lives at Morton
Manor--about a mile out."
Poirot was sniffing at a large bouquet of
roses on the doctor's table.
"Delicious," he murmured.
"Yes, I suppose so. Can't smell 'em myself.
Lost my sense of smell when I had flu
four years ago. Nice admission for a doctor, eh? 'Physician, heal thyself.' Damned nui|
sance. Can't enjoy a smoke as I used to."
"Unfortunate, yes. By the way, you will give me young Arundell's address?"
"I can get it for you, yes." He ushered us
i out into the hall and called, "Donaldson."
"My partner," he explained. "He should
have it all right. He's by way of being engaged
to Charles's sister, Theresa."
He called again: "Donaldson."
A young man came out from a room at the
back of the house. He was of medium height
and of rather colourless appearance. His
manner was precise. A greater contrast to
Dr. Grainger could not be imagined.
The latter explained what he wanted.
Dr. Donaldson's eyes, very pale blue eyes
slightly prominent, swept over us, appraisingly.
When he spoke it was in a dry, precise
manner.
"I don't know exactly where Charles is to
be found," he said. "I can give you Miss
Theresa ArundelFs address. Doubtless she
will be able to put you in touch with her
brother."
Poirot assured him that that would do perfectly.

The doctor wrote down an address on a
page in his notebook, tore it out, and handed
it to Poirot.
Poirot thanked him and said good-bye to
both doctors. As we went out of the door I
was conscious of Dr. Donaldson standing in
the hall peering after us with a slightly startled
look on his face.
x
Visit to Miss Peabody

"Is it really necessary to tell such elaborate
lies, Poirot?" I asked as we walked away.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"If one is going to tell a lie at all--and I
notice, by the way, that your nature is very
much averse to lying--now, me, it does not
trouble me at all--"
"So I've noticed," I interjected.
"--As I was remarking, t/one is going to
tell a lie at all, it might as well be an artistic
lie, a romantic lie, a convincing lie!"
"Do you consider this a convincing lie?
Do you think Dr. Donaldson was convinced?"

"That young man is of a sceptical nature, admitted Poirot thoughtfully.
??
"He looked definitely suspicious to me.
"I do not see why he should be so. Imbeciles
are writing the lives of other imbeciles
every day. It is, as you say, done.
??
»»
"First time I've heard you call yourself an
imbecile," I said, grinning.
"I can adopt a role, I hope, as well as any
one," said Poirot coldly. "I am sorry you do
not think my little fiction well imagined. I
was rather pleased with it myself."
I changed the subject.
"What do we do next?"
"That is easy. We get into your car and
pay a visit to Morton Manor."
Morton Manor proved to be an ugly
substantial house of the Victorian period. A
decrepit butler received us somewhat doubtfully
and presently returned to ask if we had
an appointment.
"Please tell Miss Peabody that we come
from Dr. Grainger," said Poirot.
After a wait of a few minutes, the door
opened and a short, fat woman waddled into
the room. Her sparse, white hair was neatly
parted in the middle. She wore a black velvet
dress, the nap of which was completely
rubbed off in various places, and some really
beautiful fine point lace was fastened at her
neck with a large cameo brooch.
She came across the room peering at us
short-sightedly. Her first words were somewhat
of a surprise.
"Got anything to sell?"
"Nothing, madame," said Poirot.
"Sure?"
"But absolutely."
"No vacuum cleaners?"
"No."
"No stockings?"
"No."
"No rugs?"
"No."
"Oh, well," said Miss Peabody, settling
herself in a chair, "I suppose it's all right.
You'd better sit down then."
We sat obediently.
"You'll excuse my asking," said Miss Peabody
with a trace of apology in her manner.
"Got to be careful. You wouldn't believe
the people who come along. Servants are
no good. They can't tell. Can't blame 'em either.
Right voices, right clothes, right names.
How are they to tell? Commander Ridgeway,
Mr. Scot Edgerton, Captain D'Arcy
Fitzherbert. Nice-looking fellows, some of
'em. But before you know where you are
they've shoved a cream-making machine under
your nose."
Poirot said earnestly:
"I assure you, madame, that we have
nothing whatever of that kind."
"Well, you should know," said Miss Peabody.
Poirot
plunged into his story. Miss Pea- body heard him out without comment, blinking once or twice out of her small eyes.
At the end she said:
"Goin' to write a book, eh?"
"Yes."
"In English?"
('Certainly--in English.''
"But you're a foreigner. Eh? Come now, you're a foreigner, aren't you?"
"That is true."
She transferred her gaze to me.
"You are his secretary, I suppose?"
"Er--yes," I said doubtfully.
"Can you write decent English?"
"I hope so."
"H'm--where did you go to school?"
"Eton."
"Then you can't."
I was forced to let this sweeping charge
against an old and venerable centre of education
pass unchallenged as Miss Peabody
turned her attention once more to Poirot.
"Goin' to write a life of General Arundell,
eh?"
"Yes. You knew him, I think." ;
"Yes, I knew John Arundell. He drank." j
^r
| I There was a momentary pause. Then Miss
Peabody went on musingly:
"Indian Mutiny, eh? Seems a bit like flogging
a dead horse to me. But that's your
business."
"You know, madame, there is a fashion
in these things. At the moment India is the
mode."
"Something in that. Things do come
round. Look at sleeves."
We maintained a respectful silence.
"Leg o' muttons were always ugly," said
Miss Peabody. "But I always looked well in
Bishops." She fixed a bright eye on Poirot.
"Now then, what do you want to know?"
Poirot spread out his hands.
"Anything! Family history. Gossip.
Home life."
"Can't tell you anything about India,"
said Miss Peabody. "Truth is, I didn't listen.
Rather boring these old men and their anecdotes.
He was a very stupid man--but I
dare say none the worse General for that.
I've always heard that intelligence didn't get
you far in the army. Pay attention to your
Colonel's wife and listen respectfully to your
superior officers and you'll get on--that's
what my father used to say."
Treating this dictum respectfully, Poirot
allowed a moment or two to elapse before he
said:
"You knew the Arundell family intimately, did you not?"
"Knew "em all," said Miss Peabody. "Matilda,
she was the eldest. A spotty girl. Used
to teach in Sunday School. Was sweet on
one of the curates. Then there was Emily.
Good seat on a horse, she had. She was the
only one who could do anything with her
father when he had one of his bouts on. Cartloads
of bottles used to be taken out of that
house. Buried them at night, they did. Then, let me see, who came next, Arabella or
Thomas? Thomas, I think. Always felt sorry
for Thomas. One man and four women.
Makes a man look a fool. He was a bit of an
old woman himself, Thomas was. Nobody
thought he'd ever marry. Bit of a shock when
he did."
She chuckled--a rich Victorian fruity
chuckle.
It was clear that Miss Peabody was enjoying
herself. As an audience we were almost
forgotten. Miss Peabody was well away in
the past.
"Then came Arabella. Plain girl. Face like
a scone. She married all right though, even
if she were the plainest of the family. Professor at Cambridge. Quite an old man. Must
have been sixty if he was a day. He gave a
series of lectures here--on the wonders of
Modern Chemistry, I think it was. I went to
'em. He mumbled 5 I remember. Had a
beard. Couldn't hear much of what he said.
Arabella used to stay behind and ask questions.
She wasn't a chicken herself. Must
have been getting on for forty. Ah, well, they're both dead now. Quite a happy marriage
it was. There's something to be said
for marrying a plain woman--you know the
worst at once and she's not so likely to be
flighty. Then there was Agnes. She was the
youngest--the pretty one. Rather gay we used to think her. Almost fast! Odd, you'd
think if any of them had married it would
have been Agnes, but she didn't. She died
not long after the war."
Poirot murmured:
"You said that Mr. Thomas's marriage
was rather unexpected."
Again Miss Peabody produced that rich, throaty chuckle.
"Unexpected? I should say it was! Made
a nine days' scandal. You'd never have
thought it of him--such a quiet, timid, retiring
man and devoted to his sisters."
She paused a minute.
"Remember a case that made rather a stir
in the late nineties? Mrs. Varley? Supposed
to have poisoned her husband with arsenic.
Good-looking woman. Made a big to-do, that
case. She was acquitted. Well, Thomas
Arundell quite lost his head. Used to get all
the papers and read about the case and cut
out the photographs of Mrs. Varley. And
would you believe it, when the trial was over, off he went to London and asked her to
marry him? Thomas! Quiet, stay-at-home
Thomas! Never can tell with men, can you?
They're always liable to break out."
"And what happened?"
"Oh, she married him all right."
"It was a great shock to his sisters?"
"I should think so! They wouldn't receive
her. I don't know that I blame them, all
things considered. Thomas was mortally offended.
He went off to live in the Channel
Islands and nobody heard any more of him.
Don't know whether his wife poisoned her
first husband. She didn't poison Thomas.
He survived her by three years. There were
two children, boy and girl. Good-looking
pair--took after their mother."
"I suppose they came here to their aunt a
good deal?"
"Not till after their parents died. They j
were at school and almost grown-up by then.
They used to come for holidays. Emily was
alone in the world then and they and Bella
Biggs were the only kith and kin she had."
"Biggs?"
"Arabella's daughter. Dull girl--some
years older than Theresa. Made a fool of
herself, though. Married some foreigner who
was over at the University. A Greek doctor.
Dreadful-looking man--got rather a charming
manner, though, I must admit. Well, I
don't suppose poor Bella had many chances.
Spent her time helping her father or holding
wool for her mother. This fellow was exotic.
It appealed to her."
"Has it been a happy marriage?"
Miss Peabody snapped out:
"I wouldn't like to say for certain about any marriage! They seem quite happy. Two
rather yellow-looking children. They live in
Smyrna."
"But they are now in England, are they
not?"
"Yes, they came over in March. I rather
fancy they'll be going back soon."
"Was Miss Emily Arundell fond of her
niece?"
"Fond of Bella? Oh, quite. She's a dull
woman--wrapped up in her children and
that sort of thing."
"Did she approve of the husband?"
Miss Peabody chuckled.
"She didn't approve of him, but I think
she rather liked the rascal. He's got brains, you know. If you ask me, he was jockeying
her along very nicely. Got a nose for money, that man."
Poirot coughed.
"I understand Miss Arundell died a rich
woman?" he murmured.
Miss Peabody settled herself more comfortably
in her chair.
"Yes, that's what made all the pother! Nobody
dreamed she was quite as well off as
she was. How it came about was this way.
Old General Arundell left quite a nice little
income--divided equally among his son and
daughters. Some of it was reinvested, and I
think every investment has done well. There
were some original shares ofMortauld. Now, of course, Thomas and Arabella took their
shares with them when they married. The
other three sisters lived here, and they didn't
spend a tenth part of their joint income, it
all went back and was reinvested. When Matilda
died she left her money to be divided
between Emily and Agnes, and when Agnes
died she left hers to Emily. And Emily still
went on spending very little. Result, she died
a rich woman--and the Lawson woman gets
it all!"
Miss Peabody brought out the last sentence
as a kind of triumphal climax.
"Did that come as a surprise to you. Miss
Peabody?"
"To tell you the truth, it did! Emily had
always given out quite openly that at her
death her money was to be divided between
her nieces and her nephew. And as a matter
of fact, that was the way it was in the original
will. Legacies to the servants and so on and
then to be divided between Theresa, Charles
and Bella. My goodness, there was a to-do
when, after her death, it was found she'd
made a new will leaving it all to poor Miss
Lawson!"
"Was the will made just before her
death?"
Miss Peabody directed a sharp glance at
him.
"Thinking of undue influence. No, I'm
afraid that's no use. And I shouldn't think
poor Lawson had the brains or the nerve to
attempt anything of the sort. To tell you the
truth, she seemed as much surprised as
anybody--or said she was!"
Poirot smiled at the addition.
"The will was made about ten days before
her death," went on Miss Peabody. "Lawyer
says it's all right. Well--it may be."
"You mean--" Poirot leaned forward.
"Hanky-panky, that's what I say," said
Miss Peabody. "Something fishy somewhere."

"Just what exactly is your idea?"
"Haven't got one. How should I know
where the hanky-panky comes in? I'm not a
lawyer. But there's something queer about
it, mark my words."
Poirot said slowly:
"Has there been any question of contesting
the will?"
"Theresa's taken counsel's opinion, I believe.
A lot of good that'll do her! What's a
lawyer's opinion nine times out of ten? 'Don't!' Five lawyers advised me once
against bringing an action. What did I do?
Paid no attention. Won my case too. They
had me in the witness box and a clever young
whippersnapper from London tried to make
me contradict myself. But he didn't manage
it. 'You can hardly identify these furs positively,
Miss Peabody,' he said. 'There is no
furrier's mark on them.'
" That may be,' I said. 'But there's a darn
on the lining and if any one can do a darn
like that nowadays I'll eat my umbrella.' Collapsed
utterly, he did."
Miss Peabody chuckled heartily.
"I suppose," said Poirot cautiously, "that--er--feeling--runs rather high between
Miss Lawson and members of Miss
Arundell's family?"
"What do you expect? You know what
human nature is. Always trouble after a
death, anyway. A man or woman is hardly
cold in their coffin before most of the mourners
are scratching each other's eyes out."
Poirot sighed.
"Too true."
"That's human nature," said Miss Peabody
tolerantly.
Poirot changed to another subject.
"Is it true that Miss Arundell dabbled in
spiritualism?"
Miss Peabody's penetrating eye observed
him very acutely.
"If you think," she said, "that the spirit
of John Arundell came back and ordered
Emily to leave her money to Minnie Lawson
and that Emily obeyed, I can tell you that
you're very much mistaken. Emily wouldn't
be that kind of fool. If you ask me, she found
spiritualism one degree better than playing
patience or cribbage. Seen the Tripps?"
"No."
"If you had, you'd realize just the sort of
silliness it was. Irritating women. Always
giving you messages from one or other of
your relations--and always totally incongruous
ones. They believe it all. So did Min- me Lawson. Oh, well, one way of passing
your evenings is as good as another, I suppose."

Poirot tried yet another tack.
"You know young Charles Arundell, I
presume? What kind of a person is he?"
"He's no good. Charmin' fellow. Always
hard up--always in debt--always returning
like a bad penny from all over the world.
Knows how to get round women all right."
She chuckled. "I've seen too many like him
to be taken in! Funny son for Thomas to
have had, I must say. He was a staid old fogy
if you like. Model of rectitude. Ah, well, bad
blood somewhere. Mind you, I like the
rascal--but he's the kind who would murder
his grandmother for a shilling or two quite
cheerfully. No moral sense. Odd the way
some people seem to be born without it."
"And his sister?"
"Theresa?" Miss Peabody shook her head
and said slowly, "I don't know. She's an
exotic creature. Not usual. She's engaged to
that namby-pamby doctor down here.
You've seen him, perhaps?"
"Dr. Donaldson."
"Yes. Clever in his profession, they say.
But he's a poor stick in other ways. Not the
sort of young man I'd fancy if I were a young
girl. Well, Theresa should know her mind.
She's had her experiences, I'll be bound."
"Dr. Donaldson did not attend Miss
Arundell?"
"He used to when Grainger was away on
holiday."
"But not in her last illness?"
"Don't think so."
Poirot said, smiling:
"I gather. Miss Peabody, that you don't
think much of him as a doctor?"
"Never said so. As a matter of fact, you're
wrong. He's sharp enough, and clever
enough in his way--but it's not my way.
Take an instance. In the old days when a
child ate too many green apples it had a bilious
attack and the doctor called it a bilious
attack and went home and sent you along a
few pills from the surgery. Nowadays, you're
told the child suffers from pronounced acidosis,
that its diet must be supervised and
you get the same medicine, only it's in nice
little white tablets put up by manufacturing
chemists and costs you about three times as
much! Donaldson belongs to that school, and, mind you, most young mothers prefer
it. It sounds better. Not that that young man
will be in this place long ministering to measles
and bilious attacks. He's got his eye on
London. He's ambitious. He means to specialize."

"In any particular line?"
"Serum therapeutics. I think I've got it
right. The idea being that you get one of
these nasty hypodermic needles stuck into
you no matter how well you feel, just in case
you should catch something. I don't hold
with all these messy injections myself."
"Is Dr. Donaldson experimenting with
any particular disease?"
"Don't ask me. All I know is a general
practitioner's practice isn't good enough for
him. He wants to set up in London. But to
do that he's got to have money and he's as
poor as a church mouse, whatever a church
mouse may be."
Poirot murmured:
"Sad that real ability is so often baulked
by lack of money. And yet there are people
who do not spend a quarter of their incomes."
"Emily Arundell didn't," said Miss Peabody.
"It was quite a surprise to some people
when that will was read. The amount, I
mean, not the way it was left."
"Was it a surprise, do you think, to the
members of her own family?"
"That's telling," said Miss Peabody, screwing up her eyes with a good deal of
enjoyment. "I wouldn't say yes, and I
wouldn't say no. One of 'em had a pretty
shrewd idea."
"Which one?"
"Master Charles. He'd done a bit of calculation
on his own account. He's no fool, Charles."
"But a little bit of a rogue, eh?"
"At any rate, he isn't a nambypamby
stick," said Miss Peabody viciously.
She paused a minute and then asked:
"Going to get in touch with him?"
"That was my intention," Poirot went on
solemnly. "It seems to me possible that he
might have certain family papers relating to
his grandfather?"
"More likely to have made a bonfire of
them. No respect for his elders, that young
man."
"One must try all avenues," said Poirot
sententiously.
"So it seems," said Miss Peabody drily.
There was a momentary glint in her blue
eyes that seemed to affect Poirot disagreeably.
He rose.
"I must not trespass any longer on your
time, madame. I am most grateful for what
you have been able to tell me."
"I've done my best," said Miss Peabody.
"Seem to have got rather a long way from
the Indian Mutiny, don't we?"
She shook hands with us both.
"Let me know when the book comes out,"
was her parting remark. "I shall be so interested."

And the last thing we heard as we left the
room was a rich, throaty chuckle.
XI
Visit to the Misses Tripp
"and now," said Poirot as we reentered
the car, "what do we do next?"
Warned by experience I did not this time
suggest a return to town. After all, if Poirot
was enjoying himself in his own fashion, why
should I object?
I suggested some tea.
"Tea, Hastings? What an idea! Regard the
time."
"I have regarded it--looked at it, I
mean. It's half-past five. Tea is clearly indicated."

Poirot sighed.
"Always the afternoon tea with you English!
No, mon ami, no tea for us. In a book
of etiquette I read the other day that one
must not make the afternoon call after six
o'clock. To do so is to commit the solecism.
We have, therefore, but half an hour in
which to accomplish our purpose."
"How social you are to-day, Poirot! On
whom are we calling now?"
"Les demoiselles Tripp."
"Are you writing a book on spiritualism
now? Or is it still the life of General Arundell?"
"It
will be simpler than that, my friend.
But we must inquire where these ladies
live."
Directions were forthcoming readily
enough, but of a somewhat confused nature,
involving as they did a series of lanes. The
abode of the Misses Tripp turned out to be
a picturesque cottage—so extremely oldworld
and picturesque that it looked as
though it might collapse any minute.
A child of fourteen or thereabouts opened
the door and with difficulty squeezed herself
against the wall sufficiently to allow us to
pass inside. I
The interior was very rich in old oak
beams—there was a big open fireplace and
such very small windows that it was difficult
to see clearly. All the furniture was of
pseudosimplicity—ye olde oake for ye cot- j
tage dweller—there was a good deal of fruit
in wooden bowls and large numbers of
photographs—most of them, I noticed, of
the same two people represented in different j
poses--usually with bunches of flowers
clasped to their breasts or clutching large
leghorn picture-hats.
The child who had admitted us had murmured
something and disappeared, but her
voice was clearly audible in an upper story.
"Two gentlemen to see you, miss."
A sort of twitter of female voices arose
and presently with a good deal of creaking
and rustling a lady descended the staircase and
came graciously towards us.
She was nearer fifty than forty, her hair
was parted in the middle in Madonna fashion, her eyes were brown and slightly prominent.
She wore a sprigged muslin dress that
conveyed an odd suggestion of fancy dress.
Poirot stepped forward and started the
conversation in his most flourishing manner.
"I must apologize for intruding upon you, mademoiselle, but I am in somewhat of a
predicament. I came here to find a certain
lady, but she has left Market Basing and I
was told that you would certainly have her
address."
"Really? Who was that?"
"Miss Lawson."
"Oh, Minnie Lawson. Of course! We are
the greatest friends. Do sit down, Mr.--er--"
"Parotti--my friend. Captain Hastings."
Miss Tripp acknowledged the introductions
and began to fuss a little.
"Sit here, won't you--no, please--really, I always prefer an upright chair myself. Now, are you sure you are comfortable there? Dear
Minnie Lawson--oh, here is my sister."
More creaking and rustling and we were
joined by a second lady, dressed in green
gingham that would have been suitable for
a girl of sixteen.
"My sister Isabel--Mr.--er--Parrot--
and--er--Captain Hawkins. Isabel dear, these gentlemen are friends of Minnie Law
son's."
Miss
Isabel Tripp was less buxom than
her sister. She might indeed have been described
as scraggy. She had very fair hair
done up into a large quantity of rather messy
curls. She cultivated a girlish manner and
was easily recognizable as the subject of most
of the flower poses in photography. She
clasped her hands now in girlish excitement.
"How delightful! Dear Minnie! You have
seen her lately?"
"Not for some years," explained Poirot.
"We have quite lost touch with each other.
I have been travelling. That is why I was so
astonished and delighted to hear of the good
fortune that had befallen my old friend."
"Yes, indeed. And so well deserved! Min- me is such a rare soul. So simple--so earnest."

"Julia," cried Isabel.
"Yes, Isabel?"
"How remarkable. P. You remember the
planchette distinctly insisted on P. last
night. A visitor from over the water and the initial P."
"So it did," agreed Julia.
Both ladies looked at Poirot in rapt and
delighted surprise.
"It never lies," said Miss Julia softly.
"Are you interested at all in the occult, Mr. Parrot?"
"I have little experience, mademoiselle, but--like any one who has travelled much
in the East, I am bound to admit that there
is much one does not understand and that
cannot be explained by natural means."
"So true," said Julia. "Profoundly true."
"The East," murmured Isabel. "The
home of mysticism and the occult."
Poirot's travellings in the East, as far as I
knew, consisted of one journey to Syria extended
to Iraq, and which occupied perhaps
a few weeks. To judge by his present conversation
one would swear that he had spent
niost of his life in jungles and bazaars and
in intimate converse with fakirs, dervishes 5
and mahatmas.
As far as I could make out the Misses
Tripp were vegetarians, theosophists, British
Israelites, Christian Scientists, spiritualists
and enthusiastic amateur photographers.
"One sometimes feels," said Julia with a
sigh, "that Market Basing is an impossible
place to live. There is no beauty here--no soul. One must have soul, don't you think
so, Captain Hawkins?"
"Quite," I said, slightly embarrassed.
"Oh, quite."
"Without vision the people perish," quoted
Isabel with a sigh. "I have often tried to
discuss things with the vicar, but I find him
most painfully narrow. Don't you think, Mr.
Parrot, that any definite creed is bound to
be narrowing?"
"And everything is so simple, really," put
in her sister. "As we knew so well, everything
is joy and lovel"
"As you say, as you say," said Poirot.
"What a pity it seems that misunderstandings
and quarrels should arise--especially
over money."
"Money is so sordid," sighed Julia.
"I gather that the late Miss Arundell was -- ^f xrrmr converts?" said Poirot.
The two sisters looked at each other.
"I wonder," said Isabel.
"We were never quite sure," breathed Julia.
"One minute she seemed to be convinced
and then she would say something--so--so
ribald."
"Ah, but you remember that last manifestation,"
said Julia. "That was really most
remarkable." She turned to Poirot. "It was
the night dear Miss Arundell was taken ill.
My sister and I went round after dinner and
we had a sitting--just the four of us. And
you know we saw--we all three saw--most distinctly, a kind of halo round Miss ArundelFs
head."
"Comment?"
"Yes. It was a kind of luminous haze."
She turned to her sister. "Isn't that how you
would describe it, Isabel?"
"Yes. Yes, just that. A luminous haze
gradually surrounding Miss ArundelFs
head--an aureole of faint light. It was a sign--we know that now--a sign that she
was about to pass over to the other side."
"Remarkable," said Poirot in a suitably
impressed voice. "It was dark in the room,
yes?"
"Oh, yes, we always get better results in
the dark, and it was quite a warm evening, so we didn't even have the fire on."
"A most interesting spirit spoke to us,"
said Isabel. "Fatima, her name was. She told
us she had passed over in the time of the
Crusades. She gave us a most beautiful message."

"She actually spoke to you?"
"No, not direct voice. She rapped it out.
Love. Hope. Life. Beautiful words."
"And Miss Arundell was actually taken ill
at the seance?"
"It was just after. Some sandwiches and
port wine were brought in, and dear Miss
Arundell said she wouldn't have any as she
wasn't feeling very well. That was the beginning
of her illness. Mercifully, she did
not have to endure much suffering."
"She passed over four days later," said
Isabel.
"And we have already had messages from
her," said Julia eagerly. "Saying that she is
very happy and that everything is beautiful
and that she hopes that there is love and
peace among all her dear ones."
Poirot coughed.
"That--er--is hardly the case, I fear."
"The relations have behaved disgracefully
to poor Minnie," said Isabel. Her face
flushed with indignation.
"Minnie is the most unworldly soul," chimed in Julia.
"People have gone about saying the unkindest things--that she schemed for this
money to be left her!"
"When really it was the greatest surprise
to her--"
"She could hardly believe her ears when
the lawyer read the will--"
"She told us so herself. (Julia,? she said to
me. 'My dear, you could have knocked me
over with a feather. Just a few bequests to
the servants and then Littlegreen House and
the residue of my estate to Wilhelmina Lawson.5
She was so flabbergasted she could
hardly speak. And when she could she asked
how much it would be--thinking perhaps it
would be a few thousand pounds--and Mr.
Purvis, after humming and hawing and talking
about confusing things like gross and net
personalities, said it would be in the neighborhood
of three hundred and seventy-five
thousand pounds. Poor Minnie nearly
fainted, she told us."
"She had no idea," the other sister reiterated.
"She never thought of such a thing
happening!"
"That is what she told you, yes?"
"Oh 5 yes, she repeated it several times.
And that's what makes it so wicked of the
Arundell family to go on as they have done
--cold-shouldering her and treating her with
suspicion. After all, this is a free country--"
"English people seem to labour under that
misapprehension," murmured Poirot.
"And I should hope any one can leave their
money exactly as they choose! I think Miss
Arundell acted very wisely. Obviously she mistrusted her own relatives and I dare say
she had her reasons."
"Ah?" Poirot leant forward with interest.
"Indeed?"
This flattering attention encouraged Isabel
to proceed.
"Yes, indeed. Mr. Charles Arundell, her
nephew, is a thoroughly bad lot. That's well
known! I believe he's even wanted by the
police in some foreign country. Not at all a
desirable character. As for his sister, well, I've not actually spoken to her, but she's a
very queer-looking girl. Ultra modern, of
course, and terribly made-up. Really, the
sight of her mouth made me quite ill. It
looked like blood. And I rather suspect she
takes drugs--her manner was so odd sometimes.
She's by way of being engaged to that
nice young Dr. Donaldson, but I fancy even he looked a little disgusted sometimes. Of
course, she is attractive in her way, but I
hope that he will come to his senses in time
and marry some nice English girl who is fond
of country life and outdoor pursuits."
"And the other relations?"
"Well, there you are again. Very undesirable.
Not that I've anything to say against
Mrs. Tanios--she's quite a nice woman--
but absolutely stupid and completely under
her husband's thumb. Of course, he's really
a Turk, I believe--rather dreadful for an
English girl to marry a Turk, I think, don't
you? It shows a certain lack offastidiousness. Of course, Mrs. Tanios is a very good
mother, though the children are singularly
unattractive, poor little things."
"So altogether you think Miss Lawson was
a more worthy recipient of Miss Arundell's
fortune?"
Julia said serenely:
"Minnie Lawson is a thoroughly good woman. And so unworldly. It isn't as though
she had ever thought about money. She was never grasping."
"Still, she has never thought of refusing
to accept the legacy?"
Isabel drew back a little.
"Oh, well—one would hardly do that."
Poirot smiled.
"No, perhaps not. ..."
"You see, Mr. Parrot," put in Julia, "she
regards it as a trust—a sacred trust."
"And she is quite willing to do something
for Mrs. Tanios or for the Tanios children,"
went on Isabel. "Only she doesn't want him
to get hold of it."
"She even said she would consider making
Theresa an allowance."
"And that, I think, was very generous of
her—considering the off-hand way that girl
has always treated her."
"Indeed, Mr. Parrot, Minnie is the most
generous of creatures. But there now, you
know her, of course!"
"Yes," said Poirot. "I know her. But I
still do not know—her address."
"Of course! How stupid of me! Shall I
write it down for you?"
"I can write it down."
Poirot produced the invariable notebook.
"17 Clanroyden Mansions, W.2. Not very
far from Whiteleys. You'll give her our love,
won't you? We haven't heard from her just
lately."
Poirot rose and I followed suit.
"I have to thank you both very much,"
he declared, "for a most charming talk, as
well as for your kindness in supplying me
with my friend's address."
"I wonder they didn't give it to you at the
house," exclaimed Isabel. "It must be that
Ellen! Servants are so jealous and so smallminded.
They used to be quite rude to Min- me sometimes."
Julia shook hands in a grande dame manner.

"We have enjoyed your visit," she declared
graciously. "I wonder--"
She flashed a glance of inquiry at her sister.

"You would, perhaps--" Isabel flushed a
little. "Would you, that is to say, stay and
share our evening meal? A very simple one
--some shredded, raw vegetables, brown
bread and butter, fruit."
"It sounds delicious," Poirot said hastily.
"But alas! my friend and I have to return to
London."
With renewed handshaking and messages
to be delivered to Miss^Lawson, we at last
made our exit.


c
XII
Po/rot Discusses the Case
"thank goodness, Poirot," I said with fervour, "you got us out of those raw carrots!
What awful women!"
"Pour nous, un bon bifteck--with the fried
potatoes--and a good bottle of wine. What
should we have had to drink there, I wonder?"

"Well water, I should think," I replied
with a shudder. "Or non-alcoholic cider. It
was that kind of place! I bet there's no bath
and no sanitation except an earth closet in
the garden!"
"Strange how women enjoy living an uncomfortable
life," said Poirot thoughtfully.
"It is not always poverty, though they are
good at making the best of straitened circumstances."
"What orders for the chauffeur now?" I
asked as I negotiated the last bend of the
winding lanes, and we emerged on the road
to Market Basing. "On what local light do
we call next? Or do we return to The George
and interrogate the asthmatic waiter once
more?"
"You will be glad to hear, Hastings, that
we have finished with Market Basing--"
"Splendid."
"For the moment only. I shall return!"
"Still on t)ie track of your unsuccessful
murderer?"
"Exactly."
"Did you learn anything from the fandango
of nonsense we've just been listening
to?"
Poirot said precisely:
"There were certain points deserving of
attention. The various characters in our
drama begin to emerge more clearly. In some
ways it resembles, does it not, a novelette of
olden days. The humble companion, once
despised, is raised to affluence and now plays
the part of lady bountiful."
"I should imagine that such a patronage
must be very galling to people who regard
themselves as the rightful heirs!"
"As you say, Hastings. Yes, that is very
true."
We drove on in silence for some minutes.
We had passed through Market Basing and
were now once more on the main road. I
hummed to myself softly the tune of "Little
Man, You've Had a Busy Day."
"Enjoyed yourself, Poirot?" I asked at
last.
Poirot said coldly:
"I do not know quite what you mean by 'enjoyed yourself,' Hastings."
"Well," I said, "it seemed to me you've
been treating yourself to a busman's holiday!"

"You do not think that I am serious?"
"Oh, you're serious enough. But this business
seems to be of the academic kind.
You're tackling it for your own mental satisfaction.
What I mean is--it's not real."
"Au contraire, it is intensely real."
"I express myself badly. What I mean is, if there were a question of helping our old
lady, of protecting her against further
attack--well, there would be some excitement
then. But as it is, I can't help feeling
that as she is dead, why worry."
"In that case, mon ami, one would not
investigate a murder case at all!"
"No, no, no. That's quite different. I
mean, then you have a body. . . . Oh, dash
it ally
"Do not enrage yourself.'I comprehend
perfectly. You make a distinction between a body and a mere decease. Supposing, for instance, that Miss Arundell had died with
sudden and alarming violence instead of respectably
of a long-standing illness--then
you would not remain indifferent to my efforts
to discover the truth?"
"Of course I wouldn't."
"But all the same, some one did attempt
to murder her?"
"Yes, but they didn't succeed. That makes
all the difference."
"It does not intrigue you at all to know who attempted to kill her?"
"Well, yes, it does in a way."
"We have a very restricted circle," said
Poirot musingly. "That thread--"
"The thread which you merely deduce
from a nail in the skirting-board!" I interrupted.
"Why, that nail may have been there
for years!"
"No. The varnish was quite fresh."
"Well, I still think there might be all sorts
of explanations of it."
"Give me one."
At the moment I could not think of anything
sufficiently plausible. Poirot took advantage
of my silence to sweep on with his
discourse.
"Yes, a restricted circle. That thread
could only have been stretched across the
top of the stairs after every one had gone to
bed. Therefore we have only the occupants of
the house to consider. That is to say, the guilt
lies between seven people. Dr. Tanios. Mrs.
Tanios. Theresa Arundell. Charles Arundell.
Miss Lawson. Ellen. Cook."
"Surely you can leave the servants out of
it."
"They received legacies, mon cher. And
there might have been other reasons--spite
--a quarrel--dishonesty--one cannot be
certain."
"It seems to me very unlikely."
"Unlikely, I agree. But one must take all
possibilities into consideration."
"In that case, you must allow for eight
people, not seven."
"How so?"
I felt I was about to score a point.
"You must include Miss Arundell herself.
How do you know she may not have
stretched that thread across the stairs in order
to trip up some other member of the
house-party?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"It is a betise you say there, my friend. If
Miss Arundell laid a trap, she would be careful not to fall into it herself. It was she who
fell down the stairs, remember.
I retired crestfallen.
Poirot went on in a thoughtful voice:
'The sequence of events is quite clear--
the fall--the letter to me--the visit of the
lawyer--but there is one doubtful point. Did
Miss Arundell deliberately hold back the letter
to me, hesitating to post it? Or did she, once having written it, assume it was posted?"
"That we can't possibly tell," I said.
"No. We can only guess. Personally, I
fancy that she assumed it had been posted.
She must have been surprised at getting no
reply. ..."
My thoughts had been busy in another
direction.
"Do you think this spiritualistic nonsense
counted at all?" I asked. "I mean, do you
think, in spite of Miss Peabody's ridiculing
of the suggestion, that a command was given
at one of these seances that she should alter
her will and leave her money to the Lawson
woman?"
Poirot shook his head doubtfully.
"That does not seem to fit in with the
general impression I have formed of Miss
ArundelPs character."
"The Tripp women say that Miss Lawson
was completely taken aback when the will
was read," I said thoughtfully.
"That is what she told them, yes," agreed
Poirot.
"But you don't believe it?"
"Mon ami--you know my suspicious nature!
I believe nothing that any one says unless
it can be confirmed or corroborated."
"That's right, old boy," I said affectionately.
"A thoroughly nice, trustful nature."
" 'He says,5 'she says,' 'they say.' Bah!
what does that mean? Nothing at all. It may
be absolute truth. It may be useful falsehood.
Me, I deal only with/acts."
"And the facts are?"
"Miss Arundell had a fall. That nobody
disputes. The fall was not a natural one--it
was contrived."
"The evidence for that being that Hercule
Poirot says so!"
"Not at all. There is the evidence of the
nail. The evidence of Miss Arundell's letter
to me. The evidence of the dog having been
out that night. The evidence of Miss Arundell's
words about the jar and the picture
and Bob's ball. All these things are facts."
"And the next fact, please?"
"The next fact is the answer to our usual
r
question. Who benefits by Miss ArundelFs
death? Answer--Miss Lawson."
"The wicked companion! On the other
hand, the others thought they were going to
benefit. And at the time of the accident they would have benefited."
"Exactly, Hastings. That is why they all
lie equally under suspicion. There is also the
little fact that Miss Lawson took pains to
prevent Miss Arundell learning that Bob had
been out all night."
"You call that suspicious?"
"Not at all. I merely note it. It may have
been natural concern for the old lady's peace
of mind. That is by far the most likely explanation."

I looked at Poirot sideways. He is so confoundedly
slippery.
"Miss Peabody expressed the opinion that
there was 'hanky-panky' about the will," I
said. "What do you suppose she meant by
that?"
"It was, I think, her way of expressing
various nebulous and unformulated suspicions."

"Undue influence, it seems, can be
washed out," I said thoughtfully. "And it
certainly looks as though Emily Arundell
was much too sensible to believe in any tomfoolery
like spiritualism."
"What makes you say that spiritualism is
tomfoolery, Hastings?"
I stared at him in astonishment.
"My dear Poirot--those appalling women--"

He smiled.
"I quite agree with your estimate of the
Misses Tripp. But the mere fact that the
Misses Tripp have adopted with enthusiasm
Christian Science, vegetarianism, theosophy
and spiritualism does not really constitute a
damning indictment of those subjects! Because
a foolish woman will tell you a lot of
nonsense about a fake scarab which she has
bought from a rascally dealer, that does not
necessarily bring discredit on the general
subject of Egyptology!"
"Do you mean you believe in spiritualism, Poirot?"
"I have an open mind on the subject. I
have never studied any of its manifestations
myself, but it must be accepted that many
men of science and learning have pronounced
themselves satisfied that there are
phenomena which cannot be accounted for
by--shall we say the credulity of a Miss
Trinn^
"Then you believe in this rigmarole of an
aureole of light surrounding Miss ArundelFs
head?"
Poirot waved a hand.
"I was speaking generally--rebuking
your attitude of quite unreasoning scepticism.
I may say that, having formed a certain
opinion of Miss Tripp and her sister, I
should examine very carefully any fact they
presented for my notice. Foolish women, mon ami, are foolish women, whether they
are talking about spiritualism or politics or
the relation of the sexes or the tenets of the
Buddhist faith."
"Yet you listened to what they had to say
very carefully."
"That has been my task to-day--to listen.
To hear what every one has got to tell me
about these seven people--and mainly, of
course, the five people primarily concerned.
Already we know certain aspects of these
people. Take Miss Lawson. From the Misses
Tripp we learn she was devoted, unselfish, unworldly and altogether a beautiful character.
From Miss Peabody we learn that she
was credulous, stupid, without the nerve or
the brains to attempt anything criminal.
From Dr. Grainger we learn that she was
downtrodden, that her position was precar-
ious, and that she was a poor 'frightened, fluttering hen,5 were, I think, the words he Jj
used. From our waiter we learned that Miss 11
Lawson was 'a person,5 and from Ellen that
Bob, the dog, despised her! Every one, you |
see, saw her from a slightly different angle. ;
That is the same with the others. Nobody's
opinion of Charles ArundelFs morals seems
to have been high, but nevertheless they vary
in their manner of speaking of him. Dr.
Grainger calls him indulgently 'an irreverent
young devil.5 Miss Peabody says he would
murder his grandmother for twopence but
clearly prefers a rascal to a 'stick.5 Miss
Tripp hints not only that he would do a criminal
action but that he has done one--or
more. These sidelights are all very useful and
interesting. They lead to the next thing."
"Which is?"
"To see for ourselves, my friend."
XIII
Theresa Arundell
on the following morning we made our way
to the address given us by Dr. Donaldson.
I suggested to Poirot that a visit to the
lawyer, Mr. Purvis, might be a good thing, but Poirot negatived the idea strongly.
"No, indeed, my friend. What could we
say--what reason could we advance for seeking
information?"
"You're usually pretty ready with reasons, Poirot! Any old lie would do, wouldn't it?"
"On the contrary, my friend, 'any old lie,5 as you put it, would not do. Not with a
lawyer. We should be--how do you say it?
--thrown out with the flea upon the ear."
"Oh, well," I said. "Don't let us risk that!"
So, as I have said, we set out for the flat
occupied by Theresa Arundell.
The flat in question was situated in a block
at Chelsea overlooking the river. It was furnished expensively in the modern style, with
gleaming chromium and thick rugs with geometric
designs upon them.
We were kept waiting a few minutes and
then a girl entered the room and looked at
us inquiringly.
Theresa Arundell looked about twentyeight
or nine. She was tall and very slender, and she looked rather like an exaggerated
drawing in black and white. Her hair was
jet black--her face heavily made-up, dead
pale. Her eyebrows, freakishly plucked, gave
her an air of mocking irony. Her lips were
the only spot of colour, a brilliant gash of
scarlet in a white face. She also conveyed the
impression--how I do not quite know, for
her manner was almost wearily indifferent
--of being at least twice as much alive as
most people. There hung about her the restrained
energy of a whiplash.
With an air of cool inquiry she looked
from me to Poirot.
Wearied (I hoped) of deceit, Poirot had
on this occasion sent in his own card. She
was holding it now in her fingers, twirling
it to and fro.
"I suppose," she said, "you're M. Poirot?"
Poirot
bowed in his best manner.
"At your service, mademoiselle. You permit
me to trespass for a few moments of your
valuable time?"
With a faint imitation of Poirot5 s manner, she replied:
"Enchanted, M. Poirot. Pray sit down."
Poirot sat, rather gingerly, on a low square
easy-chair. I took an upright one of webbing
and chromium. Theresa sat negligently on a
low stool in front of the fireplace. She offered
us both cigarettes. We refused and she
lighted one herself.
"You know my name perhaps, mademoiselle?"

She nodded.
"Little friend of Scotland Yard. That's
right, isn't it?"
Poirot, I think, did not much relish this
description. He said with some importance:
"I concern myself with problems of crime, mademoiselle."
"How frightfully thrilling," said Theresa
Arundell in a bored voice. "And to think
I've lost my autograph book!"
"The matter with which I concern myself
is this," continued Poirot. "Yesterday I received
a letter from your aunt."
Her eyes--very long, almond-shaped
eyes--opened a little. She puffed smoke in
a cloud.
"From my aunt, M. Poirot?"
"That is what I said, mademoiselle."
She murmured:
"I'm sorry if I'm spoiling sport in any way, but really, you know, there isn't any such
person! All my aunts are mercifully dead.
The last died two months ago."
"Miss Emily Arundell?"
"Yes, Miss Emily Arundell. You don't receive
letters from corpses, do you, M.
Poirot?"
"Sometimes I do, mademoiselle."
"How macabre!"
But there was a new note in her voice--
a note suddenly alert and watchful.
"And what did my aunt say, M. Poirot?"
"That, mademoiselle, I can hardly tell you
just at present. It was, you see, a somewhat"--he
coughed--"delicate matter."
There was silence for a minute or two.
Theresa Arundell smoked. Then she said:
"It all sounds delightfully hush-hush. But
where exactly do I come in?"
"I hoped, mademoiselle, that you might
consent to answer a few questions."
"Questions? What about?"
"Questions of a family nature."
Again I saw her eyes widen.
"That sounds rather pompous! Supposing
you give me a specimen."
"Certainly. Can you tell me the present
address of your brother Charles?"
The eyes narrowed again. Her latent energy
was less apparent. It was as though she
withdrew into a shell.
"I'm afraid I can't. We don't correspond
much. I rather think he has left England."
"I see."
Poirot was silent for a minute or two.
"Was that all you wanted to know?"
"Oh, I have other questions. For one--
are you satisfied with the way in which your
aunt disposed of her fortune? For another
--how long have you been engaged to Dr.
Donaldson?"
"You do jump about, don't you?"
"Eh bien?"
"Eh bien--since we are so foreign!--my
answer to both those questions is that they
are none of your business! Cq ne vous regarde
pas, M. Hercule Poirot"
Poirot studied her for a moment or two
attentively. Then, with no trace of disappointment, he got up.
"So it is like that! Ah, well, perhaps it is
not surprising. Allow me, mademoiselle, to
congratulate you upon your French accent.
And to wish you a very good morning.
Come, Hastings."
We had reached the door when the girl
spoke. The simile of a whiplash came again
into my mind. She did not move from her
position, but the two words were like the
flick of a whip.
"Come back!" she said.
Poirot obeyed slowly. He sat down again
and looked at her inquiringly.
"Let's stop playing the fool," she said.
"It's just possible that you might be useful
to me, M. Hercule Poirot."
"Delighted, mademoiselle--and how?"
Between two puffs of cigarette smoke she
said very quietly and evenly:
"Tell me how to break that will."
"Surely a lawyer--"
"Yes, a lawyer, perhaps--if I knew the
right lawyer. But the only lawyers I know
are respectable meni Their advice is that the
will holds good in law and that any attempt
to contest it will be useless expense."
"But you do not believe them."
"I believe there is always a way to do
things--if you don't mind being unscrupulous
and are prepared to pay. Well, I am
prepared to pay."
"And you take it for granted that I am
prepared to be unscrupulous if I am paid?"
"I've found that to be true of most people!
I don't see why you should be an exception.
People always protest about their honesty
and their rectitude to begin with, of course."
"Just so, that is part of the game, eh? But
what, given that I was prepared to be—
unscrupulous—do you think I could do?"
"I don't know. But you're a clever man.
Every one knows that. You could think out
some scheme."
"Such as?"
Theresa Arundell shrugged her shoulders.
"That's your business. Steal the will and
substitute a forgery. . . . Kidnap the Lawson
woman and frighten her into saying she
bullied Aunt Emily into making it. Produce
a later will made on old Emily's deathbed."
"Your fertile imagination takes my breath
away, mademoiselle!"
"Well, what is your answer? I've been
frank enough. If it's righteous refusal,
there's the door."
"It is not righteous refusal—yet—" said
Poirot.
Theresa Arundell laughed. She looked at
me.
"Your friend," she observed, "looks
shocked. Shall we send him out to chase
himself round the block?"
Poirot addressed himself to me with some
slight irritation.
"Control, I pray of you, your beautiful
and upright nature, Hastings. I demand pardon
for my friend, mademoiselle. He is, as
you have perceived, honest. But he is also
faithful. His loyalty to myself is absolute. In
any case, let me emphasize this point--" he
looked at her very hard--"whatever we are
about to do will be strictly within the law."
She raised her eyebrows slightly.
"The law," said Poirot thoughtfully, "has
a lot of latitude."
"I see." She smiled faintly. "All right, we'll let that be understood. Do you want
to discuss your share of the booty--if there
turns out to be any booty?"
"That, also, can be understood. Some nice
little pickings--that is all I ask."
"Done," said Theresa.
Poirot leant forward.
"Now listen, mademoiselle, usually--in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred cases, shall we say, I am on the side of the law.
The hundredth--well, the hundredth is different.
For one thing, it is usually much
more lucrative. . . . But it has to be done
very quietly, you understand--very, very
quietly. My reputation, it must not suffer.
I have to be careful."
Theresa Arundell nodded.
"And I must have all the facts of the case!
I must have the truth! You comprehend that
once one knows the truth it is an easier matter
to know just what lies to tell!"
"That seems eminently reasonable."
"Very well then. Now, on what date was
this will made?"
"On April 21st."
"And the previous will?"
"Aunt Emily made a will five years ago."
"Its provisions being--?"
"After a legacy to Ellen and one to a former
cook, all her property was to be divided
between the children of her brother Thomas
and the children of her sister Arabella."
"Was this money left in trust?"
"No, it was left to us absolutely."
"Now be careful. Did you all know the
provisions of this will?"
"Oh, yes. Charles and I knew--and Bella
knew too. Aunt Emily made no secret of it.
In fact, if any of us asked for a loan she would
usually say, 'You'll have all my money when
I'm dead and gone. Be content with that
fact.5 "
"Would she have refused a loan if there
had been a case of illness or any dire necessity?"

"No, I don't think she would," said Theresa
slowly.
"But she considered you all had enough
to live on?"
"She considered so--yes."
There was bitterness in that voice.
"But you--did not?"
Theresa waited a minute or two before
speaking. Then she said:
"My father left us thirty thousand pounds
each. The interest on that, safely invested, amounts to about twelve hundred a year.
Income-tax takes another wedge off it. A
nice little income on which one can manage
very prettily. But I--" her voice changed, her slim body straightened, her head went
back--all that wonderful aliveness I had
sensed in her came to the fore--"but I want
something better than that out of life! I want
the best! The best food, the best clothes--
something with line to it--beauty--not just
suitable covering in the prevailing fashion.
I want to live and enjoy--to go to the Mediterranean
and lie in the warm summer sea
--to sit round a table and play with exciting
wads of money--to give parties--wild, absurd, extravagant parties--I want everything
that's going in this rotten world--and
I don't want it some day--I want it now!"
Her voice was wonderfully exciting, warm, exhilarating, intoxicating.
Poirot was studying her intently.
"And you have, I fancy, had it now?"
"Yes, Hercule--Fve had it!"
"And how much of the thirty thousand is
left?"
She laughed suddenly.
"Two hundred and twenty-one pounds, fourteen and sevenpence. That's the exact
balance. So you see, little man, you've got
to be paid by results. No results--no fees."
"In that case," said Poirot in a matter-offact
manner, "there will certainly be results."

"You're a great little man, Hercule. I'm
glad we got together."
Poirot went on in a business-like way:
"There are a few things that are actually
necessary that I should know. Do you drug?"
"No, never."
"Drink?"
"Quite heavily--but not for the love of it.
My crowd drinks and I drink with them, but
I could give it up tomorrow."
"That is very satisfactory."
She laughed.
"I shan't give the show away in my cups, Hercule."
Poirot proceeded:
"Love affairs?"
"Plenty in the past."
"And the present?"
"Only Rex."
"That is Dr. Donaldson?"
"Yes."
"He seems, somehow, very alien from the
life you mention."
"Oh, he is."
"And yet you care for him. Why, I wonder?"

"Oh, what are reasons? Why did Juliet
fall for Romeo?"
"Well, for one thing, with all due deference
to Shakespeare, he happened to be the
first man she had seen."
Theresa said slowly:
"Rex wasn't the first man I saw--not by
a long way." She added in a lower voice,
"But I think--I feel--he'll be the last man
I'll ever see."
"And he is a poor man, mademoiselle."
She nodded.
"And he, too, needs money?"
"Desperately. Oh, not for the reasons I
did. He doesn't want luxury--or beauty--
or excitement--or any of these things. He'd
wear the same suit until it went into holes
--and eat a congealed chop every day for
lunch quite happily, and wash in a cracked
tin bath. If he had money it would all go on
test-tubes and a laboratory and all the rest
of it. He's ambitious. His profession means
everything to him. It means more to him
than--I do."
"He knew that you would come into
money when Miss Arundell died?"
"I told him so. Oh! after we were engaged.
He isn't really marrying me for my money
if that is what you are getting at."
"You are still engaged?"
"Of course we are."
Poirot did not reply. His silence seemed
to disquiet her.
"Of course we are," she repeated sharply.
And then she added, "You--have you seen
him?"
"I saw him yesterday--at Market Basing."

"Why? What did you say to him?"
"I said nothing. I only asked him for your
brother's address."
"Charles?" Her voice was sharp again.
"What did you want with Charles?"
"Charles? Who wants Charles?" It was a new voice--a delightful, man's
voice.
A bronze-faced young man with an agreeable
grin strolled into the room.
"Who is talking about me?" he asked. "I
heard my name in the hall, but I didn't
eavesdrop. They were very particular about
eavesdropping at Borstal. Now then, Theresa
my girl, what's all this? Spill the beans."
XIV
Charles Arundell
I must confess that from the moment I set
eyes on him I entertained a sneaking liking
for Charles Arundell. There was something
so debonair and carefree about him. His eyes
had an agreeable and humorous twinkle and
his grin was one of the most disarming I have
ever encountered.
He came across the room and sat down on
the arm of one of the massive, upholstered
chairs.
"What's it all about, old girl?" he asked.
"This is M. Hercule Poirot, Charles. He
is prepared to--er--do some dirty work for
us in return for a small consideration."
"I protest," cried Poirot. "Not dirty
work--shall we say a little harmless deception
of some kind--so that the original intention
of the testator is carried out? Let us
Put it that way."
"Put it any way you like," said Charles
agreeably. "What made Theresa think of
you, I wonder?"
"She did not," said Poirot quickly. "I
came here of my own accord."
"Offering your services?"
"Not quite that. I was asking for you.
Your sister told me you had gone abroad."
"Theresa," said Charles, "is a very careful
sister. She hardly ever makes a mistake. In
fact, she's suspicious as the devil."
He smiled at her affectionately, but she
did not smile back. She looked worried and
thoughtful.
"Surely," said Charles, "we've got things
the wrong way round? Isn't M. Poirot famous
for tracking down criminals? Surely
not for aiding and abetting them?"
"We're not criminals," said Theresa
sharply.
"But we're quite willing to be," said
Charles affably. "I'd thought of a spot of
forgery myself--that's rather my line. I got
sent down from Oxford because of a little
misunderstanding about a cheque. That was
childishly simple, though--merely a question
of adding a nought. Then there was
another little fracas with Aunt Emily and the
local bank. Foolish on my part, of course. I
ought to have realized the old lady was sharp
as needles. However, all these incidents have
been very small fry--fivers or tenners--that
class. A deathbed will would be admittedly
risky. One would have to get hold of the stiff
and starched Ellen and--is suborn the
word?--anyway, induce her to say she had
witnessed it. It would take some doing, I
fear. I might even marry her and then she
wouldn't be able to give evidence against me
afterwards."
He grinned amiably at Poirot.
"I feel sure you've installed a secret dietaphone
and Scotland Yard is listening in,"
he said.
"Your problem interests me," said Poirot
with a touch of reproof in his manner.
"Naturally I could not connive at anything
against the law. But there are more ways than
one--" He stopped significantly.
Charles Arundell shrugged his graceful
shoulders.
"I've no doubt there's an equal choice of
devious ways inside the law," he said agreeably.
"You should know."
"By whom was the will witnessed? I mean
the one made on April 21st?"
"Pur vis brought down his clerk and the
second witness was the gardener."
"It was signed then in Mr. Purvis's presence?"

"It was."
"And Mr. Purvis, I fancy, is a man of the
highest respectability?"
"Pur vis, Purvis, Charlesworth and once
more Purvis are just about as respectable and
impeccable as the Bank of England," said
Charles.
"He didn't like making the will," said
Theresa. "In an ultra-correct fashion I believe
he even tried to dissuade Aunt Emily
from making it."
Charles said sharply:
"Did he tell you that, Theresa?"
"Yes. I went to see him again yesterday."
"It's no good, my sweet--you ought to
realize that. Only piles up the six and eightpences."
Theresa
shrugged her shoulders.
Poirot said:
"I will ask of you to give me as much
information as you can about the last weeks
of Miss ArundelFs life. Now, to begin with, I understand that you and your brother and
also Dr. Tanios and his wife stayed there for
Easter?"
"Yes, we did."
"Did anything happen of significance during
that weekend?"
"I don't think so."
"Nothing? But I thought--"
Charles broke in.
"What a self-centred creature you are, Theresa. Nothing of significance happened to you! Wrapped in love's young dream! Let
me tell you, M. Poirot, that Theresa has a
blue-eyed boy in Market Basing. One of the
local sawbones. She's got rather a faulty
sense of proportion in consequence. As a
matter of fact, my revered aunt took a header
down the stairs and nearly passed out. Wish
she had. It would have saved all this fuss."
"She fell down the stairs?"
"Yes, tripped over the dog's ball. Intelligent
little brute left it at the top of the stairs
and she took a header over it in the night."
"This was--when?"
"Let me see--Tuesday--the evening before
we left."
"Your aunt was seriously injured?"
"Unfortunately she didn't fall on her
head. If she had we might have pleaded softening
of the brain--or whatever it's called
scientifically. No, she was hardly hurt at
all.55
Poirot said drily:
"Very disappointing for you!"
"Eh? Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, as
you say, very disappointing. Tough nuts, these old ladies."
"And you all left on the Wednesday morning?"

"That's right."
"That was Wednesday, the fifteenth.
When did you next see your aunt?"
"Well, it wasn't the next week-end. It was
the week-end after that."
"That would be--let me see--the twentyfifth,
would it not?"
"Yes, I think that was the date."
"And your aunt died--when?"
"The following Friday."
"Having been taken ill on the Monday
night?"
"Yes."
"That was the Monday that you left?"
"Yes."
"You did not return during her illness?"
"Not until the Friday. We didn't realize
she was really bad."
"You got there in time to see her alive?"
"No, she died before we arrived."
Poirot shifted his glance to Theresa Arun-
i^n
I "You accompanied your brother on both
these occasions?"
"Yes."
"And nothing was said during that second
week-end about a new will having been
made?"
"Nothing," said Theresa.
Charles, however, had answered at the
same moment.
"Oh, yes," he said. "It was."
He spoke airily as ever, but there was
something a little constrained, as though the
airiness were more artificial than usual.
"It was?'9 said Poirot.
"Charles!" cried Theresa.
Charles seemed anxious not to meet his
sister's eye.
He spoke to her without looking at her.
"Surely you remember, old girl? I told
you. Aunt Emily made a kind of ultimatum
of it. Sat there like a judge in court. Made
a kind of speech. Said she thoroughly disapproved
of all her relations--that is to say, of me and Theresa. Bella, she allowed, she
had nothing against, but on the other hand
she disliked and distrusted her husband. Buy
British was ever Aunt Emily's motto. If Bella
were to inherit any considerable sum of
money she said she was convinced that Tanios would somehow or other get possession
of it. Trust a Greek to do that! 'She's safer
as she is,' she went on to say. Then she said
that neither I nor Theresa were fit people to
be trusted with money. We would only gamble
and squander it away. Therefore, she
finished up, she had made a new will and
had left the entire estate to Miss Lawson. 'She is a fool,' said Aunt Emily, 'but she is
a faithful soul. And I really believe she is
devoted to me. She cannot help her lack of
brains. I have thought it fairer to tell you
this, Charles, as you may as well realize that
it will not be possible for you to raise money
on your expectations from me.5 Rather a
nasty one, that. Just what I'd been trying to
do."
"Why didn't you tell me, Charles?" demanded
Theresa fiercely.
"Thought I did." Charles avoided her eye.
Poirot asked:
"And what did you say, Mr. Arundell?"
"I?" said Charles airily. "Oh, I just
laughed. No good cutting up rough. That's
not the way. 'Just as you please. Aunt
Emily,' I said. 'Bit of a blow, perhaps, but
after all, it's your own money and you can
do what you like with it.' "
"And your aunt's reaction to that?"
"Oh, it went down well--very well, indeed.
She said, "Well, I will say you're a sportsman, Charles.' And I said, 'Got to take
the rough with the smooth. As a matter of
fact, if I've no expectations, what about giving
me a tenner now?5 And she said I was
an impudent boy and actually parted with a river ."
"You concealed your feelings very cleverly."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I didn't take it
very seriously."
"You didn't?"
"No. I thought it was what you might call
a gesture on the old bean's part. She wanted
to frighten us all. I'd a pretty shrewd suspicion
that after a few weeks or perhaps
months she'd tear that will up. She was
pretty hot on family. Aunt Emily. And, as
a matter of fact, I believe that's what she would have done if she hadn't died so confoundedly
suddenly."
"Ah!" said Poirot. "It is an interesting
idea that."
He remained silent for a minute or two, then went on:
"Could any one. Miss Lawson, for instance, have overheard your conversation?"
"Rather. We weren't speaking any too
low. As a matter of fact, the Lawson bird
was hovering about outside the door when I
went out. Been doing a bit of snooping in
my opinion."
Poirot turned a thoughtful glance on
Theresa.
"And you knew nothing of this?"
Before she could answer, Charles broke
in:
"Theresa, old girl, I'm sure I told you--
or hinted to you."
There was a queer sort of pause. Charles
was looking fixedly at Theresa, and there
was an anxiety, a fixity, about his gaze that
seemed out of all proportion to the subject
matter.
Theresa said slowly:
"If you had told me--I don't think I could
have forgotten, do you, M. Poirot?"
Her long, dark eyes turned to him.
Poirot said slowly:
"No, I don't think you could have forgotten, Miss Arundell."
Then he turned sharply to Charles.
"Let me be quite clear on one point. Did
Miss Arundell tell you she was about to alter
her will, or did she tell you specifically that
she had altered it?"
Charles said quickly:
"Oh, she was quite definite. As a matter
of fact, she showed me the will."
Poirot leaned forward. His eyes opened
wide.
"This is very important. You say that Miss
Arundell actually showed you the will?"
Charles gave a sudden schoolboy wriggle
--a rather disarming action. Poirot's gravity
made him quite uncomfortable.
"Yes," he said. "She showed it to me."
"You can swear definitely to that?"
"Of course I can." Charles looked nervously
at Poirot. "I don't see what is so significant
about that."
There was a sudden brusque movement
from Theresa. She had risen and was standing
by the mantelpiece. She quickly lit another
cigarette.
"And you, mademoiselle?" Poirot whirled
suddenly round on her. "Did your aunt say
nothing of importance to you during that
weekend?"
"I don't think so. She was--quite amiable.
That is, as amiable as she usually was.
Lectured me a bit about my way of life and all that. But then, she always did. She
seemed perhaps a bit more jumpy than
usual."
Poirot said, smiling:
"I suppose, mademoiselle, that you were
more taken up with your fiance?"
Theresa said sharply:
"He wasn't there. He was away, he'd gone
to some medical congress."
"You had not seen him then since the
Easter week-end? Was that the last time you
had seen him?"
"Yes--on the evening before we left he
came to dinner."
"You had not--excuse me--had any
quarrel with him then?"
"Certainly not."
"I only thought, seeing that he was away on your second visit--"
Charles broke in:
"Ah, but you see, that second weekend
was rather unpremeditated. We went down
on the spur of the moment."
"Really?"
"Oh, let's have the truth," said Theresa
wearily. "You see, Bella and her husband
were down the week-end before--fussing
over Aunt Emily because of her accident.
We thought they might steal a march on
us--"
"We thought," said Charles with a grin,
"that we'd better show a little concern for
Aunt Emily's health too. Really, though, the
old lady was much too sharp to be taken in
by the dutiful attention stunt. She knew very
well how much it was worth. No fool. Aunt
Emily."
Theresa laughed suddenly.
"It's a pretty story, isn't it? All of us with
our tongues hanging out for money."
"Was that the case with your cousin and
her husband?"
"Oh, yes, Bella's always hard up. Rather
pathetic the way she tries to copy all my
clothes at about an eighth of the price. Tanios
speculated with her money, I believe.
They're hard put to it to make both ends
meet. They've got two children and want to
educate them in England."
"Can you perhaps give me their address?"
said Poirot.
"They're staying at the Durham Hotel in
Bloomsbury."
"What is she like, your cousin?"
"Bella? Well, she's a dreary woman. Eh,
Charles?"
"Oh, definitely a dreary woman. Rather
like an earwig. She's a devoted mother. So
are earwigs, I believe."
"And her husband?"
"Tanios? Well, he looks a bit odd, but
he's really a thoroughly nice fellow. Clever, amusing and a thoroughly good sport."
"You agree, mademoiselle?"
"Well, I must admit I prefer him to Bella.
He's a damned clever doctor, I believe. All
the same, I wouldn't trust him very far."
"Theresa," said Charles, "doesn't trust
anybody."
He put an arm round her.
"She doesn't trust me."
"Any one who trusted you, my sweet, would be mentally deficient," said Theresa
kindly.
The brother and sister moved apart and
looked at Poirot.
Poirot bowed and moved to the door.
"I am--as you say--on the job! It is difficult, but Mademoiselle is right. There is
always a way. Ah, by the way, this Miss
Lawson, is she the kind that might conceivably
lose her head under cross-examination
in court?"
Charles and Theresa exchanged glances.
"I should say," said Charles, "that a really
bullying K.C. could make her say black was
white!"
"That," said Poirot, "may be very useful."

He skipped out of the room and I followec
him. In the hall he picked up his hat, moved
to the front door, opened it and shut it again
quickly with a bang. Then he tiptoed to the
door of the sitting-room and unblushingly
applied his ear to the crack. At whatever
school Poirot was educated, there were
clearly no unwritten rules about eavesdropping.
I was horrified but powerless. I made
urgent signs to Poirot, but he took no notice.
And then, clearly, in Theresa ArundelFs
deep, vibrant voice, there came two words:
"You fool!"
There was the noise of footsteps along the
passage and Poirot quickly seized me by the
arm, opened the front door and passed through, closing it noiselessly behind him.
XV
Miss Lawson
"poirot," I said. "Have we got to listen at
doors?"
"Calm yourself, my friend. It was only I
who listened! It was not you who put your
ear to the crack. On the contrary, you stood
bolt upright like a soldier."
"But I heard just the same."
"True. Mademoiselle was hardly whispering."

"Because she thought that we had left the
flat."
"Yes, we practised a little deception
there."
"I don't like that sort of thing."
"Your moral attitude is irreproachable! But let us not repeat ourselves. This conversation
has occurred on previous occasions.
You are about to say that it is not
playing the game. And my reply is that murder
is not a game."
r
"But there is no question of murder here."
"Do not be sure of that."
"The intention, yes, perhaps. But after all,
murder and attempted murder are not the
same thing."
"Morally they are exactly the same thing.
But what I meant was, are you so sure that
it is only attempted murder that occupies our
attention?"
I stared at him.
"But old Miss Arundell died a perfectly
natural death."
"I repeat again—are you so sure?"
"Every one says so!"
"Every one? Oh, Id Id!"
"The doctor says so," I pointed out. "Dr.
Grainger. He ought to know."
"Yes, he ought to know." Poirot's voice
was dissatisfied. "But remember, Hastings,
again and again a body is exhumed—and in
each case a certificate has been signed in all
good faith by the doctor attending the case."
"Yes, but in this case. Miss Arundell died
of a longstanding complaint."
"It seems so—yes."
Poirot's voice was still dissatisfied. I
looked at him keenly.
"Poirot," I said, "I'll begin a sentence
with 'Are you sure!" Are you sure you are
not being carried away by professional zeal?
You want it to be murder and so you think
it must be murder."
The shadow on his brow deepened. He
nodded his head slowly.
"It is clever what you say there, Hastings.
It is a weak spot on which you put your
finger. Murder is my business. I am like a
great surgeon who specializes in--say--appendicitis
or some rarer operation. A patient
comes to him and he regards that patient
solely from the standpoint of his own specialized
subject. Is there any possible reason
for thinking this man suffers from so and
so . . . ? Me, I am like that, too. I say to
myself always, 'Can this possibly be murder?5 And you see, my friend, there is nearly
always a possibility."
"I shouldn't say there was much possibility
here," I remarked.
"But she died, Hastings 1 You cannot get
away from that fact. She died!"
"She was in poor health. She was past
seventy. It all seems perfectly natural to
me."
"And does it also seem natural to you that
Theresa Arundell should call her brother a
fool with that degree of intensity?"
"What has that got to do with it?"
"Everything! Tell me, what did you think
of that statement of Mr. Charles ArundelFs--that
his aunt had shown him her new
will?"
I looked at Poirot warily.
"What do you make of it?" I asked.
Why should Poirot always be the one to
ask the questions.
"I call it very interesting--very interesting
indeed. So was Miss Theresa ArundelFs
reaction to it. Their passage of arms was
suggestive--very suggestive.'' "ITm," I said in oracular fashion.
"It opens up two distinct lines of inquiry." "They seem a nice pair of crooks," I
remarked. "Ready for anything. The girl's
amazingly good-looking. As for young
Charles, he's certainly an attractive scoundrel."

Poirot was just hailing a taxi. It drew into
the curb and Poirot gave an address to the
driver.
"17 Clanroyden Mansions, Bayswater."
, "So it's Lawson next," I commented.
, "And after that--the Tanioses?"
I "Quite right, Hastings."
"What role are you adopting here?" I inquired
as the taxi drew up at Clanroyden
» Mansions. "The biographer of General
& I I __
Arundell, a prospective tenant of Littlegreen
House, or something more subtle still?"
"I shall present myself simply as Hercule
Poirot."
"How very disappointing," I gibed.
Poirot merely threw me a glance and paid
off the taxi.
No. 17 was on the second floor. A pertlooking
maid opened the door and showed
us into a room that really struck a ludicrous
note after the one we had just left.
Theresa ArundelFs flat had been bare to
the point of emptiness. Miss Lawson's on
the other hand was so crammed with furniture
and odds and ends that one could
hardly move about without the fear of
knocking something over.
The door opened and a rather stout, middle-aged
lady came in. Miss Lawson was
very much as I had pictured her. She had
an eager, rather foolish face, untidy greyish
hair and pince-nez perched a little askew on
her nose. Her style of conversation was spasmodic
and consisted of gasps.
"Good-morning--er--I don't think--"
"Miss Wilhelmina Lawson?"
"Yes--yes--that is my name. ..."
"My name is Poirot--Hercule Poirot.
Yesterday I was looking over Littlegreen
House."
"Oh, yes?"
Miss Lawson's mouth fell a little wider
open and she made some inefficient dabs at
her untidy hair.
"Won't you sit down?" She went on. "Sit
here, won't you? Oh, dear, I'm afraid that
table is in your way. I'm just a little bit
crowded here. So difficult! These flats! Just
a teeny bit on the small side. But so central!
And I do like being central. Don't you?"
With a gasp she sat down on an uncomfortable-looking
Victorian chair and, her
pince-nez still awry, leaned forward breathlessly
and looked at Poirot hopefully.
"I went to Littlegreen House in the guise
of a purchaser," went on Poirot. "But I
should like to say at once--this is in the
strictest confidence--"
"Oh, yes," breathed Miss Lawson, apparently
pleasurably excited.
"The very strictest confidence," continued
Poirot, "that I went there with another
object. . . . You may or you may not be
aware that shortly before she died Miss
Arundell wrote to me--"
He paused and then went on.
"I am a well-known private detective."
A variety of expressions chased themselves
over Miss Lawson's slightly flushed countenance.
I wondered which one Poirot would
single out as relevant to his inquiry. Alarm, excitement, surprise, puzzlement. . . .
"Oh," she said. Then after a pause, "Oh," again.
And then, quite unexpectedly, she asked:
"Was it about the money?"
Poirot, even, was slightly taken aback. He
said tentatively:
"You mean the money that was--"
"Yes, yes. The money that was taken from
the drawer?"
Poirot said quietly:
"Miss Arundell didn't tell you she had
written to me on the subject of that money?"
"No, indeed. I had no idea-- Well, really,
I must say I'm very surprised--"
"You thought she should not have mentioned
it to any one?"
"I certainly didn't think so. You see, she
had a very good idea--"
She stopped again. Poirot said quickly:
"She had a very good idea who took it.
That is what you would say, is it not?"
Miss Lawson nodded and continued
breathlessly:
"And I shouldn't have thought she would
have wanted--well, I mean she said--that
is, she seemed to feel--"
Again Poirot cut in neatly into the midst
of these incoherencies.
"It was a family matter?"
"Exactly."
"But me," said Poirot, "I specialize in
family matters. I am, you see, very, very
discreet."
Miss Lawson nodded vigorously.
"Oh! of course--that makes a difference.
It's not like the police."
"No, no. I am not at all like the police.
That would not have done at all."
"Oh, no. Dear Miss Arundell was such a proud woman. Of course, there had been
trouble before with Charles, but it was always
hushed up. Once, I believe, he had to
go to Australia!"
"Just so," said Poirot. "Now the facts
of the case were as follows, were they not?
Miss Arundell had a sum of money in a
drawer--"
He paused. Miss Lawson hastened to confirm
his statement.
"Yes--from the Bank. For the wages, you
know, and the books."
"And how much was missing exactly?"
"Four pound notes. No, no, I am wrong,
three pound notes and two ten shilling notes.
One must be exact, I know, very exact, in
such matters." Miss Lawson looked at him
earnestly and absent-mindedly knocked her
pince-nez a little further awry. Her rather
prominent eyes seemed to goggle at him.
"Thank you, Miss Lawson. I see you have
an excellent business sense."
Miss Lawson bridled a little and uttered
a deprecatory laugh.
"Miss Arundell suspected, no doubt with
reason, that her nephew Charles was responsible
for this theft," went on Poirot.
"Yes."
"Although there was no particular evidence
to show who actually took the
money?"
"Oh, but it must have been Charles! Mrs.
Tanios wouldn't do such a thing, and her
husband was quite a stranger and wouldn't
have known where the money was kept--
neither of them would. And I don't think
Theresa Arundell would dream of such a
thing. She's got plenty of money and always
so beautifully dressed."
"It might have been one of the servants,"
Poirot suggested.
Miss Lawson seemed horrified by the
idea.
"Oh, no, indeed, neither Ellen nor Annie
would have dreamed of such a thing. They
are both most superior women and absolutely
honest I am sure."
Poirot waited a minute or two. Then he
said:
"I wonder if you can give me any idea—
I am sure you can, for if any one possessed
Miss ArundelFs confidence you did—"
Miss Lawson murmured confusedly:
"Oh, I don't know about that, I'm sure—"
But she was clearly flattered.
"I feel that you will be able to help me."
"Oh, I'm sure, if I can—anything I can
do—"
Poirot went on:
"This is in confidence—"
A sort of owlish expression appeared on
Miss Lawson's face. The magical words
"in confidence" seemed to be a kind of Open
sesame.
"Have you any idea of the reason which
caused Miss Arundell to alter her will?"
"Her will? Oh—her will?"
Miss Lawson seemed slightly taken aback.
Poirot said, watching her closely:
"It is true, is it not, that she made a new
will shortly before her death, leaving all her
fortune to you?"
"Yes, but I knew nothing about it. Nothing
at all!" Miss Lawson was shrill in protest.
"It was the greatest surprise to me! A wonderful surprise, of course 1 So good of dear
Miss Arundell. And she never even gave me
a hint. Not the smallest hinti I was so taken
aback, when Mr. Pur vis read it out, I didn't
know where to look, or whether to laugh or
cryl I assure you, M. Poirot, the shock of
it--the shock, you know. The kindness--the
wonderful kindness of dear Miss Arundell.
Of course, I'd hoped, perhaps, for just a little something--perhaps just a teeny, teeny
legacy--though of course, there was no reason she should have left me even that. I'd
not been with her so very long. But this--
it was like--it was like a fairy story 1 Even
now I can't quite believe in it, if you know
what I mean. And sometimes--well, sometimes--I
don't feel altogether comfortable
about it. I mean--well, I mean--"
She knocked off her pince-nez, picked
them up, fumbled with them and went on
even more incoherently:
"Sometimes I feel that--well, flesh and
blood is flesh and blood after all, and I don't
feel quite comfortable at Miss Arundell's
leaving all her money away from her family. I mean, it doesn't seem right, does it? Not
all of it. Such a large fortune, too! Nobody
had any idea! But--well--it does make one
feel uncomfortable--and every one saying
things, you know--and I'm sure I've never
been an ill-natured woman! I mean I wouldn't
have dreamed of influencing Miss Arundell
in any way! And it's not as though I could, either. Truth to tell, I was always just a teeny
weeny bit afraid of her! She was so sharp, you know, so inclined to jump on you. And
quite rude sometimes! 'Don't be a downright
fool,' she'd snap. And really, after all, I had
my feelings and sometimes I'd feel quite upset.
. . . And then to find out that all the
time she'd really been fond of me--well, it
was very wonderful, wasn't it? Only of
course, as I say, there's been a lot of unkindness, and really in some ways one feels
--I mean, well, it does seem a little hard, doesn't it, on some people?"
"You mean that you would prefer to relinquish
the money?" asked Poirot.
Just for a moment I fancied a flicker of
some quite different expression showed itself
in Miss Lawson's dull, pale blue eyes. I
imagined that, just for a moment, a shrewd, intelligent woman sat there instead of an
amiable, foolish one.
She said with a little laugh:
"Well--of course, there is the other side
of it too ... I mean there are two sides to
every question. What I say is. Miss Arundell
meant me to have the money. I mean if I
didn't take it I should be going against her wishes. And that wouldn't be right either, would it?"
"It is a difficult question," said Poirot, shaking his head.
"Yes, indeed, I have worried over it a
great deal. Mrs. Tanios--Bella--she is such
a nice woman--and those dear little children!
I mean, I feel sure Miss Arundell
wouldn't have wanted her to--I feel, you
see, that dear Miss Arundell intended me to
use my discretion. She didn't want to leave
any money outright to Bella because she was
afraid that man would get hold of it."
"What man?"
"Her husband. You know, Mr. Poirot, the
poor girl is quite under his thumb. She does anything he tells her. I dare say she'd murder some one if he told her to! And she's afraid
of him. I'm quite sure she's afraid of him.
I've seen her look simply terrified once or
twice. Now that isn't right, Mr. Poirot--
you can't say that's right."
Poirot did not say so. Instead he inquired:
"What sort of man is Dr. Tanios?"
"Well," said Miss Lawson hesitatingly 5
"he's a very pleasant man."
She stopped doubtfully.
"But you don't trust him?"
"Well--no, I don't. I don't know," went
on Miss Lawson doubtfully, "that I'd trust any man very much! Such dreadful things
one hears! And all their poor wives go
through! It's really terrible! Of course. Dr.
Tanios pretends to be very fond of his wife
and he's quite charming to her. His manners
are really delightful. But I don't trust foreigners.
They're so artful! And I'm quite
sure dear Miss Arundell didn't want her
money to get into his hands!"
"It is hard on Miss Theresa Arundell and
Mr. Charles Arundell also to be deprived of
their inheritance," Poirot suggested.
A spot of colour came into Miss Lawson's
face.
"I think Theresa has quite as much money
as is good for her!" she said sharply. "She
spends hundreds of pounds on her clothes
alone. And her underclothing--it's wicked!
When one thinks of so many nice, well-bred
girls who have to earn their own living--"
Poirot gently completed the sentence.
"You think it would do no harm for her
to earn hers for a bit?"
Miss Lawson looked at him solemnly.
"It might do her a lot of good," she said.
"It might bring her to her senses. Adversity
teaches us many things."
Poirot nodded slowly. He was watching
her intently.
"And Charles?"
"Charles doesn't deserve a penny," said
Miss Lawson sharply. "If Miss Arundell cut
him out of her will, it was for a very good
cause--after his wicked threats."
"Threats?" Poirot's eyebrows rose.
"Yes, threats."
"What threats? When did he threaten
her?"
"Let me see, it was--yes, of course, it was
at Easter. Actually on Easter Sunday--which
made it even worse!"
"What did he say?"
"He asked her for money and she'd refused
to give it him' And then he told her
that it wasn't wise of her. He said if she kept
up that attitude he would--now what was
the phrase--a very vulgar American one--
oh, yes, he said he would bump her off"
"He threatened to bump her off?"
"Yes."
"And what did Miss Arundell say?"
"She said: <I think you'll find, Charles,
that I can look after myself "
"You were in the room at the time?"
"Not exactly in the room," said Miss Lawson
after a momentary pause.
"Quite, quite," said Poirot hastily. "And
Charles, what did he say to that?"
"He said: 'Don't be too sure.' "
Poirot said slowly:
"Did Miss Arundell take this threat seriously?"

"Well, I don't know. . . . She didn't say
anything to me about it. ... But then she
wouldn't do that, anyway."
Poirot said quietly:
"You knew, of course, that Miss Arundell
was making a new will?"
"No, no. I've told you, it was a complete
surprise. I never dreamt--"
Poirot interrupted.
"You did not know the contents. But you
knew the fact--that there was a will being
made?"
"Well--I suspected--I mean her sending
for the lawyer when she was laid up--"
"Exactly. That was after she had a fall, was it not?"
"Yes, Bob--Bob was the dog--he had left
his ball at the top of the stairs--and she
tripped over it and fell."
"A nasty accident."
"Oh, yes; why, she might easily have broken
her leg or her arm. The doctor said so."
"She might quite easily have been killed."
"Yes, indeed."
Her answer seemed quite natural and
frank.
Poirot said, smiling:
"I think I saw Master Bob at Littlegreen
House."
"Oh, yes, I expect you did. He's a dear
little doggie."
Nothing annoys me more than to hear a
sporting terrier called a dear little doggie.
No wonder, I thought, that Bob despised
Miss Lawson and refused to do anything she
told him.
"And he is very intelligent?" went on
Poirot.
"Oh, yes, very."
"How upset he'd be if he knew he had
nearly killed his mistress."
Miss Lawson did not answer. She merely shook her head and sighed.
Poirot asked: |
"Do you think it possible that that fall &
influenced Miss Arundell to remake her
will?"
We were getting perilously near the bone
here, I thought, but Miss Lawson seemed
to find the question quite natural.
"You know," she said, "I shouldn't wonder
if you weren't right. It gave her a shock--I'm sure of that. Old people never
like to think there's any chance of their
dying. But an accident like that makes one think. Or perhaps she might have had a premonition that her death wasn't far off."
Poirot said casually:
"She was in fairly good health, was she
not?"
"Oh, yes. Very well, indeed."
"Her illness must have come on very suddenly?"

"Oh, it did. It was quite a shock. We had
had some friends that evening--" Miss Lawson
paused.
"Your friends, the Misses Tripp. I have
met those ladies. They are quite charming."
Miss Lawson's face flushed with pleasure.
"Yes, aren't they? Such cultured women!
Such wide interests! And so very spiritual! They told you, perhaps--about our
sittings? I expect you are a sceptic--but indeed,
I wish I could tell you the inexpressible
joy of getting into touch with those who
passed over!"
"I am sure of it. I am sure of it."
"Do you know, M. Poirot, my mother has
spoken to me--more than once. It is such a
joy to know that one's dear ones are still
thinking of one and watching over one."
"Yes, yes, I can well understand that,"
said Poirot gently. "And was Miss Arundell
also a believer?"
Miss Lawson's face clouded over a little.
"She was willing to be convinced," she
said doubtfully. "But I do not think she always
approached the matter in the right
frame of mind. She was sceptical and
unbelieving--and once or twice her attitude
attracted a most undesirable type of spirit!
There were some very ribald messages--all
due, I am convinced, to Miss Arundell's attitude."

"I should think very likely due to Miss
Arundell," agreed Poirot.
"But on that last evening--" continued
Miss Lawson, "perhaps Isabel and Julia told
you?--there were distinct phenomena. Actually
the beginning of a materialization.
Ectoplasm--you know what ectoplasm is, |
perhaps?" I
I "Yes 5 yes, I am acquainted with its nature."

"It proceeds, you know, from the medium's
mouth in the form of a ribbon and
builds itself up into a form. Now I am convinced, Mr. Poirot, that unknown to herself Miss Arundell was a medium. On that evening
I distinctly saw a luminous ribbon issuing
from dear Miss ArundelFs mouth! Then her
head became enveloped in a luminous mist."
"Most interesting!"
"And then, unfortunately. Miss Arundell
was suddenly taken ill and we had to break
up the seance."
"You sent for the doctor--when?"
"First thing the following morning."
"Did he think the matter grave?"
"Well, he sent in a hospital nurse the following
evening but I think he hoped she
would pull through."
"The--excuse me--the relatives were not
sent for?"
Miss Lawson flushed.
"They were notified as soon as possible--
that is to say, when Dr. Grainger pronounced
her to be in danger."
"What was the cause of the attack? Something
she had eaten?"
"No, I don't think there was anything in
particular. Dr. Grainger said she hadn't been
quite as careful in diet as she should have
been. I think he thought the attack was probably
brought on by a chill. The weather had
been very treacherous."
"Theresa and Charles Arundell had been
down that week-end, had they not?"
Miss Lawson pursed her lips together.
"They had."
"The visit was not a success," Poirot suggested, watching her.
"It was not." She added quite spitefully:
"Miss Arundell knew what they'd come
for!"
"Which was?" asked Poirot, watching
her.
"Money!" snapped Miss Lawson. "And
they didn't get it."
"No?" said Poirot.
"And I believe that's what Dr. Tanios was
after too," she went on.
"Dr. Tanios. He was not down that same
week-end, was he?"
"Yes, he came down on the Sunday. He
only stayed about an hour."
"Every one seems to have been after poor
Miss Arundell's money," hazarded Poirot.
"I know, it is not very nice to think of, is
it?"
rr
"No, indeed," said Poirot. "It must have
been a shock to Charles and Theresa Arundell
that week-end when they learned that
Miss Arundell had definitely disinherited
them!"
Miss Lawson stared at him.
Poirot said:
"Is that not so? Did she not specifically
inform them of the fact?"
"As to that, I couldn't say. / didn't hear
anything about it! There wasn't any fuss, or
anything, as far as I know. Both Charles and
his sister seemed to go away quite cheerful."
"Ah! possibly I have been misinformed.
Miss Arundell actually kept her will in the
house, did she not?"
Miss Lawson dropped her pince-nez and
stooped to pick them up.
"I really couldn't say. No, I think it was
with Mr. Pur vis."
"Who was the executor?"
"Mr. Purvis was."
"After the death, did he come over and
look through her papers?"
"Yes, he did."
Poirot looked at her keenly and asked her
an unexpected question.
"Do you like Mr. Purvis?"
. Miss Lawson was flustered.
"Like Mr. Purvis? Well, really, that's difficult
to say, isn't it? I mean, I'm sure he's
a very clever man--that is, a clever lawyer, I mean. But rather a brusque manner! I
mean, it's not very pleasant always to have
some one speaking to you as though--well, really, I can't explain what I mean--he was
quite civil and yet at the same time almost rude, if you know what I mean."
"A difficult situation for you," said Poirot
sympathetically.
"Yes, indeed, it was."
Miss Lawson sighed and shook her head.
Poirot rose to his feet.
"Thank you very much, mademoiselle, for all your kindness and help."
Miss Lawson rose too. She sounded
slightly flustered.
"I'm sure there's nothing to thank me for--nothing at alll So glad if I've been able
to do anything--if there's anything more I can do--"
Poirot came back from the door. He lowered
his voice.
"I think. Miss Lawson, that there is something
you ought to be told. Charles and
Theresa Arundell are hoping to upset this
will "
A sharp flush of colour came into Miss
Lawson's cheek.
"They can't do that," she said sharply. "My lawyer says so."
"Ah," said Poirot. "You have consulted
a lawyer, then?"
"Certainly. Why shouldn't I?"
"No reason at all. A very wise proceeding.
Good-day to you, mademoiselle."
When we emerged from Clanroyden Mansions
into the street Poirot drew a deep
breath.
"Hastings, mon ami, that woman is either
exactly what she seems or else she is a very
good actress."
"She doesn't believe Miss ArundelFs
death was anything but natural. You can see
that," I said.
Poirot did not answer. There are moments
when he is conveniently deaf. He hailed a
taxi.
"Durham Hotel, Bloomsbury," he told
the driver.
"Oh!" Mrs. Tanios drew a deep breath.
"But I don't think that's possible, is it? I
mean, my husband consulted a lawyer and
he seemed to think that it was better not to
attempt it."
"Lawyers, madame, are cautious people.
Their advice is usually to avoid litigation at
all costs--and no doubt they are usually
right. But there are times when it pays to
take a risk. I am not a lawyer myself and
therefore I look at the matter rather differently.
Miss Arundell--Miss Theresa Arundell,
I mean--is prepared to fight. What
about you?"
"I-- Ohi I really don't know." She
twisted her fingers nervously together. "I
should have to consult my husband."
"Certainly, you must consult your husband
before anything definite is undertaken.
But what are your own feelings in the matter?"

"Well, really, I don't know." Mrs. Tanios
looked more worried than ever. "It depends
so much on my husband."
"But you yourself, what do you think, madame?"
Mrs.
Tanios frowned, then she said
slowly:
"I don't think I like the idea very much.
It seems--it seems rather indecent, doesn't
it?55
"Does it, madame?"
"Yes--after all, if Aunt Emily chose to
leave her money away from her family, I
suppose we must put up with it."
"You do not feel aggrieved in the matter, then?"
"Oh, yes, I do." A quick flush showed in
her cheeks. "I think it was most unfair! Most unfair! And so unexpected. It was so unlike
Aunt Emily. And so very unfair on the children."

"You think it is very unlike Miss Emily
Arundell?"
"I think it was extraordinary of her!"
"Then isn't it possible that she was not
acting of her own free will? Don't you think
that perhaps she was being unduly influenced?"

Mrs. Tanios frowned again. Then she said
almost unwillingly:
"The difficult thing is that I can't see Aunt
Emily being influenced by anybody! She was
such a decided old lady."
Poirot nodded approvingly.
"Yes, what you say is true. And Miss Lawson
is hardly what one would describe as a
strong character."
"No, she's a nice creature, really--rather
foolish, perhaps--but very, very kind.
That's partly why I feel--"
"Yes, madame?" said Poirot as she
paused.
Mrs. Tanios twisted her fingers nervously
again as she answered:
"Well, that it would be mean to try and
upset the will. I feel certain that it wasn't in
any way Miss Lawson's doing--I'm sure
she'd be quite incapable of scheming and
intriguing--"
"Again, I agree with you, madame."
"And that's why I feel that to go to law
would be--well, would be undignified and
spiteful, and besides it would be very expensive, wouldn't it?"
"It would be expensive, yes."
"And probably useless, too. But you must
speak to my husband about it. He's got a
much better head for business than I have."
Poirot waited a minute or two, then he
said:
"What reason do you think lay behind the
making of that will?"
A quick colour rose in Mrs. Tanios's
cheeks as she murmured:
"I haven't the least idea."
"Madame, I have told you I am not a lawyer. But you have not asked me what my
profession is."
She looked at him inquiringly.
"I am a detective. And, a short time before
she died. Miss Emily Arundell wrote me a
letter."
Mrs. Tanios leaned forward; her hands
pressed themselves together.
"A letter?" she asked abruptly. "About
my husband?"
Poirot watched her for a minute or two, then he said slowly:
"I am afraid I am not at liberty to answer
that question."
"Then it was about my husband." Her
voice rose slightly. "What did she say? I can
assure you, Mr.--er--I don't know your
name."
"Poirot is my name. Hercule Poirot."
"I can assure you, Mr. Poirot, that if anything
was said in that letter against my husband, it was entirely untrue! I know, too, who will have inspired that letter! And that
is another reason why I would rather have
nothing to do with any action undertaken by
Theresa and Charles! Theresa has never
liked my husband. She has said things! I
know she has said things! Aunt Emily was
Prejudiced against my husband because he
was not an Englishman, and she may therefore
have believed things that Theresa said
about him. But they are not true, Mr. Poirot,
you can take my word for that!"
"Mother--I've finished my letter."
Mrs. Tanios turned quickly. With an affectionate
smile she took the letter the little
girl held out to her.
"That's very nice, darling, very nice, indeed.
And that's a beautiful drawing of
Mickey Mouse."
"What shall I do now, Mother?"
"Would you like to get a nice postcard
with a picture on it? Here's the money. You
go to the gentleman in the hall and choose
one and then you can send it to Selim."
The child moved away. I remembered
what Charles Arundell had said. Mrs. Tanios
was evidently a devoted wife and mother.
She was also, as he had said, a little like an
earwig.
"That is your only child, madame?"
"No, I have a little boy also. He is out
with his father at the moment."
"They did not accompany you to Littlegreen
House on your visits?"
"Oh, yes, sometimes, but you see, my
aunt was rather old and children were in- i
dined to worry her. But she was very kind j
and always sent them out nice presents at
Christmas."
"Let me see, when did you last see Miss
Emily Arundell?"
"I think it was just about ten days before
she died."
"You and your husband and your two
cousins were all down there together, were
you not?"
"Oh, no, that was the week-end before--
at Easter."
"And you and your husband were down
there the week-end after Easter as well?"
"Yes."
"And Miss Arundell was in good health
and spirits then?"
"Yes, she seemed much as usual."
"She was not ill in bed?"
"She was laid up with a fall she had had, but she came downstairs again while we were
there."
"Did she say anything to you about having
made a new will?"
"No, nothing at all."
"And her manner to you was quite unchanged?"

A slightly longer pause this time before
Mrs. Tanios said:
"Yes."
I feel sure that at that moment Poirot and
I had the same conviction.
Mrs. Tanios was lying!
Poirot paused a minute and then said:
"Perhaps I should explain that when I
asked if Miss ArundelFs manner to you was
unchanged, I was not using the 'you5 plural.
I referred to you personally."
Mrs. Tanios replied quickly:
"Oh! I see. Aunt Emily was very nice to
me. She gave me a little pearl and diamond
brooch and she sent ten shillings to each of
the children."
There was no constraint in her manner
now. The words came freely with a rush.
"And as regards your husband--was there
no change in her manner to him?"
The constraint had returned. Mrs. Tanios
did not meet Poirot5 s eye as she replied:
"No, of course not--why should there
be?"
"But since you suggest that your cousin
Theresa Arundell might have tried to poison
your aunt's mind--"
"She did! I'm sure she did!" Mrs. Tanios
leant forward eagerly. "You are quite right.
There was a change! Aunt Emily was suddenly
far more distant to him. And she behaved
very oddly. There was a special
digestive mixture he recommended--even
went to the trouble of getting her some--
going to the druggist and having it made up.
She thanked him and all that--but rather
stiffly? and later I actually saw her pouring
the bottle down the sink!"
Her indignation was quite fierce.
Poirofs eyes flickered.
"A very odd procedure," he said. His
voice was carefully unexcited.
"I thought it most ungrateful," said Dr. Tanios's wife hotly.
"As you say, elderly ladies distrust foreigners
sometimes," said Poirot. "I am sure
they think that English doctors are the only
doctors in the world. Insularity accounts for
a lot."
"Yes, I suppose it does." Mrs. Tanios
looked slightly mollified.
"When do you return to Smyrna, madame?"
"In
a few weeks' time. My husband--ah!
here is my husband and John with him."
XVII
Dr. Tan/os
I must say that my first sight of Dr. Tanios
was rather a shock. I had been imbuing him
in my mind with all sorts of sinister attributes.
I had been picturing to myself a dark
bearded foreigner with a swarthy aspect and
a sinister cast of countenance.
Instead, I saw a rotund, jolly, brownhaired,
brown-eyed man. And though it is
true he had a beard, it was a modest brown
affair that made him look more like an artist.
He spoke English perfectly. His voice had
a pleasant timbre and matched the cheerful
good-humour of his face.
"Here we are," he said, smiling to his
wife. "John has been passionately thrilled
by his first ride in the tube. He has always
been in buses until today."
John was not unlike his father in appearance, but both he and his little sister had a
definitely foreign-looking appearance and I
understood what Miss Peabody had meant
when she described them as rather yellowlooking
children.
The presence of her husband seemed to
make Mrs. Tanios nervous. Stammering a
little, she introduced Poirot to him. Me, she
ignored.
Dr. Tanios took up the name sharply.
"Poirot? Monsieur Hercule Poirot? But I
know that name well! And what brings you
to us, M. Poirot?"
"It is the affair of a lady lately deceased.
Miss Emily Arundell," replied Poirot.
"My wife's aunt? Yes--what of her?"
Poirot said slowly:
"Certain matters have arisen in connection
with her death--"
Mrs. Tanios broke in suddenly:
"It's about the will, Jacob. M. Poirot has
been conferring with Theresa and Charles."
Some of the tensity went out of Dr. Tamos's
attitude. He dropped into a chair.
"Ah, the will! An iniquitous will--but
there, it is not my business, I suppose."
Poirot sketched an account of his interview
with the two Arundells (hardly a truthful
one, I may say) and cautiously hinted at a fighting chance of upsetting the will.
"You interest me, M. Poirot, very much.
I may say I am of your opinion. Something
could be done. I actually went as far as to
consult a lawyer on the subject, but his advice
was not encouraging. Therefore--" He
shrugged his shoulders.
"Lawyers, as I have told your wife, are
cautious people. They do not like taking
chances. But me, I am different! And you?"
Dr. Tanios laughed--a rich, rollicking
laugh.
"Oh, I'd take a chance all right! Often
have, haven't I, Bella, old girl?" He smiled
across at her, and she smiled back at him--
but in a rather mechanical manner, I
thought.
He turned his attention back to Poirot.
"I am not a lawyer," he said. "But in my
opinion it is perfectly clear that that will was
made when the old lady was not responsible
for what she was doing. That Lawson woman is both clever and cunning."
Mrs. Tanios moved uneasily. Poirot
looked at her quickly.
"You do not agree, madame?"
She said rather weakly:
"She has always been very kind. I
shouldn't call her clever."
"She's been kind to you," said Dr. Tanios, "because she had nothing to fear from
you, my dear Bella. You're easily taken in!"
He spoke quite good-humouredly, but his
wife flushed.
"With me it was different," he went on.
"She didn't like me. And she made no bones
about showing it! I'll give you an instance.
The old lady had a fall down the stairs when
we were staying there. I insisted on coming
back the following week-end to see how she
was. Miss Lawson did her utmost to prevent
us. She didn't succeed, but she was annoyed
about it, I could see. The reason was clear. She wanted the old lady to herself."
Again Poirot turned to the wife.
"You agree, madame?"
Her husband did not give her time to answer.

"Bella's too kind-hearted," he said. "You
won't get her to impute bad motives to anybody.
But I'm quite sure I was right. I'll tell
you another thing, M. Poirot. The secret of
her ascendency over old Miss Arundell was
spiritualism! That's how it was done, depend
upon it!"
"You think so?"
"Sure of it, my dear fellow. I've seen a lot
of that sort of thing. It gets hold of people.
You'd be amazed! Especially any one of Miss
Arundell's age. I'd be prepared to bet that
that's how the suggestion came. Some
spirit—possibly her dead father—ordered
her to alter her will and leave her money to
the Lawson woman. She was in bad health
—credulous—"
There was a very faint movement from
Mrs. Tanios. Poirot turned to her.
"You think it possible—yes?"
"Speak up, Bella," said Dr. Tanios. "Tell
us your views."
He looked at her encouragingly. Her
quick look back at him was an odd one. She
hesitated, then said:
"I know so little about these things. I dare
say you're right, Jacob."
"Depend upon it I'm all right, eh, M.
Poirot?"
Poirot nodded his head.
"It may be—yes." Then he said, "You
were down at Market Basing, I think, the
week-end before Miss Arundell's death?"
"We were down at Easter and again the
week-end after—that is right."
"No, no, I meant the week-end after
that—on the 26th. You were there on the
Sunday, I think?"
"Oh, Jacob, were you?" Mrs. Tanios
looked at him wide-eyed.
He turned quickly.
"Yes, you remember? I just ran down in
the afternoon. I told you about it."
Both Poirot and I were looking at her.
Nervously she pushed her hat a little further
back on her head.
"Surely you remember, Bella," her husband
continued. "What a terrible memory
you've got."
"Of course!" she apologized, a thin smile
on her face. "It's quite true; I have a shocking
memory. And it's nearly two months ago
now."
"Miss Theresa Arundell and Mr. Charles
Arundell were there then, I believe?" said
Poirot.
"They may have been," said Tanios easily.
"I didn't see them."
"You were not there very long then?"
"Oh, no--just half an hour or so."
Poirot's inquiring gaze seemed to make
him a little uneasy.
"Might as well confess," he said with a
twinkle. "I hoped to get a loan--but I didn't
get it. I'm afraid my wife's aunt didn't take
to me as much as she might. Pity, because
I liked her. She was a sporting old lady."
"May I ask you a frank question. Dr. Tanios?"
Was there or was there not a momentary
apprehension in Tamos5 s eye?
"Certainly, M. Poirot."
"What is your opinion of Charles and
Theresa Arundell?"
The doctor looked slightly relieved.
"Charles and Theresa?" He looked at his
wife with an affectionate smile. "Bella, my
dear, I don't suppose you mind my being
frank about your family?"
She shook her head, smiling faintly.
"Then it's my opinion they're rotten to
the core, both of them! Funnily enough I
like Charles the best. He's a rogue, but he's
a likable rogue. He's no moral sense, but he
can't help that. People are born that way."
"And Theresa?"
He hesitated.
"I don't know. She's an amazingly attractive
young woman. But she's quite ruthless,
I should say. She'd murder any one in cold
blood if it suited her book. At least that's
my fancy. You may have heard, perhaps,
that her mother was tried for murder."
"And acquitted," said Poirot.
"As you say 'and acquitted,' " said Tanios
quickly. "But all the same, it makes one- wonder . sometimes.''
T^
m "You met the young man to whom she is
engaged?"
"Donaldson? Yes, he came to supper one
night."
"What do you think of him?"
"A very clever fellow. I fancy he'll go
far--if he gets the chance. It takes money
to specialize."
"You mean that he is clever in his profession?"

"That is what I mean, yes. A first-class
brain." He smiled. "Not quite a shining
light in society yet. A little precise and prim
in manner. He and Theresa make a comic
pair. The attraction of opposites. She's a social
butterfly and he's a recluse."
The two children were bombarding their
mother.
"Mother, can't we go in to lunch? I'm so
hungry. We'll be late."
Poirot looked at his watch and gave an
exclamation.
"A thousand pardons! I delay your lunch
hour."
Glancing at her husband, Mrs. Tanios said
uncertainly:
"Perhaps we can offer you--"
Poirot said quickly:
"You are most amiable, madame, but I
have a luncheon engagement for which I am
already late."
He shook hands with both the Tanioses
and with the children. I did the same.
We delayed for a minute or two in the
hall. Poirot wanted to put through a telephone
call. I waited for him by the hall porter's
desk. I was standing there when I saw
Mrs. Tanios come out into the hall and look
searchingly around. She had a hunted, harried
look. She saw me and came swiftly
across to me.
"Your friend--M. Poirot--I suppose he
has gone?"
"No, he is in the telephone box."
"Oh."
"You wanted to speak to him?"
She nodded. Her air of nervousness increased.

Poirot came out of the box at that moment
and saw us standing together. He came
quickly across to us.
"M. Poirot," she began quickly in a low, hurried voice. "There is something that I
would like to say--that I must tell you--"
"Yes, madame."
"It is important--very important. You
see--"
She stopped. Dr. Tanios and the two chil-
dren had just emerged from the writingroom.
He came across and joined us.
"Having a few last words with M. Poirot, Bella?"
His tone was good-humoured, the smile
on his face pleasantness itself.
"Yes--" She hesitated, then said, "Well,
that is really all, M. Poirot. I just wanted
you to tell Theresa that we will back her up
in anything she decides to do. I quite see
that the family must stand together."
She nodded brightly to us, then taking her
husband's arm she moved off in the direction
of the dining-room.
I caught Poirot by the shoulder.
"That wasn't what she started to say, Poirot!"
He shook his head slowly, watching the
retreating couple.
"She changed her mind," I went on.
"Yes, mon ami, she changed her mind."
"Why?"
"I wish I knew," he murmured.
"She will tell us some other time," I said
hopefully.
<<I wonder. I rather fear--she may
not. ..."
XVIII
"A N/gger /n the Woodp/'/e"
we had lunch at a small restaurant not far
away. I was eager to learn what he made of
the various members of the Arundell family.
"Well, Poirot?" I asked impatiently.
With a look of reproof Poirot turned his
whole attention to the menu. When he had
ordered he leaned back in his chair, broke
his roll of bread in half and said with a
slightly mocking intonation:
"Well, Hastings?"
"What do you think of them now you've
seen them all?"
Poirot replied slowly:
"Ma foi, I thihk they are an interesting
lot! Really, this case is an enchanting study! It is, how do you say, the box of surprises?
Look how each time I say, (I got a letter
from Miss Arundell before she died,' something
crops up. From Miss Lawson I learn
about the missing money. Mrs. Tanios says
at once, 'About my husband?5 Why about
her husband? Why should Miss Arundell
write to me, Hercule Poirot, about Dr. Tamos?"
"That
woman has something on her
mind," I said.
"Yes, she knows something. But what? Miss Peabody tells us that Charles Arundell
would murder his grandmother for twopence.
Miss Lawson says that Mrs. Tanios
would murder any one if her husband told
her to do so. Dr. Tanios says that Charles
and Theresa are rotten to the core, and he
hints that their mother was a murderess and
says apparently carelessly that Theresa is capable
of murdering any one in cold blood.
"They have a pretty opinion of each other, all these people! Dr. Tanios thinks, or says he thinks, that there was undue influence.
His wife, before he came in, evidently did not think so. She does not want to contest
the will at first. Later she veers round. See
you, Hastings--it is a pot that boils and
seethes and every now and then a significant
fact comes to the surface and can be seen.
There is something in the depths there--yes,
there is something! I swear it, by my faith as
Hercule Poirot, I swear it!"
I was impressed in spite of myself by his
earnestness.
After a minute or two I said:
"Perhaps you are right, but it seems so
vague--so nebulous."
"But you agree with me that there is something?"

"Yes," I said hesitatingly. "I believe I
do."
Poirot leaned across the table. His eyes
bored into mine.
"Yes--you have changed. You are no
longer amused, superior--indulging me in
my academic pleasures. But what is it that
has convinced you? It is not my excellent
reasoning--non, ce n'est pas ca! But something--something
quite independent--has
produced an effect on you. Tell me, my
friend, what it is that has suddenly induced
you to take this matter seriously?"
"I think," I said slowly, "it was Mrs. Tanios.
She looked--she looked--afraid. ..."
"Afraid of me?"
"No--no, not of you. It was something
else. She spoke so quietly and sensibly to
begin with--a natural resentment at the
terms of the will, perhaps, but otherwise she
seemed so resigned and willing to leave
things as they are. It seemed the natural attitude of a well-bred but rather apathetic
woman. And then that sudden change--the
eagerness with which she came over to Dr.
Tanios's point of view. The way she came
out into the hall after us--the--almost furtive way--"
Poirot nodded encouragingly.
"And another little thing which you may
not have noticed--"
"I notice everything!"
"I mean the point about her husband's
visit to Littlegreen House on that last Sunday.
I could swear she knew nothing of it--
that it was the most complete surprise to
her--and yet she took her cue so quickly--
agreed that he had told her about it and that
she had forgotten. I--I didn't like it, Poirot."
"You are quite right, Hastings--it was
significant--that."
"It left an ugly impression of--of fear on
me."
Poirot nodded his head slowly.
"You felt the same?" I asked.
"Yes--that impression was very definitely
in the air." He paused and then went on:
"And yet you liked Tanios, did you not? You
found him an agreeable man, openhearted, good-natured, genial. Attractive in spite of
your insular prejudice against the Argentines,
the Portuguese and the Greeks--a
thoroughly congenial personality?"
"Yes," I admitted. "I did."
In the silence that ensued, I watched
Poirot. Presently I said:
"What are you thinking of, Poirot?"
"I am reflecting on various people, handsome
young Norman Gale, bluff, hearty Evelyn
Howard, the pleasant Dr. Sheppard, the quiet, reliable Knighton."
For a moment I did not understand these
references to people who had figured in past
cases.
"What of them?" I asked.
"They were all delightful personalities.
. . ."
"My goodness, Poirot, do you really think
Tanios--"
"No, no. Do not jump to conclusions, Hastings. I am only pointing out that one's
own personal reactions to people are singularly
unsafe guides. One must go not by one's
feelings but by facts."
"H'm," I said. "Facts are not our strong
suit. No, no, Poirot, don't go over it all
again!"
"I will be brief, my friend, do not fear.
To beein with, we have quite certainly a case
of attempted murder. You admit that, do
you not?"
"Yes," I said slowly. "I do."
I had, up to now, been a little sceptical
over Poirot's (as I thought) somewhat fanciful
reconstruction of the events on the
night of Easter Tuesday. I was forced to admit, however, that his deductions were perfectly
logical.
"Tres bien. Now one cannot have attempted
murder without a murderer. One
of the people present on that evening was a
murderer--in intention if not in fact."
"Granted."
"Then that is our starting point--a murderer. We make a few inquiries--we, as you
would say--stir the mud--and what do we
get--several very interesting accusations uttered
apparently casually in the course of
conversations."
"You think they were not casual?"
"Impossible to tell at the moment! Miss
Lawson's innocent-seeming way of bringing
out the fact that Charles threatened his aunt may have been quite innocent or it may not. Dr. Tanios's remarks about Theresa Arundell
may have absolutely no malice behind
them, but be merely a physician's genuine
opinion. Miss Peabody, on the other hand,
is probably quite genuine in her opinion of
Charles ArundelFs proclivities--but it is, after
all, merely an opinion. So it goes on.
There is a saying, is there not, a nigger in
the woodpile. Eh bien, that is just what I
find here. There is--not a nigger--but a
murderer in our woodpile."
"What I'd like to know is what you yourself
really think, Poirot."
"Hastings--Hastings--I do not permit
myself to 'think'--not, that is, in the sense
that you are using the word. At the moment
I only make certain reflections."
"Such as?"
"I consider the question of motive. What
are the likely motives for Miss ArundelFs
death? Clearly the most obvious one is gain. Who would have gained by Miss ArundelFs
death--if she had died on Easter Tuesday?"
"Every one--with the exception of Miss
Lawson."
"Precisely."
"Well, at any rate, one person is automatically
cleared."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully. "It
would seem so. But the interesting thing is
that the person who would have gained nothing if death had occurred on Easter Tuesday
gains everything when death occurs two
weeks later."
"What are you getting at, Poirot?" I said, slightly puzzled.
"Cause and effect, my friend, cause and
effect."
I looked at him doubtfully.
He went on:
"Proceed logically! What exactly happened--after
the accident?"
I hate Poirot in this mood. Whatever one
says is bound to be wrong! I proceeded with
intense caution.
"Miss Arundell was laid up in bed."
"Exactly. With plenty of time to think.
What next?"
"She wrote to you."
Poirot nodded.
"Yes, she wrote to me. And the letter was
not posted. A thousand pities, that."
"Do you suspect that there was something
fishy about that letter not being posted?"
Poirot frowned.
"There, Hastings, I have to confess that
I do not know. I think--in view of everything
I am almost sure--that the letter was genuinely mislaid. I believe--but I cannot
be sure--that the fact that such a letter was
written was unsuspected by anybody. Continue--what
happened next?"
I reflected.
"The lawyer's visit," I suggested. "Yes--she sent for her lawyer and in due
course he arrived."
"And she made a new will," I continued.
"Precisely. She made a new and very unexpected
will. Now, in view of that will we
have to consider very carefully a statement
made to us by Ellen. Ellen said, if you remember, that Miss Lawson was particularly
anxious that the news that Bob had been out
all night should not get to Miss ArundelFs
ears."
"But--oh, I see--no, I don't. Or do I
begin to see what you are hinting at? . . ."
"I doubt iti" said Poirot. "But if you do, you realize, I hope, the supreme importance of that statement."
He fixed me with a fierce eye.
"Of course. Of course," I said hurriedly.
"And then," continued Poirot, "various
other things happen. Charles and Theresa
come for the week-end, and Miss Arundell
shows the new will to Charles--er--so he
99
says.
"Don't you believe him?"
"I only believe statements that are checked. Miss Arundell does not show it to Theresa."
"Because she thought Charles would tell her."
"But he doesn't. Why doesn't he?"
"According to Charles himself he did tell
her."
"Theresa said quite positively that he didn't--a very interesting and suggestive little
clash. And when we depart she calls him
a fool."
"I'm getting fogged, Poirot," I said plaintively.

"Let us return to the sequence of events.
Dr. Tanios comes down on Sunday--possibly
without the knowledge of his wife."
"I should say certainly without her knowledge."

"Let us say probably. To proceed! Charles
and Theresa leave on the Monday. Miss
Arundell is in good health and spirits. She
eats a good dinner and sits in the dark with
the Tripps and Miss Lawson. Towards the end of the seance she is taken ill. She retires
to bed and dies four days later and Miss
Lawson inherits all her money, and Captain
_Hastings says she died a natural death!"
"Whereas Hercule Poirot says she was
given poison in her dinner on no evidence
at all!"
"I have some evidence, Hastings. Think
over our conversation with the Misses Tripp.
And also one statement that stood out from
Miss Lawson's somewhat rambling conversation."

"Do you mean the fact that she had curry
for dinner? Curry would mask the taste of a
drug. Is that what you meant?"
Poirot said slowly:
"Yes, the curry has a certain significance, perhaps."
"But," I said, "if what you advance (in
defiance of all the medical evidence) is true, only Miss Lawson or one of the maids could
have killed her."
"I wonder."
"Or the Tripp women? Nonsense. I can't
believe thati All these people are palpably
innocent."
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"Remember this, Hastings, stupidity--or
even silliness, for that matter--can go hand
in hand with intense cunning. And do not
forget the original attempt at murder. That
was not the handiwork of a particularly
clever or complex brain. It was a very simple ^tt}^ mnrrler- suggested by Bob and his habit
of leaving the ball at the top of the stairs.
The thought of putting a thread across the
stairs was quite simple and easy—a child
could have thought of it!"
I frowned.
"You mean—"
"I mean that what we are seeking to find
here is just one thing—the wish to kill.
Nothing more than that."
"But the poison must have been a very
skilful one to leave no trace," I argued.
"Something that the ordinary person would
have difficulty in getting hold of. Oh, damn
it all, Poirot, I simply can't believe it now.
You can't know! It's all pure hypothesis."
"You are wrong, my friend. As the result
of our various conversations this morning I
have now something definite to go upon.
Certain faint but unmistakable indications.
The only thing is—I am afraid."
"Afraid? Of what?"
He said gravely:
"Of disturbing the dogs that sleep. That
is one of your proverbs, is it not? To let the
sleeping dogs lie! That is what our murderer
does at present—sleeps happily in the
sun. ... Do we not know, you and I, Hastings,
how often a murderer, his confidence
disturbed, turns and kills a second—or even
a third timel"
"You are afraid of that happening?"
He nodded.
"Yes. //there is a murderer in the woodpile—and
I think there is, Hastings. Yes, I
think there is. . . ."
XIX
Visit to Mr. Purvis
poirot called for his bill and paid it.
"What do we do next?" I asked.
"We are going to do what you suggested
earlier in the morning. We are going to
Harchester to interview Mr. Purvis. That is
why I telephoned from the Durham Hotel."
"You telephoned to Purvis?"
"No, to Theresa Arundell. I asked her to
write me a letter of introduction to him. To
approach him with any chance of success we
must be accredited by the family. She promised
to send it round to my flat by hand. It
should be awaiting us there now."
We found not only the letter but Charles
Arundell who had brought it round in person.

"Nice place you have here, M. Poirot,"
he remarked, glancing round the sittingroom
of the flat.
At that moment my eye was caught by an
imperfectly shut drawer in the desk. A small
slip of paper was preventing it from shutting.
Now if there was one thing absolutely incredible
it was that Poirot should shut a
drawer in such a fashion! I looked thoughtfully
at Charles. He had been alone in this
room awaiting our arrival. I had no doubt
that he had been passing the time by snooping
among Poirot's papers. What a young
crook the fellow was! I felt myself burning
with indignation.
Charles himself was in a most cheerful
mood.
"Here we are," he remarked, presenting
a letter. "All present and correct--and I
hope you'll have more luck with old Purvis
than we did."
"He held out very little hope, I suppose?"
"Definitely discouraging. ... In his
opinion the Lawson bird had clearly got
away with the doings."
"You and your sister have never considered
an appeal to the lady's feelings?"
Charles grinned.
"I considered it--yes. But there seemed
to be nothing doing. My eloquence was in
vain. The pathetic picture of the disinherited
black sheep--and a sheep not so black as
he was painted (or so I endeavoured to
suggest)--failed to move the woman! You
know, she definitely seems to dislike me! I
don't know why." He laughed. "Most old
women fall for me quite easily. They think
I've never been properly understood and that
I've never had a fair chance!"
"A useful point of view."
"Oh, it's been extremely useful before
now. But, as I say, with the Lawson bird, nothing doing. I think she's rather anti-man.
Probably used to chain herself to railings and
wave a suffragette flag in good old prewar
days."
"Ah, well," said Poirot, shaking his head.
"If simpler methods fail--"
"We must take to crime," said Charles
cheerfully.
"Aha," said Poirot. "Now, speaking of
crime, young man, is it true that you threatened
your aunt--that you said that you
would 'bump her off,' or words to that effect?"

Charles sat down in a chair, stretched his
legs out in front of him and stared hard at
Poirot.
"Now who told you that?" he said.
"No matter. Is it true?"
"Well, there are elements of truth about
it.55
"Come, come, let me hear the true story
--the true story, mind."
"Oh, you can have it, sir. There was nothing
melodramatic about it. I'd been attempting
a touch--if you gather what I mean."
"I comprehend."
"Well, that didn't go according to plan.
Aunt Emily intimated that any efforts to separate
her and her money would be quite unavailing!
Well, I didn't lose my temper, but
I put it to her plainly. 'Now look here. Aunt
Emily,' I said, 'you know, you're going
about things in such a way that you'll end
by getting bumped off!' She said, rather
sniffily, what did I mean. 'Just that,' I said.
'Here are your friends and relations all hanging
around with their mouths open, all as
poor as church mice--whatever church mice
may be--all hoping. And what do you do?
Sit down on the dibs and refuse to part.
That's the way people get themselves murdered.
Take it from me, if you're bumped
off, you'll only have yourself to blame.'
"She looked at me then, over the top of
her spectacles in a way she had. Looked at
me rather nastily. 'Oh,' she said drily
enough, 'so that's your opinion, is it?' 'It is,'
I said. 'You loosen up a bit, that's my advice
to you.' 'Thank you, Charles,' she said, 'for
your well-meant advice. But I think you'll
find I'm well able to take care of myself.5
Tiease yourself. Aunt Emily,' I said. I was
grinning all over my face—and I fancy she
wasn't as grim as she tried to look. 'Don't
say I didn't warn you.' 'I'll remember it,'
she said."
He paused.
"That's all there was to it."
"And so," said Poirot, "you contented
yourself with a few pound notes you found
in a drawer."
Charles stared at him, then burst out
laughing.
"I take off my hat to you," he said.
"You're some sleuth! How did you get hold
of that?"
"It is true, then?"
"Oh, it's true enough! I was damned hard
up. Had to get money somehow. Found a
nice little wad of notes in a drawer and
helped myself to a few. I was very modest
—didn't think my little subtraction would
be noticed. Even then, they'd probably think
it was the servants."
Poirot said drily:
"It would be very serious for the servants
if such an idea had been entertained."
Charles shrugged his shoulders.
"Every one for himself," he murmured.
"And Ie diable takes the hindermost," said
Poirot. "That is your creed, is it?"
Charles was looking at him curiously.
"I didn't know the old lady had ever spotted
it. How did you come to know about it
--and about the bumping-off conversation?"

"Miss Lawson told me."
"The sly old pussy cat!" He looked, I
thought, just a shade disturbed. "She
doesn't like me and she doesn't like Theresa,"
he said presently. "You don't think
--she's got anything more up her sleeve?"
"What could she have?"
"Oh, I don't know. It's just that she
strikes me as a malicious old devil." He
paused. "She hates Theresa . . ."he added.
"Did you know, Mr. Arundell, that Dr.
Tanios came down to see your aunt on the
Sunday before she died?"
"What--on the Sunday that we were
there?"
"Yes. You did not see him?"
"No. We were out for a walk in the afternoon.
I suppose he must have come then.
Funny that Aunt Emily didn't mention his
visit. Who told you?"
"Miss Lawson." I
"Lawson again? She seems to be a mine of information."
He paused and then said:
"You know, Tanios is a nice fellow. I like
him. Such a jolly, smiling chap."
"He has an attractive personality, yes,"
said Poirot.
Charles rose to his feet.
"If I'd been him I'd have murdered the
dreary Bella years ago! Doesn't she strike
you as the type of woman who is marked out
by fate to be a victim? You know, I should
never be surprised if bits of her turned up
in a trunk at Margate or somewhere!"
"It is not a pretty action that you attribute
there to her husband the good doctor," said
Poirot severely.
"No," said Charles meditatively. "And I
don't think really that Tanios would hurt a
fly. He's much too kindhearted."
"And what about you? Would you do
murder if it were made worth your while?"
Charles laughed--a ringing, genuine
laugh.
"Thinking about a spot of blackmail, M.
Poirot? Nothing doing. I can assure you that
I didn't put"--he stopped suddenly and
then went on--"strychnine in Aunt Emily's
soup."
With a careless wave of his hand he departed.

"Were you trying to frighten him, Poirot?" I asked. "If so, I don't think you
succeeded. He showed no guilty reactions
whatsoever."
"No?"
"No. He seemed quite unruffled."
"Curious that pause he made," said
Poirot.
"A pause?"
"Yes. A pause before the word strychnine.
Almost as though he had been about to say
something else and thought better of it."
I shrugged my shoulders.
"He was probably thinking of a good, venomous-sounding
poison."
"It is possible. It is possible. But let us
set off. We will, I think, stay the night at
The George in Market Basing."
Ten minutes later saw us speeding
through London, bound once more for the
country.
We arrived in Harchester about four
o'clock and made our way straight to the
offices of Pur vis. Pur vis, Charlesworth and
Pur vis.
Mr. Pur vis was a big, solidly built man with
white hair and a rosy complexion. He had a
little the look of a country squire. His manner
was courteous but reserved.
He read the letter we had brought and
then looked at us across the top of his desk.
It was a shrewd look and a somewhat searching
one.
"I know you by name, of course, M.
Poirot," he said politely. "Miss Arundell and
her brother have, I gather, engaged your services
in this matter, but exactly in what capacity
you propose to be of use to them I am
at a loss to imagine."
"Shall we say, Mr. Purvis, a fuller investigation
of all the circumstances?"
The lawyer said drily:
"Miss Arundell and her brother have already
had my opinion as to the legal position.
The circumstances were perfectly clear and
admit of no misrepresentation."
"Perfectly, perfectly," said Poirot quickly.
"But you will not, I am sure, object to
Just repeating them so that I can envisage
the situation clearly."
The lawyer bowed his head.
"I am at your service."
Poirot began:
"Miss Arundell wrote to you giving you
i
instructions on the seventeenth of April, I
believe?"
Mr. Pur vis consulted some papers on the
table before him.
"Yes, that is correct."
"Can you tell me what she said?"
"She asked me to draw up a will. There
were to be legacies to two servants and to
three or four charities. The rest other estate
was to pass to Wilhelmina Lawson absolutely."

"You will pardon me, Mr. Pur vis, but you
were surprised?"
"I will admit that--yes, I was surprised."
"Miss Arundell had made a will previously?"

"Yes, she had made a will five years ago."
"That will, after certain small legacies, left
her property to her nephew and nieces?"
"The bulk of her estate was to be divided
equally between the children of her brother
Thomas and the daughter of Arabella Biggs, her sister."
"What has happened to that will?"
"At Miss ArundelFs request I brought it
with me when I visited her at Littlegreen
House on April 21st."
"I should be much obliged to you, Mr.
Pur vis, if you would give me a full descnp-
tion of everything that occurred on that occasion."

The lawyer paused for a minute or two.
Then he said, very precisely:
"I arrived at Littlegreen House at three
o'clock in the afternoon. One of my clerks
accompanied me. Miss Arundell received me
in the drawing-room."
"How did she look to you?"
"She seemed to me in good health in spite
of the fact that she was walking with a stick.
That, I understand, was on account of a fall
she had recently. Her general health, as I
say, seemed good. She struck me as slightly
nervous and over-excited in manner."
"Was Miss Lawson with her?"
"She was with her when I arrived. But she
left us immediately."
"And then?"
"Miss Arundell asked me if I had done
what she had asked me to do, and if I had
brought the new will with me for her to sign.
"I said I had done so. I--er--" He hesitated
for a minute or two, then went on
stiffly: "I may as well say that, as far as it
was proper for me to do so, I remonstrated
with Miss Arundell. I pointed out to her that
this new will might be regarded as grossly
unfair to her family who were, after all, her
own flesh and blood."
"And her answer?"
"She asked me if the money was or was
not her own to do with as she liked. I replied
that certainly that was the case. 'Very well
then 5' she said. I reminded her that she had
known this Miss Lawson a very short time, and I asked her if she was quite sure that
the injustice she was doing to her own family
was legitimate. Her reply was, 'My dear
friend, I know perfectly what I am doing.5 "
"Her manner was excited, you say."
"I think I can definitely say that it was, but understand me, M. Poirot, she was in
full possession of her faculties. She was in
every sense of the word fully competent to
manage her own affairs. Though my sympathies
are entirely with Miss ArundelFs
family, I should be obliged to maintain that
in any court of law."
"That is quite understood. Proceed, I pray
of you."
"Miss Arundell read through her existing
will. Then she stretched out her hand for
the one I had had drawn up. I may say that
I would have preferred to submit a draft
first, but she had impressed upon me that
the will must be brought her ready to sign.
That presented no difficulties as its provisions
were so simple. She read it through, nodded her head, and said she would sign it
straightaway. I felt it my duty to enter one
last protest. She heard me out quite patiently, but said that her mind was quite
made up. I called in my clerk and he and
the gardener acted as witnesses to her signature.
The servants, of course, were ineligible
owing to the fact that they were
beneficiaries under the will."
"And afterwards, did she entrust the will
to you for safekeeping?"
"No, she placed it in a drawer of her desk,
which drawer she locked."
"What was done with the original will?
Did she destroy it?"
"No, she locked it away with the other."
"After her death, where was the will
found?"
"In that same drawer. As executor I had
her keys and went through her papers and
business documents."
"Were both wills in the drawer?"
"Yes, exactly as she had placed them
there."
"Did you question her at all as to the motive
for this rather surprising action?"
"I did. But I got no satisfactory answer.
^'ri
She merely assured me that 'she knew what
she was doing.' "
"Nevertheless you were surprised at the
proceeding?"
"Very surprised. Miss Arundell, I should
say, had always shown herself to have a
strong sense of family feeling."
Poirot was silent a minute, then he asked:
"You did not, I suppose, have any conversation
with Miss Lawson on the subject?"
"Certainly not. Such a proceeding would
have been highly improper."
Mr. Pur vis looked scandalized at the mere
suggestion.
"Did Miss Arundell say anything to indicate
that Miss Lawson knew that a will
was being drawn in her favour?"
"On the contrary. I asked her if Miss Lawson
was aware of what was being done, and
Miss Arundell snapped out that she knew
nothing about it.
"It was advisable, I thought, that Miss
Lawson should not be aware of what had
happened. I endeavoured to hint as much
and Miss Arundell seemed quite of my opinion."
"Just why did you stress that point, Mr.
Pur vis?"
The old gentleman returned his glance
with dignity.
"Such things, in my opinion, are best undiscussed.
Also it might have led to future
disappointment.? ?
"Ah!" Poirot drew a long breath. "I take
it that you thought it probable that Miss Arundell
might change her mind in the near future?"
The lawyer bowed his head.
"That is so. I fancied that Miss Arundell
had had some violent altercation with her
family. I thought if 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
later will, the earlier one would stand."
"It is quite possible." (
'(Actually 3 if she died intestate 3 her money
would pass to her family?" I
"Yes. One half to Mrs. Tanios, one half \ divisible between Charles and Theresa Arun- I dell. 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. Pur vis 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 the 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 I may say, strictly in confidence, that
there are some curious features about this
business!"
"Really? You don't say so?"
Mr. Pur vis 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. Pur vis.
His tone was wooden.
Poirot shook hands with him, thanking
him for his kindness and the information he
had given us.
XX
Second V/'s/t to L/tt/egreen
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. Pur vis 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 dif-
ferent-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 for ever," 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.
Pur vis," 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."
"Pur vis 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. Pur vis 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, Poiroti" 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 cou-
pie 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
any one 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 metl"
"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 a rare
sport. H'm--not a bad bullterrier."
Having correctly diagnosed a visit I had
lately paid to some doggy friends, he trans- ff-rrf-d his attentions 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 morningroom
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,5 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
Ttart "
"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 ArundelFs 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
idministered to the ill woman, comparing it
with that administered to some dead relative
(non-existent) 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 morningroom,
Poirot was talking about Dr. Tanios's
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?5 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 misunderstand 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.55
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 skirtingboard."
"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 has had a thread round it some time, 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 way."
"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 iti 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 week-ends. 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.
"Ay, there's more gone than I thought.
No idea I'd used that much. I'll be having
to order some more."
"Yes," said Poirot, smiling. "I'm afraid
there's hardly enough for you to spare me
some for my wife!"
We all had another good laugh over this
witticism.
"You're not married, I take it, mister?"
"No."
"Ah! it's always them as isn't that can
afford to joke about it. Those that isn't married
don't know what trouble is!"
"I gather that your wife--?" Poirot
paused delicately.
"She's alive all right--very much so."
Angus seemed a little depressed about it.
Complimenting him on his garden, we
bade him farewell.
XXI
The Chemist. The Nurse.
____ The Doctor
the tin of weed-killer had started a new
train of thought in my mind. It was the first
definite suspicious circumstance that I had
encountered. Charles's interest in it, the old
gardener's obvious surprise at finding the tin
almost empty--it all seemed to point in the
right direction.
Poirot was, as usual when I am excited, very noncommittal.
"Even if some of the weed-killer has been
taken, there is as yet no evidence that Charles
was the person to take it, Hastings."
"But he talked so much to the gardener
about it!"
"Not a very wise procedure if he was going
to help himself to some."
Then he went on:
"What is the first and simplest poison to
come into your mind if you were asked to
name one quickly?"
"Arsenic, I suppose."
"Yes. You understand then, that very
marked pause before the word strychnine
when Charles was talking to us today."
"You mean--?"
"That he was about to say 'arsenic in the
soup,5 and stopped himself."
"Ah!" I said, "and why did he stop
himself?"
"Exactly. Why? I may say, Hastings, that
it was to find the answer to that particular 'why?5 which made me go out into the garden
in search of any likely source of weed-killer."
"And you found it!"
"And I found it."
I shook my head.
"It begins to look rather bad for young
Charles. You had a good talk with Ellen over
the old lady's illness. Did her symptoms resemble
those of arsenic poisoning?"
Poirot rubbed his nose.
"It is difficult to say. There was abdominal
pain--sickness."
"Of course--that's it!"
"H'm, I am not so sure."
"What poison did it resemble?"
"Eh bien, my friend, it resembled not so
much poison as disease of the liver and death
from that cause!"
"Oh, Poirot," I cried. "It can't be natural
death! It's got to be murder!"
"Oh, Id Id, we seem to have changed
places, you and I."
He turned abruptly into a druggist's shop.
After a long discussion of Poirot's particular
internal troubles, he purchased a small box
of indigestion lozenges. Then, when his purchase
was wrapped up and he was about to
leave the shop, his attention was taken by
an attractively wrapped package of Dr.
Loughbarrow's Liver Capsules.
"Yes, sir, a very good preparation." The
druggist was a middle-aged man of a chatty
disposition. "You'll find them very efficacious."
"Miss Arundell used to take them, I remember.
Miss Emily Arundell."
"Indeed she did, sir. Miss Arundell ofLittiegreen
House. A fine old lady, one of the
old school. I used to serve her."
"Did she take many patent medicines?"
"Not really, sir. Not so many as some
elderly ladies I could name. Miss Lawson,
now, her companion, the one that's come
into all the money--"
Poirot nodded.
"She was a one for this, that, and the
other. Pills, lozenges, dyspepsia tablets, digestive mixtures, blood mixtures. Really
enjoyed herself among the bottles." He
smiled ruefully. "I wish there were more like
her. People nowadays don't take to medicines
as they used. Still, we sell a lot of toilet
preparations to make up for it."
"Did Miss Arundell take these Liver Capsules
regularly?"
"Yes, she'd been taking them for three
months, I think, before she died."
"A relative of hers, a Dr. Tanios, came in
to have a mixture made up one day, didn't
he?"
"Yes, of course, the Greek gentleman that
married Miss Arundell's niece. Yes, a very
interesting mixture it was. One I've not previously
become acquainted with."
The man spoke as of a rare botanical trophy.

"It makes a change, sir, when you get
something new. Very interesting combination
of drugs, I remember. Of course, the
gentleman is a doctor. Very nice he was--a
pleasant way with him."
"Did his wife do any shopping here?"
"Did she now? I don't recall. Oh, yes,
came in for a sleeping-draught--chloral it
was, I remember. A double quantity the prescription
was for. It's always a little difficult
for us with hypnotic drugs. You see, most
doctors don't prescribe much at a time."
"Whose prescription was it?"
"Her husband's, I think. Oh, of course, it was quite all right--but, you know, we
have to be careful nowadays. Perhaps you
don't know the fact, but if a doctor makes
a mistake in a prescription and we make it
up in all good faith and anything goes wrong
it's we who have to take the blame--not the
doctor."
"That seems very unfair!"
"It's worrying, I'll admit. Ah, well, I can't
complain. No trouble has come my way--
touching wood."
He rapped the counter sharply with his
knuckles.
Poirot decided to buy a package of Dr.
Loughbarrow's Liver Capsules.
"Thank you, sir. Which size--25, 50,
100?"
"I suppose the larger ones are better
value--but still--"
"Have the 50, sir. That's the size Miss
Arundell had. Eight and six."
Poirot agreed, paid over eight and six and
(eceived the parcel.
Then we left the shop.
"So Mrs. Tanios bought a sleepingdraught,"
I exclaimed as we got out into the
street. "An overdose of that would kill any
one, wouldn't it?"
"With the greatest of ease."
"Do you think old Miss Arundell—"
I was remembering Miss Lawson's words,
"/ dare say she'd murder some one if he told
her to!"
Poirot shook his head.
"Chloral is a narcotic and a hypnotic.
Used to alleviate pain and as a sleepingdraught.
It can also become a habit."
"Do you think Mrs. Tanios had acquired
the habit?"
Poirot shook his head perplexedly.
"No, I hardly think so. But it is curious.
I can think of one explanation. But that
would mean—"
He broke off and looked at his watch.
"Come, let us see if we can find this Nurse
Carruthers who was with Miss Arundell in
her last illness."
Nurse Carruthers proved to^be a sensiblelooking,
middle-aged woman.
Poirot now appeared in yet another role
and with one more fictitious relative. This
time he had an aged mother for whom he
was anxious to find a sympathetic hospital
nurse.
"You comprehend--I am going to speak
to you quite frankly. My mother, she is difficult.
We have had some excellent nurses, young women, fully competent, but the very
fact that they are young has been against
them. My mother dislikes young women, she
insults them, she is rude and fractious, she
fights against open windows and modern hygiene.
It is very difficult."
He sighed mournfully.
"I know," said Nurse Carruthers sympathetically.
"It's very trying sometimes.
One has to use a lot of tact. It's no use upsetting
a patient. Better to give in to them
as far as you can. And once they feel you're
not trying to force things on them, they very
often relax and give in like lambs." I "Ah, I see that you would be ideal in the
part. You understand old ladies."
"I've had to do with a few in my time,"
said Nurse Carruthers with a laugh. "You
can do a lot with patience and good humour."

I "That is so wise. You nursed Miss Arun"
dell, I believe. Now, she could not have been
an easy old lady."
"Oh, I don't know. She was strong-willed,
but I didn't find her difficult at all. Of
course, I wasn't there any length of time.
She died on the fourth day."
"I was talking to her niece, Miss Theresa
Arundell, only yesterday."
"Really. Fancy that now! What I always
says is—the world's a small place!"
"You know her, I expect?"
"Well, of course, she came down after her
aunt's death and she was here for the funeral.
And, of course, I've seen her about before
when she's been staying down here. A very
handsome girl."
"Yes, indeed—but too thin—definitely
too thin."
Nurse Carruthers, conscious of her own
comfortable plumpness, preened herself
slightly.
"Of course," she said, "one shouldn't be
too thin."
"Poor girl," continued Poirot. "I am sorry
for her. Entre nous"—he leaned forward
confidentially—"her aunt's will was a great
blow."
"I suppose it must have been," said Nurse
Carruthers. "I know it caused a good deal
of talk."
"I cannot imagine what induced Miss
I Arundell to disinherit all her family. It seems
an extraordinary procedure."
"Most extraordinary. I agree with you.
And, of course, people say there must have
been something behind it all."
"Did you ever get any idea of the reason? Did old Miss Arundell say anything?"
"No. Not to me--that is."
"But to somebody else?"
"Well, I rather fancy she mentioned something to Miss Lawson because I heard Miss
Lawson say, 'Yes, dear, but you see it's at
the lawyer's.5 And Miss Arundell said, 'I'm
sure it's in the drawer downstairs.' And Miss
Lawson said, 'No, you sent it to Mr. Pur vis.
Don't you remember?' And then my patient
had an attack of nausea again and Miss Lawson
went away while I saw to her, but I've
often wondered if it was the will they were
talking about."
"It certainly seems probable."
Nurse Carruthers went on:
"If so, I expect Miss Arundell was worried
and perhaps wanted to alter it--but there, she was so ill, poor dear, after that--that she
was past thinking of anything."
"Did Miss Lawson take part in the nursing
at all?" asked Poirot.
"Oh, dear no, she was no manner of good!
Too fussy, you know. She only irritated my
patient."
"Did you, then, do all the nursing yourself?
C'est formidable ga."
"The maid--what was her name--Ellen, helped me. Ellen was very good. She was
used to illness and used to looking after the
old lady. We managed pretty well between
us. As a matter of fact. Dr. Grainger was
sending in a night nurse on the Friday, but
Miss Arundell died before the night nurse
arrived."
"Perhaps Miss Lawson helped to prepare
some of the invalid's food?"
"No, she didn't do anything at all. There
wasn't really anything to prepare. I had the
Valentine and the brandy--and the Brand's
and glucose and all that. All Miss Lawson
did was to go about the house crying and
getting in every one's way."
The nurse's tone held distinct acrimony.
"I can see," said Poirot, smiling, "that
you have not a very high opinion of Miss
Lawson's usefulness."
"Companions are usually a poor lot, in my
opinion. They're not trained, you see, in any
way. Just amateurs. And usually they're
women who wouldn't be any good at anything
else."
"Do you think Miss Lawson was very attached
to Miss Arundell?"
"She seemed to be. Very upset and took
on terribly when the old lady died. More
than the relatives did, in my opinion," Nurse
Carruthers finished with a sniff.
"Perhaps, then," said Poirot, nodding his
head sagely, "Miss Arundell knew what she
was doing when she left her money as she
did."
"She was a very shrewd old lady," said
the nurse. "There wasn't much she didn't
take in and know about, I must say!"
"Did she mention the dog. Bob, at all?"
"It's funny you should say that! She talked
about him a lot--when she was delirious.
Something about his ball and a fall she'd had.
A nice dog. Bob was--I'm very fond of
dogs. Poor fellow, he was very miserable
when she died. Wonderful, aren't they?
Quite human."
And on the note of the humanity of dogs, we parted.
"There is one who has clearly no suspicions,"
remarked Poirot after we had left.
He sounded slightly discouraged.
We had a bad dinner at The George--
Poirot groaning a good deal, especially over
the soup.
"And it is so easy, Hastings, to make good
soup. Le pot au feu--J)
I avoided a disquisition on cookery with
some difficulty.
After dinner we had a surprise.
We were sitting in the "lounge" which we
had to ourselves. There had been one other
man at dinner--a commercial traveller by
his appearance--but he had gone out. I was
just idly turning over the pages of an antiquated
Stock-Breeder's Gazette or some such
periodical when I suddenly heard Poirot's
name being mentioned.
The voice in question was somewhere outside.

"Where is he? In here? Right--I can find
him."
The door was flung violently open, and
Dr. Grainger, his face rather red, his eyebrows
working irritably, strode into the
room. He paused to close the door and then
advanced upon us in no uncertain fashion.
"Oh, here you are! Now then, M. Hercule
Poirot, what the devil do you mean by coming
round to see me and telling me a pack
of lies?"
"One of the juggler's balls?" I murmured
maliciously.
Poirot said in his oiliest voice: J
"My dear doctor, you must allow me to
explain--"
"Allow you? Allow you? Damn it, I'll force you to explain! You're a detective, that's
what you are! A nosing, prying detective!
Coming round to me and feeding me up with
a pack of lies about writing old General
Arundell's biography! More fool me to be
taken in by such a damn fool story."
"Who told you of my identity?" asked
Poirot.
"Who told me? Miss Peabody told me. She saw through you all right!"
"Miss Peabody--yes." Poirot sounded reflective.
"I rather thought--"
Dr. Grainger cut in angrily.
"Now then, sir, I'm waiting for your explanation!"

"Certainly. My explanation is very simple. Attempted murder " "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. Grainger5 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 ArundelFs
death was a natural one? I have come
across certain evidence today--"
He detailed the conversation he had had
with old Angus, Charles ArundelFs 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
>oisoning has been diagnosed as acute gastric
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 ArundelFs
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 anti-climax when
somewhat apologetically, Poirot produced
the package of Liver Capsules he had bought
at the druggist's.
"Miss Arundell took these, I believe?" he
said. "I suppose they could not be injurious
in any way?"
"That stuff? No harm in it. 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 druggist's. The medicament
consisted of transparent capsules, three
quarters full of a 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 pig-headed--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 druggist, 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."
XXII
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 could 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,
\)irot, that's the worst of this game of ours.
Every single little thing that any one does is
open to the most sinister constructions."
"It is true that I myself have enjoined
upon you the motto, 'suspect every one.5 "
"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.
Arid 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.
55
"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 chafflngly. "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.
J^L. Apparently completely callous to the sewere 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, / didn't mind. I like talking.
Hard to get any one 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
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 sharp 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
any one 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 once who 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
if
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 mirth she ^ said:
Hb, "Excuse me. It sounded like Isabel ^HB^ripp--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 you 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 drawingroom.
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, Mina,' 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.
"Yes, I dare say, but that makes no difference.
I should have been told!"
"The important thing is--that I received
the letter," 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 to-day? 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--and I couldn't see--"
"You could not 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, flushing 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, Mr. 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, Mr. 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
If
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 epatant!"
"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--it is 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 week-end 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
Hi I ^^^
see Fd 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--"
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 to-morrow, 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
stairs--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."
"Reconstruct? 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 fulfill her part. Poirot
acted the part of observer. j
^ ^^ /~» ..-^^H
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 ArundelFs 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 as 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 seance?"
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 door step.
XXIII
Dr. Tan/os Ca//s on Us
No sooner had we left the house than Poirot's
manner changed. His face was grim and
set.
"Depechons-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 question. 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? Aliss Lawson's luminous
'ribbon development'?"
"You remember the Misses Tripp's description
of the seance?"
"I know they saw a halo round the old
lady's head." I laughed in spite of myself. "/ 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. j
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 utniost
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. Whai
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 Poirot5 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 ^e oddest fancies--actually they are more
^an fancies--they are delusions!"
II
"Really?"
"Yes. She is suffering from what is commonly
known as persecution mania--a fairly
well-known condition.? 5
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 that 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 tendency 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 down 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 5 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.
"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.
"Yes?"
"Do you ever prescribe chloral for your
dfe?"
Tanios gave a startled movement.
"I--no--at least I may have done. But
not lately. She seems to have taken an aversion
to any form of sleeping draught."
"Ah! I suppose because she does not trust
you?"
"M. Poirot!"
Tanios came striding forward angrily.
"That would be part of the disease," said
Poirot smoothly.
Tanios stopped.
"Yes, yes, of course."
"She is probably highly suspicious of anything
you give her to eat or drink. Probably
suspects you of wanting to poison her?"
, "Dear me, M. Poirot, you are quite right.
pou know something of such cases, then?"
I "One comes across them now and then in my profession, naturally. But do not let me
detain you. You may find her waiting for
you at the hotel."
"True. I hope I shall. I feel terribly anxious."
He hurried out of the room.
Poirot went swiftly to the telephone. He
flicked over the pages of the telephone directory
and asked for a number.
" 'Allo--'allo--is that the Durham Hotel?
Can you tell me if Mrs. Tanios is in? What?
t-a-n-i-o-s. Yes, that is right. Yes? Yes? Oh, I see."
He replaced the receiver.
"Mrs. Tanios left the hotel this morning
early. She returned at eleven, waited in the
taxi whilst her luggage was brought down
and drove away with it."
"Does Tanios know she took away her
luggage?"
"I think not as yet."
"Where has she gone?"
"Impossible to tell."
"Do you think she will come back here?"
"Possibly. I cannot tell."
"Perhaps she will write."
"Perhaps."
"What can we do?"
Poirot shook his head. He looked worried
and distressed.
"Nothing at the moment. A hasty lunch
and then we will go and see Theresa Arun-
dell."
"Do you believe it was her on the stairs?"
"Impossible to tell. One thing I made sure
of—Miss Lawson could not have seen her
face. She saw a tall figure in a dark dressing
gown, that is all."
"And the brooch?"
"My dear friend, a brooch is not part of
a person's anatomy! It can be detached from
that person. It can be lost—or borrowed—
or even stolen."
"In other words, you don't want to believe
Theresa Arundell guilty?"
"I want to hear what she has to say on the
matter."
"And if Mrs. Tanios comes back?"
"I will arrange for that."
George brought in an omelette.
"Listen, George," said Poirot. "If that
lady comes back, you will ask her to wait.
If Dr. Tanios comes while she is here, on
no account let him in. If he asks if his wife
is here, you will tell him she is not. You
understand?"
"Perfectly, sir."
Poirot attacked the omelette.
"This business complicates itself," he
said. "We must step very carefully. If not
—the murderer will strike again."
"If he did you might get him."
"Quite possibly, but I prefer the life of
the innocent to the conviction of the guilty.
We must go very, very carefully."
XXIV
Theresa's Denial
we found Theresa Arundell just preparing
to go out.
She was looking extraordinarily attractive.
A small hat of the most outrageous fashion
descended rakishly over one eye. I recognized
with momentary amusement that Bella
Tanios had worn a cheap imitation of such
a hat yesterday and had worn it--as George
had put it--on the back of the head instead
of over the right eye. I remembered well how
she had pushed it further and further back
on her untidy hair.
Poirot said politely:
"Can I have just a minute or two, mademoiselle, or will it delay you too much?"
Theresa laughed.
"Oh, it doesn't matter. I'm always three
quarters of an hour late for everything. I might just as well make it an hour."
She led him into the sitting-room. To my
surprise Dr. Donaldson rose from a chair by the window.
"You've met M. Poirot already. Rex, haven't you?"
"We met at Market Basing," said Donaldson
stiffly.
"You were pretending to write the life of
my drunken grandfather, I understand,"
said Theresa. "Rex, my angel, will you leave
us?"
"Thank you, Theresa, but I think that
from every point of view it would be advisable
for me to be present at this interview."
There was a brief duel of eyes. Theresa's
were commanding. Donaldson's were impervious.
She showed a quick flash of anger.
"All right, stay then, damn you!"
Dr. Donaldson seemed unperturbed.
He seated himself again in the chair by
the window, laying down his book on the
arm of it. It was a book on the pituitary
gland, I noticed.
Theresa sat down on her favourite low
stool and looked impatiently at Poirot.
"Well, you've seen Purvis? What about
it?
Poirot said in a non-committal voice:
"There are--possibilities, mademoiselle.
She looked at him thoughtfully. Then she
sent a very faint glance in the direction of
the doctor. It was, I think, intended as a
warning to Poirot.
"But it would be well, I think," went on
Poirot, "for me to report later when my plans
are more advanced."
A faint smile showed for a minute on
Theresa's face.
Poirot continued:
"I have to-day come from Market Basing
and while there I have talked to Miss Lawson.
Tell me, mademoiselle, did you on the
night of April 13th (that was the night of the
Easter Bank Holiday) kneel upon the stairs
after every one had gone to bed?"
"My dear Hercule Poirot, what an extraordinary
question. Why should I?"
"The question, mademoiselle, is not why
you should, but whether you did."
"I'm sure I don't know. I should think it
most unlikely."
"You comprehend, mademoiselle. Miss
Lawson says you did."
Theresa shrugged her attractive shoulders.

"Does it matter?"
"It matters very much."
She stared at him in a perfectly amiable
fashion. Poirot stared back.
"Loopy!" said Theresa.
"Pardon?"
"Definitely loopy!" said Theresa. "Don't
you think so. Rex?"
Dr. Donaldson coughed.
"Excuse me, M. Poirot, but what is the
point of the question?"
My friend spread out his hands.
"It is most simple! Some one drove in a
nail in a convenient position at the head of
the stairs. The nail was just touched with
brown varnish to match the skirting-board."
"Is this a new kind of witchcraft?" asked
Theresa.
"No, mademoiselle, it is much more
homely and simple than that. On the following
evening, the Tuesday, some one attached
a string or thread from the nail to the balusters
with the result that when Miss Arundell
came out of her room she caught her
foot in it and went headlong down the
stairs."
Theresa drew in her breath sharply.
"That was Bob's ball!"
"Pardon, it was not."
There was a pause. It was broken by Donaldson,
who said in his quiet, precise voice: iJ
"Excuse me, but what evidence have you
in support of this statement?"
Poirot said quietly:
"The evidence of the nail, the evidence of
Miss Arundell's own written words, and finally
the evidence of Miss Lawson's eyes."
Theresa found her voice.
"She says I did it, does she?"
Poirot did not answer except by bending
his head a little.
"Well, it's a lie! I had nothing to do with
it!"
"You were kneeling on the stairs for quite
another reason?"
"I wasn't kneeling on the stairs at all!"
"Be careful, mademoiselle."
"I wasn't there! I never came out of my
room after I went to bed on any evening I
was there."
"Miss Lawson recognized you."
"It was probably Bella Tanios or one of
the maids she saw."
"She says it was you."
"She's a damned liar!"
"She recognized your dressing gown and
a brooch you wear."
"A brooch--what brooch?"
"A brooch with your initials."
"Oh, I know the one! What a circumstantial
liar she is!"
"You still deny that it was you she saw?"
"If it's my word against hers--"
"You are a better liar than she is--eh?"
Theresa said calmly:
"That's probably quite true. But in this
case I'm speaking the truth. I wasn't preparing
a booby trap, or saying my prayers, or picking up gold or silver, or doing anything
at all on the stairs."
"Have you this brooch that was mentioned?"

"Probably. Do you want to see it?"
"If you please, mademoiselle."
Theresa got up and left the room. There
was an awkward silence. Dr. Donaldson
looked at Poirot much as I imagined he
might have looked at an anatomical specimen.

Theresa returned.
"Here it is."
She almost flung the ornament at Poirot.
It was a large rather showy chromium or
stainless steel brooch with T.A. enclosed in
a circle. I had to admit that it was large
enough and showy enough to be easily seen
in Miss Lawson's mirror.
"I never wear it now. I'm tired of it," saidj
Theresa. "London's been flooded with
them. Every little skivvy wears one."
"But it was expensive when you bought
it?"
"Oh, yes. They were quite exclusive to
begin with."
"When was that?"
"Last Christmas, I think it was. Yes,
about then."
"Have you ever lent it to any one?"
"No."
"You had it with you at Littlegreen
House?"
"I suppose I did. Yes, I did. I remember."
"Did you leave it about at all? Was it out
of your possession while you were there?"
"No, it wasn't. I wore it on a green
jumper, I remember. And I wore the same
jumper every day."
"And at night?"
"It was still in the jumper."
"And the jumper?"
"Oh, hell, the jumper was sitting on a
chair."
"You are sure no one removed the brooch
and put it back again the next day?"
"We'll say so in court if you like—if you
ink that's the best lie to tell! Actually I'm
ite sure that nothing like that happened!
It's a pretty idea that somebody framed me
--but I don't think it's true."
Poirot frowned. Then he got up, attached
the brooch carefully to his coat lapel and
approached a mirror on a table at the other
end of the room. He stood in front of it and
then moved slowly backward 5 getting an effect
of distance.
Then he uttered a grunt.
"Imbecile that I am! Of course!"
He came back and handed the brooch to
Theresa with a bow.
"You are quite right, mademoiselle. The
brooch did not leave your possession! I have
been regrettably dense."
"I do like modesty," said Theresa, pinning
the brooch on carelessly.
She looked up at him.
"Anything more? I ought to be going."
"Nothing that cannot be discussed later."
Theresa moved towards the door. Poirot
went on in a quiet voice:
"There is a question of exhumation, it is
true--"
Theresa stopped dead. The brooch fell
from her hand to the ground.
"What's that?"
Poirot said clearly:
"It is possible that the body of Miss Emily
Arundell may be exhumed."
Theresa stood still, her hands clenched.
She said in a low, angry voice:
"Is this your doing? It can't be done without
an application from the family!"
"You are wrong, mademoiselle. It can be
done on an order from the Home Office."
"My God!" said Theresa.
She turned and walked swiftly up and
down.
Donaldson said quietly:
"I really don't see that there is any need
to be so upset, Tessa. I dare say that to
an outsider the idea is not very pleasant, but--"
She interrupted him.
"Don't be a fool. Rex!"
hPoirot asked:
"The idea disturbs you, mademoiselle?"
"Of course it does! It isn't decent. Poor
old Aunt Emily. Why the devil should she
be exhumed?"
"I presume," said Donaldson, "that there
is some doubt as to the cause of death?"
He looked inquiringly at Poirot. He went
on. "I confess that I am surprised. I think L^ that there is no doubt that Miss Arundell
died a natural death from a disease of long
standing."
"You told me something about a rabbit
and liver trouble once," said Theresa. "I've
forgotten it now, but you infect a rabbit with
blood from a person with yellow atrophy of
the liver, and then you inject that rabbit's
blood into another rabbit, and then that second
rabbit's blood into a person and the person
gets a diseased liver. Something like
that."
"That was merely an illustration of serum
therapeutics," said Donaldson patiently.
"Pity there are so many rabbits in the
story!" said Theresa with a reckless laugh.
"None of us keep rabbits." She turned on
Poirot and her voice altered.
"M. Poirot, is this true?" she asked.
"It is true enough, but--there are ways
of avoiding such a contingency, mademoiselle."

"Then avoid it!" Her voice sank almost
to a whisper. It was urgent, compelling.
"Avoid it at all costs!"
Poirot rose to his feet.
"Those are your instructions?" His voice
was formal.
"Those are my instructions."
"But, Tessa--" Donaldson interrupted.
I She whirled round on her fiance. ^ "Be quiet! She was my aunt, wasn't she?
Why should my aunt be dug up? Don't you
know there will be paragraphs in the papers
and gossip and general unpleasantness?" She
swung round again on Poirot.
"You must stop it! I give you carte blanche. Do anything you like, but stop it!"
Poirot bowed formally.
"I will do what I can. Au revoir, mademoiselle,
au revoir, Doctor."
"Oh, go away!" cried Theresa. "And take
St. Leonards with you. I wish I'd never set
eyes on either of you."
We left the room. Poirot did not this time
deliberately place his ear to the crack, but
he dallied--yes, he dallied.
And not in vain. Theresa's voice rose clear
and defiant:
"Don't look at me like that. Rex."
And then suddenly, with a break in her
voice: "Darling."
Dr. Donaldson's precise voice answered
her.
He said very clearly:
"That man means mischief."
Poirot grinned suddenly. He drew me
through the front door.
"Come, St. Leonards," he said. "C'est
drole, qa!'9
Personally I thought the joke a particularly
stupid one.
XXV
/ Lie Back and Reflect
No, I thought, as I hurried after Poirot, there was no doubt about it now. Miss Arundell
had been murdered and Theresa knew
it. But was she herself the criminal or was
there another explanation?
She was afraid--yes. But was she afraid
for herself or for some one else? Could that
some one be the quiet, precise young doctor
with the calm, aloof manner?
Had the old lady died of genuine disease artificially induced?
Up to a point it all fitted in--Donaldson's
ambitions, his belief that Theresa would inherit
money at her aunt's death. Even the
fact that he had been at dinner there on the evening of the accident. How easy to leave
a convenient window open and return in the
dead of night to tie the murderous thread
across the staircase. But then, what about ^e placing of the nail in position?
No, Theresa must have done that. Theresa,
his fiancee and accomplice. With the
two of them working it together, the whole
thing seemed clear enough. In that case it
was probably Theresa who had actually
placed the thread in position. The/im crime, the crime that failed, had been her work. The
second crime, the crime that had succeeded, was Donaldson's more scientific masterpiece.

Yes--it all fitted in.
Yet even now there were loose strands.
Why had Theresa blurted out those facts
about inducing liver disease in human
beings? It was almost as though she did not
realize the truth. . . . But in that case--and
I felt my mind growing bewildered, and I
interrupted my speculations to ask:
"Where are we going, Poirot?"
"Back to my flat. It is possible that we
may find Mrs. Tanios there."
My thoughts switched off on a different
track.
Mrs. Tanios! That was another mystery!
If Donaldson and Theresa were guilty, where did Mrs. Tanios and her smiling husband
come in? What did the woman want
to tell Poirot and what was Tanios's anxiety
to prevent her doing so?
"Poirot," I said humbly, "I'm getting
rather muddled. They're not all in it, are
they?"
"Murder by a syndicate? A family syndicate?
No, not this time. There is the mark
of one brain and one brain only in this. The
psychology is very clear."
"You mean that either Theresa or Donlaldson
did it--but not both of them? Did he
get her to hammer that nail in on some entirely
innocent pretext, then?"
"My dear friend, from the moment I
heard Miss Lawson's story I realized that
there were three possibilities: (1) That Miss
Lawson was telling the exact truth. (2) That
Miss Lawson had invented the story for reasons
of her own. (3) That Miss Lawson actually
believed her own story, but that her
identification rested upon the brooch--and
I as I have already pointed out to you--a
brooch is easily detachable from its owner."
"Yes, but Theresa insists that the brooch
did not leave her possession."
"And she is perfectly right. I had overlooked
a small but intensely significant fact."
"Very unlike you, Poirot," I said solemnly.

"N'est-ce pas? But one has one's lapses."
"Age will tell!"
"Age has nothing to do with it," said
Poirot coldly.
"Well, what is the significant fact?" I
asked as we turned in at the entrance of the
Mansions.
"I will show you."
We had just reached the flat.
George opened the door to us. In reply to
Poirofs anxious question he shook his head.
"No, sir, Mrs. Tanios has not called. Neither
has she telephoned."
Poirot went into the sitting-room. He
paced up and down for a few moments. Then
he picked up the telephone. He got first on
to the Durham Hotel.
"Yes--yes, please. Ah, Dr. Tanios, this
is Hercule Poirot speaking. Your wife has
returned? Oh, not returned. Dear me. . . .
Taken her luggage you say. . . . And the
children. . . . You have no idea where she
has gone. . . . Yes, quite. . . . Oh, perfectly.
. . . If my professional services are of
any use to you? I have a certain experience
in these matters. . . . Such things can be
done quite discreetly. . . . No, of course
not. . . . Yes, of course that is true. . .
Certainly--certainly. I shall respect your
wishes in the matter."
He hung up the receiver thoughtfully.
if "He does not know where she is," he said
thoughtfully. "I think that is quite genuine.
The anxiety in his voice is unmistakable. He
does not want to go to the police; that is
understandable. Yes, I understand that. He
does not want my assistance either. That is, perhaps, not quite so understandable. . . .
He wants her found--but he does not want me to find her. . . . No, definitely he does
not want me to find her. ... He seems confident
that he can manage the matter himself.
He does not think she can remain long
hidden, for she has very little money with
her. Also she has the children. Yes, I fancy
he will be able to hunt her down before long.
But, I think, Hastings, that we shall be a
little quicker than he is. It is important, I
think, that we should be."
"Do you think it's true that she is slightly
batty?" I asked.
"I think that she is in a highly nervous, overwrought condition.? ?
"But not to such a point that she ought
to be in a mental home?"
"That, very definitely, no."
"You know, Poirot, I don't quite understand
all this."
"If you will pardon my saying so, Hasi
tings, you do not understand at all!"
"There seem so many--well--side issues."

"Naturally there are side issues. To separate
the main issue from the side issues is
the first task of the orderly mind."
"Tell me, Poirot, have you realized all
along that there were eight possible suspects
and not seven?"
Poirot replied drily:
"I have taken that fact into consideration
from the moment that Theresa Arundell
mentioned that the last time she saw Dr.
Donaldson was when he dined at Littlegreen
House on April 14th."
"I can't quite see--" I broke off.
"What is it you cannot quite see?"
"Well, if Donaldson had planned to do
away with Miss Arundell by scientific
means--by inoculation, that is to say--I
can't see why he resorted to such a clumsy
device as a string across the stairs."
"En verite, Hastings, there are moments
when I lose patience with you! One method
is a highly scientific one needing fully specialized
knowledge. That is so, is it not?"
"Yes."
"And the other is a homely simple method--'the kind that mother makes5--as
the advertisements say. Is that not right?
^'
"Yes, exactly.55
"Then think, Hastings--think. Lie back
in your chair, close the eyes, employ the little
grey cells.55
I obeyed. That is to say, I leant back in
the chair and closed my eyes and endeavoured to carry out the third part of Poirot's
instructions. The result, however, did not
seem to clarify matters much.
I opened my eyes to find Poirot regarding
me with the kindly attention a nurse might
display towards a childish charge.
^Eh bien?"
I made a desperate attempt to emulate
Poirot5 s manner.
"Well,55 I said, "it seems to me that the
kind of person who laid the original boobytrap
is not the kind of person to plan out a
scientific murder.55
"Exactly.55
"And I doubt if a mind trained to scientific
complexities would think of anything so
childish as the accident plan--it would be
altogether too haphazard.55
"Very clearly reasoned.55 e Emboldened, I went on:
"Therefore, the only logical solution
seems to be this--the two attempts were
Planned by two different people. We have
I
here to deal with murder attempted by two
entirely different people."
"You do not think that is too much of a
coincidence?"
"You said yourself once that one coincidence
is nearly always found in a murder
case."
"Yes,
that is true. I have to admit it."
"Well, then."
"And who do you suggest for your villains?"

"Donaldson and Theresa Arundell. A
doctor is clearly indicated for the final and
successful murder. On the other hand, we
know that Theresa Arundell is concerned in
the first attempt. I think it's possible that
they acted quite independently of each
other."
"You are so fond of saying 'we know,5 Hastings. I can assure you that no matter
what you know, I do not know that Theresa
was implicated."
"But Miss Lawson's story."
"Miss Lawson's story is Miss Lawson's
story. Just that."
"But she says--"
"She says--she says. . . . Always you are
so ready to take what people say for a proved
and accepted fact. Now listen, mon cher, I
told you at the time, did I not, that something
struck me as wrong about Miss Lawson's
story?"
"Yes, I remember your saying so. But you
couldn't get hold of what it was."
"Well, I have done so now. A little moment
and I will show you what I, imbecile
that I am, ought to have seen at once."
He went over to the desk and opening a
drawer took out a sheet of cardboard. He
cut into this with a pair of scissors, motioning
to me not to overlook what he was doing.
"Patience, Hastings, in a little moment we
will proceed to our experiment."
I averted my eyes obligingly.
In a minute or two Poirot uttered an exclamation
of satisfaction. He put away the
scissors, dropped the fragments of cardboard
into the waste-paper basket and came across
the room to me.
"Now, do not look. Continue to avert the
eyes while I pin something to the lapel of
your coat."
I humoured him. Poirot completed the
proceeding to his satisfaction, then, propelling
me gently to my feet he drew me across
the room, and into the adjoining bedroom.
"Now, Hastings, regard yourself in the
glass. You are wearing, are you not, a fash-
ionable brooch with your initials on it--- only, bien entendu, the brooch is made not
of chromium nor stainless steel, nor gold;
nor platinum--but of humble cardboard!"
I looked at myself and smiled. Poirot is
uncommonly neat with his fingers. I was
wearing a very fair representation of Theresa
ArundelFs brooch--a circle cut out of cardboard
and enclosing my initials--A. H.
"Eh bien," said Poirot. "You are satisfied?
You have there, have you not, a very smart
brooch with your initials?"
"A most handsome affair," I agreed.
"It is true that it does not gleam and reflect
the light, but all the same you are prepared
to admit that that brooch could be seen
plainly from some distance away?"
"I've never doubted it."
"Quite so. Doubt is not your strong point. Simple faith is more characteristic of you.
And now, Hastings, be so good as to remove
your coat."
Wondering a little, I did so. Poirot divested
himself of his own coat and slipped
on mine, turning away a little as he did so.
"And now," he said. "Regard how the
brooch--the brooch with your initials--becomes
me?"
He whisked round. I stared at him--for
IF
the moment uncomprehendingly. Then I
saw the point.
"What a blithering fool I am! Of course.
It's H. A. in the brooch, not A. H. at all."
Poirot beamed on me, as he reassumed his
own clothes and handed me mine. .
"Exactly--and now you see what struck
me as wrong with Miss Lawson's story. She
stated that she had seen Theresa's initials
clearly on the brooch she was wearing: But
she saw Theresa in the glass. So, if she saw
the initials at all, she must have seen them reversed."
"Well," I argued. "Perhaps she did, and
realized that they were reversed."
"Mon cher, did that occur to you just now?
Did you exclaim, 'Ha! Poirot, you've got it
wrong--that's H. A. really--not A. H.'?
No, you did not. And yet you are a good
deal more intelligent, I should say, than Miss
Lawson. Do not tell me that a muddleheaded
woman like that woke up suddenly, and still half-asleep, realized that A. T. was
really T. A. No, that is not at all consistent
with the mentality of Miss Lawson."
"She was determined it should be Theresa,"
I said slowly.
"You are getting nearer, my friend. You
^member, I hint to her that she could not
I
really see the face of any one on the stairs,
and immediately--what does she do?"
"Remembers Theresa's brooch and lugs
that in--forgetting that the mere fact of having
seen it in the glass gave her own story
the lie."
The telephone bell rang sharply. Poirot
crossed to it.
He only spoke a few noncommittal
words.
"Yes? Yes . . . certainly. Yes, quite convenient.
The afternoon, I think. Yes, two
o'clock will do admirably."
He replaced the receiver and turned to me
with a smile.
"Dr. Donaldson is anxious to have a talk
with me. He is coming here to-morrow afternoon
at two o'clock. We progress, mon
ami, we progress."
XXVI
Mrs. Tanios Refuses to Speak
when I came round after breakfast the following
morning I found Poirot busy at the
writing-table.
He raised a hand in salutation, then proceeded
with his task. Presently he gathered
up the sheets, enclosed them in an envelope
and sealed them up carefully.
"Well, old boy, what are you doing?" I
asked facetiously. "Writing an account of the
case to be placed in safe-keeping in case some
one bumps you off during the course of the
day?"
"You know, Hastings, you are not so far
wrong as you think."
His manner was serious.
"Is our murderer really about to get dangerous?"

"A murderer is always dangerous," said
Poirot gravely. "Astonishing how often that
fact is overlooked."
"Any news?"
"Dr. Tanios rang up."
"Still no trace of his wife?"
"No."
"Then that's all right."
"I wonder."
"Dash it all, Poirot, you don't think she's
been bumped off, do you?"
Poirot shook his head doubtfully.
"I confess," he murmured, "that I should
like to know where she is."
"Oh, well," I said. "She'll turn up."
"Your cheerful optimism never fails to delight
me, Hastings!"
"My goodness, Poirot, you don't think
she'll turn up in parcels or dismembered in
a trunk?"
Poirot said slowly:
"I find the anxiety of Dr. Tanios somewhat
excessive--but no more of that. The
first thing to do is to interview Miss Law«
«
son."
"Are you going to point out that little error
over the brooch?"
"Certainly not. That little fact remains up
my sleeve until the right moment comes."
"Then what are you going to say to her?"
"That, mon ami, you will hear in due
course."
I "More lies, I suppose?"
"You are really very offensive sometimes, Hastings. Anybody would think I enjoyed
telling lies."
"I rather think you do. In fact, I'm sure
of it."
"It is true that I sometimes compliment
myself upon my ingenuity," Poirot confessed
naively.
(I could not help giving a shout of laughter.
oirot looked at me reproachfully and we set if for Clanroyden Mansions.
We were shown into the same crowded 1 sitting-room and Miss Lawson came bustling
in, her manner even more incoherent than
usual.
"Oh, dear, M. Poirot, good-morning.
Such a to-do--rather untidy, I'm afraid. But
then, everything is at sixes and sevens this
morning. Ever since Bella arrived--"
"What is that you say? Bella?"
"Yes, Bella Tanios. She turned up half an
hour ago--and the children--completely exhausted, poor soul! Really, I don't know
what to do about it. You see, she's left her
husband."
"Left him?"
"So she says. Of course, I've no doubt
she's fully justified, poor thing."
"She has confided in you?"
"Well--not exactly that. In fact, she won't
say anything at all. Just repeats that she's
left him and that nothing will induce her to
go back to him!"
"That is a very serious step to take."
"Of course it is! In fact, if he'd been an
Englishman, I would have advised her--but
there, he isn't an Englishman. . . . And she
looks so peculiar, poor thing, so--well, so scared. What can he have been doing to her?
I believe Turks are frightfully cruel sometimes."

"Dr. Tanios is a Greek."
"Yes, of course, that's the other way
about--I mean, they're usually the ones who
get massacred by the Turks--or am I thinking
of Armenians? But all the same, I don't
like to think of it. I don't think she ought to
go back to him, do you, M. Poirot? Anyway, I mean, she says she won't. . . . She doesn't
even want him to know where she is."
"As bad as that?"
"Yes, you see it's the children. She's so
afraid he could take them back to Smyrna.
Poor soul, she really is in a terrible way. You
see, she's got no money--no money at all.
She doesn't know where to go or what to do.
She wants to try and earn her living, but,
really, you know, M. Poirot, that's not so
easy as it sounds. I know that. It's not as
though she were trained for anything."
"When did she leave her husband?"
"Yesterday. She spent last night in a little
hotel near Paddington. She came to me because
she couldn't think of any one else to
go to, poor thing."
"And are you going to help her? That is
very good of you."
"Well, you see, M. Poirot, I really feel it's
my duty. But, of course, it's all very difficult.
This is a very small flat and there's no
room--and what with one thing and another."

"You could send her to Littlegreen
House?"
"I suppose I could--but, you see, her husband
might think of that. Just for the moment
I've got her rooms at the Wellington
Hotel in Queen's Road. She's staying there
under the name of Mrs. Peters."
"I see," said Poirot.
He paused for a minute, then said:
"I would like to see Mrs. Tanios. You see, she called at my flat yesterday but I was out."
"Oh, did she? She didn't tell me that. I'll
tell her, shall I?"
"If you would be so good."
Miss Lawson hurried out of the room. We
could hear her voice.
"Bella--Bella--my dear, will you come
and see M. Poirot?"
We did not hear Mrs. Tanios's reply, but
a minute or two later she came into the room.
I was really shocked at her appearance.
There were dark circles under her eyes and
her cheeks were completely destitute of colour, but what struck me far more than this
was her obvious air of terror. She started at
the least provocation, and she seemed to be
continually listening.
Poirot greeted her in his most soothing
manner. He came forward, shook hands, arranged
a chair for her and handed her a cushion. He treated the pale, frightened woman
as though she had been a queen.
"And now, madame, let us have a little
chat. You came to see me yesterday, I believe?"

She nodded.
"I regret very much that I was away from
home."
"Yes--yes, I wish you had been there."
"You came because you wanted to tell me
something?"
"Yes, I--I meant to--"
"Rh bien. I am here, at your service.
??
11 Mrs. Tamos did not respond. She sat quite
still? twisting a ring round and round on her
finser.
"Well, madame?"
Slowly, almost reluctantly, she shook her
head.
"No," she said. "I daren't."
B|
il "You daren't, madame?"
"No. I--if he knew--he'd-- Oh, something
would happen to me!"
"Come, come, madame--that is absurd."
"Oh, but it isn't absurd--it isn't absurd
at all. You don't know him. ..."
"By him, you mean your husband, madame?"
"Yes,
of course."
Poirot was silent a minute or two, then he
said:
"Your husband came to see me yesterday, madame."
A quick look of alarm sprang up in her
face.
"Oh, no! You didn't tell him--but of
course you didn't! You couldn't. You didn't
know where I was. Did he--did he say I was mad?"
Poirot answered cautiously.
"He said that you were--highly nervous."
But she shook her head, undeceived.
"No, he said that I was mad--or that I
was going mad! He wants to shut me up so
that I shan't be able to tell any one ever."
"Tell any one--what?"
But she shook her head. Twisting her fingers
nervously round and round, she muttered:

"I'm afraid. . . ."
"But, madame, once you have told me--
you are safe! The secret is out! The fact will
protect you automatically."
But she did not reply. She went on
twisting--twisting at her ring.
"You must see that yourself," said Poirot
gently.
She gave a sort of gasp.
"How am I to know? . . . Oh, dear, it's
terrible. He's so plausible! And he's a doctor!
People will believe him and not me. I know
they will. I should myself. Nobody will believe
me. How could they?"
"You will not even give me the chance?"
She shot a troubled glance at him.
"How do I know? You may be on his
side."
"I am on no one's side, madame. I am--- always--on the side of the truth."
"I don't know," said Mrs. Tanios hopelessly.
"Oh, I don't know."
She went on, her words gathering volume, tumbling over each other.
"It's been so awful--for years now. I've seen things happening again and again. And
I couldn't say anything or do anything.
There have been the children. It's been like
a long nightmare. And now this. . . . But I
won't go back to him. I won't let him have
the children! I'll go somewhere where he
can't find me. Mina Lawson will help me.
She's been so kind--so wonderfully kind.
Nobody could have been kinder." She
stopped, then shot a quick look at Poirot and
asked:
"What did he say about me? Did he say
I had delusions?"
"He said, madame, that you had--
changed towards him."
She nodded.
"And he said I had delusions. He did say
that, didn't he?"
"Yes, madame, to be frank, he did."
"That's it, you see. That's what it will
sound like. And I've no proof--no real
proof."
Poirot leaned back in his chair. When he
next spoke it was with an entire change of
manner.
He spoke in a matter-of-fact, businesslike
voice with as little emotion as if he had been
discussing some dry matter of business.
"Do you suspect your husband of doing
away with Miss Emily Arundell?"
Her answer came quickly--a spontaneous
flash.
"I don't suspect--I know."
"Then, madame, it is your duty to speak."
"Ah, but it isn't so easy--no, it isn't so
easy."
"How did he kill her?"
"I don't know exactly--but he did kill
her."
"But you don't know the method he employed?"

"No--it was something--something he
did that last Sunday."
"The Sunday he went down to see her?"
"Yes."
"But you don't know what it was?"
"No."
"Then how, forgive me, madame, can you
be so sure?"
"Because he--" She stopped and said
slowly, "I am sure!"
"Pardon, madame, but there is something
you are keeping back. Something you have
not yet told me?"
"Yes."
"Come, then."
Bella Tanios got up suddenly.
"No. No. I can't do that. The children.
Their father. I can't. I simply can't. ..."
"But, madame--"
"I can't, I tell you."
Her voice rose almost to a scream. The
door opened and Miss Lawson came in, her
head cocked on one side with a sort of pleasurable
excitement.
"May I come in? Have you had your little
talk? Bella, my dear, don't you think you
ought to have a cup of tea, or some soup, or
perhaps a little brandy even?"
Mrs. Tanios shook her head.
"I'm quite all right." She gave a weak
smile. "I must be getting back to the children.
I have left them to unpack."
"Dear little things," said Miss Lawson.
"I'm so fond of children."
Mrs. Tanios turned to her suddenly.
"I don't know what I should do without
you," she said. "You--you've been wonderfully
kind."
"There, there, my dear, don't cry. Everything's
going to be all right. You shall come
round and see my lawyer--such a nice man, so sympathetic, and he'll advise you the best
way to get a divorce. Divorce is so simple
nowadays, isn't it, everybody says so. Oh, dear, there's the bell. I wonder who that is."
She left the room hurriedly. There was a
murmur of voices in the hall. Miss Lawson
reappeared. She tiptoed in and shut the door
carefully behind her. She spoke in an excited
whisper, mouthing the words exaggeratedly.
"Oh, dear, Bella, it's your husband. I'm
sure I don't know--"
Mrs. Tanios gave one bound towards a
door at the other end of the room. Miss Lawson
nodded her head violently.
"That's right, dear, go in there, and then
you can slip out when I've brought him in
here."
Mrs. Tanios whispered:
"Don't say I've been here. Don't say
you've seen me."
"No, no, of course I won't."
Mrs. Tanios slipped through the door.
Poirot and I followed hastily. We found ourselves
in a small dining-room.
Poirot crossed to the door into the hall? opened it a crack and listened. Then he beckoned.

"All is clear. Miss Lawson has taken him
into the other room."
We crept through the hall and out by the
front door. Poirot drew it to as noiselessly
as possible after him.
Mrs. Tanios began to run down the steps, stumbling and clutching at the bannisters.
Poirot steadied her with a hand under her
arm.
"Du caime--du calme. All is well."
We reached the entrance-hall.
"Come with me," said Mrs. Tanios piteously.
She looked as though she might be
going to faint.
"Certainly I will come," said Poirot reassuringly.

We crossed the road, turned a corner, and
found ourselves in the Queen's Road. The
Wellington was a small, inconspicuous hotel
of the boarding-house variety.
When we were inside, Mrs. Tanios sank
down on a plush sofa. Her hand was on her
beating heart.
Poirot patted her reassuringly on the
shoulder.
"It was the narrow squeak--yes. Now, madame, you are to listen to me very carefully."

"I can't tell you anything more, M. Poirot.
It wouldn't be right. You--you know what
I think--what I believe. You--you must be
satisfied with that."
"I asked you to listen, madame.
Supposing--this is a supposition only--that
I already know the facts of the case. Supposing
that what you could tell me / have already
guessed--that would make a difference, would it not?"
She looked at him doubtfully. Her eyes
were painful in their intensity.
"Oh, believe me, madame, I am not trying
to trap you into saying what you do not wish
to. But it would make a difference--yes?"
"I--I suppose it would."
"Good. Then let me say this. I, Hercule
Poirot, know the truth. I am not going to ask
you to accept my word for it. Take this."
He thrust upon her the bulky envelope I had
seen him seal up that morning. "The facts
are there. After you have read them, if they
satisfy you, ring me up. My number is on
the notepaper."
Almost reluctantly she accepted the envelope.

Poirot went on briskly:
"And now, one more point, you must
leave this hotel at once."
"But why?"
"You will go to the Coniston Hotel near
Euston. Tell no one where you are going."
"But surely--here--Minnie Lawson
won't tell my husband where I am."
"You think not?"
"Oh, no--she's entirely on my side."
"Yes, but your husband, madame, is a
very clever man. He will not find it difficult
to turn a middle-aged lady inside out. It is
essential--essential, you understand, that
your husband should not know where you
are."
She nodded dumbly.
Poirot held out a sheet of paper.
"Here is the address. Pack up and drive
there with the children as soon as possible.
You understand?"
She nodded.
"I understand."
"It is the children you must think of, madame,
not yourself. You love your children."
He had touched the right note.
A little colour crept into her cheeks, her
head went back. She looked, not a frightened
drudge, but an arrogant, almost handsome
woman.
"It is arranged, then," said Poirot.
He shook hands and he and I departed.
But not far. From the shelter of a convenient
cafe, we sipped coffee and watched the entrance
of the hotel. In about five minutes we
saw Dr. Tanios walking down the street. He
did not even glance up at the Wellington.
He passed it, his head bowed in thought, then he turned into the Underground station.

About ten minutes later we saw Mrs. Tanios
and the children get into the taxi with
their luggage and drive away.
^Bien," said Poirot, rising with the check
in his hand. "We have done our part. Now
it is on the knees of the gods."
XXVII
Visit of Dr. Donaldson
donaldson arrived punctually at two
o^clock. He was as calm and precise as ever.
The personality of Donaldson had begun
to intrigue me. I had started by regarding
him as a rather nondescript young man. I
had wondered what a vivid, compelling creature
like Theresa could see in him. But I
now began to realize that Donaldson was
anything but negligible. Behind that pedantic
manner there was force.
After our preliminary greetings were over, Donaldson said:
"The reason for my visit is this. I am at
a loss to understand exactly what your position
is in this matter, M. Poirot."
Poirot replied guardedly:
"You know my profession, I think?"
"Certainly. I may say that I have taken
ie trouble to make inquiries about you."
"You are a careful man. Doctor."
Donaldson said drily:
"I like to be sure of my facts."
"You have the scientific mind!"
"I may say that all reports on you are the
same. You are obviously a very clever man
in your profession. You have also the reputation
of being a scrupulous and honest
one."
"You are too flattering," murmured
Poirot.
"That is why I am at a loss to explain your
connection with this affair."
"And yet it is so simple!"
"Hardly that," said Donaldson. "You
first present yourself as a writer of biographies."

"A pardonable deception, do you not
think? One cannot go everywhere announcing
the fact that one is a detective--though
that, too, has its uses sometimes."
"So I should imagine." Again Donaldson's
tone was dry. "Your next proceeding,"
he went on, "was to call on Miss Theresa
Arundell and represent to her that her aunt's
will might conceivably be set aside."
Poirot merely bowed his head in assent.
"That, of course, was ridiculous." Donaldson's
voice was sharp. "You knew perfectly well that that will was valid in law and
that nothing could be done about it."
"You think that is the case?"
"I am not a fool, M. Poirot--"
"No, Dr. Donaldson, you are certainly
not a fool."
"I know something--not very much, but
enough--of the law. That will can certainly
not be upset. Why did you pretend it could?
Clearly for reasons of your own--reasons
which Miss Theresa Arundell did not for a
moment grasp."
"You seem very certain of her reactions."
A very faint smile passed across the young
man's face.
He said unexpectedly:
"I know a good deal more about Theresa
than she suspects. I have no doubt that she
and Charles think they have enlisted your
aid in some questionable business. Charles
is almost completely amoral. Theresa has a
bad heredity and her upbringing has been
unfortunate."
"It is thus you speak of your fiancee--as
though she was a guinea-pig?"
Donaldson peered at him through his
pincenez.
"I see no occasion to blink the truth. I
love Theresa Arundell and I love her for
Donaldson said drily:
"I like to be sure of my facts."
"You have the scientific mind!"
"I may say that all reports on you are the
same. You are obviously a very clever man
in your profession. You have also the reputation
of being a scrupulous and honest
one."
"You are too flattering," murmured
Poirot.
"That is why I am at a loss to explain your
connection with this affair."
"And yet it is so simple!"
"Hardly that," said Donaldson. "You
first present yourself as a writer of biographies."

"A pardonable deception, do you not
think? One cannot go everywhere announcing
the fact that one is a detective--though
that, too, has its uses sometimes."
"So I should imagine." Again Donaldson's
tone was dry. "Your next proceeding,"
he went on, "was to call on Miss Theresa
Arundell and represent to her that her aunt's
will might conceivably be set aside."
Poirot merely bowed his head in assent.
"That, of course, was ridiculous." Donaldson's
voice was sharp. "You knew perfectly well that that will was valid in law and
that nothing could be done about it."
"You think that is the case?"
"I am not a fool, M. Poirot--"
"No, Dr. Donaldson, you are certainly
not a fool."
"I know something--not very much, but
enough--of the law. That will can certainly
not be upset. Why did you pretend it could?
Clearly for reasons of your own--reasons
which Miss Theresa Arundell did not for a
moment grasp."
"You seem very certain of her reactions."
A very faint smile passed across the young
man's face.
He said unexpectedly:
"I know a good deal more about Theresa
than she suspects. I have no doubt that she
and Charles think they have enlisted your
aid in some questionable business. Charles
is almost completely amoral. Theresa has a
bad heredity and her upbringing has been
unfortunate."
"It is thus you speak of your fiancee--as [though she was a guinea-pig?"
Donaldson peered at him through his
pincenez.
"I see no occasion to blink the truth. I
love Theresa Arundell and I love her for
what she is and not for any imagined qual-
^ ^
ities.
"Do you realize that Theresa Arundell is
devoted to you and that her wish for money
is mainly in order that your ambitions should
be gratified?"
"Of course I realize it. I've already told
you I'm not a fool. But I have no intention
of allowing Theresa to embroil herself in any
questionable situation on my account. In
many ways Theresa is a child still. I am quite
capable of furthering my career by my own
efforts. I do not say that a substantial legacy
would not have been acceptable. It would
have been most acceptable. But it would
merely have provided a short cut."
"You have, in fact, full confidence in your
own abilities?"
"It probably sounds conceited, but I
have," said Donaldson composedly.
"Let us proceed, then. I admit that I
gained Miss Theresa's confidence by a trick.
I let her think that I would be--shall we say, reasonably dishonest--for money. She believed
that without the least difficulty."
"Theresa believes that any one would do
anything for money," said the young doctor
in the matter-of-fact tone one uses when stating
a self-evident truth.
"True. Thai seems to be her attitude--
her brother's also."
"Charles probably would do anything for
money!"
"You have no illusions, I see, about your
future brother-in-law.''
"No. I find him quite an interesting study.
There is, I think, some deep-seated neurosis--but
that is talking shop. To return
to what we are discussing. I have asked myself
why you should act in the way you have
done, and I have found only one answer. It
is clear that you suspect either Theresa or
Charles of having a hand in Miss ArundelFs
death. No, please don't bother to contradict
me! Your mention of exhumation was, I
think, a mere device to see what reaction you
would get. Have you, in actual fact, taken
any steps towards getting a Home Office order
for exhumation?"
"I will be quite frank with you. As yet, I
have not."
; Donaldson nodded.
1 "So I thought. I suppose you have considered
the possibility that Miss ArundelFs
death may turn out to be from natural
causes?"
"I have considered the fact that it may [appear to be so--yes."
"But your own mind is made up?"
"Very definitely. If you have a case of--
say--tuberculosis that looks like tuberculosis, behaves like tuberculosis, and in which
the blood gives a positive reaction--eh bien, you consider it is tuberculosis, do you not?"
"You look at it that way? I see. Then what
exactly are you waiting for?"
"I am waiting for a final piece of evidence."

The telephone bell rang. At a gesture from
Poirot I got up and answered it. I recognized
the voice.
"Captain Hastings? This is Mrs. Tanios
speaking. Will you tell M. Poirot that he is
perfectly right. If he will come here to-morrow
morning at ten o'clock, I will give him
what he wants."
"At ten o'clock tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Right, I'll tell him."
Poirot's eyes asked a question. I nodded.
He turned to Donaldson. His manner had
changed. It was brisk--assured.
"Let me make myself clear," he said. "I
have diagnosed this case of mine as a case of
murder. It looked like murder, it gave all
the characteristic reactions of murder--in
fact, it was murder! Of that, there is not the
least doubt."
"Where then does the doubt--for I perceive
there is a doubt--lie?"
"The doubt lay in the identity of the
murderer--but that is a doubt no longer!"
"Really? You know?"
"Let us say that I shall have definite proof
in my hands tomorrow."
Dr. Donaldson5 s eyebrows rose in a
slightly ironical fashion.
"Ah," he said. "To-morrow! Sometimes, M. Poirot, to-morrow is a long way off."
"On the contrary," said Poirot, "I always
find that it succeeds to-day with monotonous
regularity."
Donaldson smiled. He rose.
[ "I fear I have wasted your time, M.
Poirot."
"Not at all. It is always as well to understand
each other."
With a slight bow. Dr. Donaldson left the
room.
XXVIII
Another Victim
"that is a clever man," said Poirot thoughtfully.

"It's rather difficult to know what he is
driving at."
"Yes. He is a little inhuman. But extremely
perceptive."
"That telephone call was from Mrs. Tanios."
"So
I gathered."
I repeated the message. Poirot nodded approval.

"Good. All marches well. Twenty-four
hours, Hastings, and I think we shall know
exactly where we stand."
"I'm still a little fogged. Who exactly do
we suspect?"
"I really could not say who you suspect,
Hastings! Everybody in turn, I should imagine!"

"Sometimes I think you like to get me into
that state!"
"No, no, I would not amuse myself in
such a way."
"I wouldn't put it past you."
Poirot shook his head, but somewhat absently.
I studied him.
"Is anything the matter?" I asked.
"My friend, I am always nervous towards
the end of a case. If anything should go
wrong--"
"Is anything likely to go wrong?"
"I do not think so." He paused, frowning.
"I have, I think, provided against every contingency."

"Then, supposing that we forget crime
and go to a show?"
"Mafoi, Hastings, that is a good idea!"
We passed a very pleasant evening, though
I made the slight mistake of taking Poirot to
a crook play. There is one piece of advice I
offer to all my readers. Never take a soldier
to a military play, a sailor to a naval play, a
Scotsman to a Scottish play, a detective to a
thriller--and an actor to any play whatsoever!
The shower of destructive criticism in
each case is somewhat devastating. Poirot
never ceased to complain of faulty psychology,
and the hero detective's lack of order
and method nearly drove him demented. We
parted that night with Poirot still explaining
how the whole business might have been laid
bare in the first half of the first act.
"But in that case, Poirot, there would have
been no play," I pointed out.
Poirot was forced to admit that perhaps
that was so.
It was a few minutes past nine when I
entered the sitting-room the next morning.
Poirot was at the breakfast-table--as usual
neatly slitting open his letters.
The telephone rang and I answered it.
A heavy-breathing female voice spoke:
"Is that M. Poirot? Oh, it's you. Captain
Hastings."
There was a sort of gasp and a sob.
"Is that Miss Lawson?" I asked.
"Yes, yes, such a terrible thing has happened!"

I grasped the receiver tightly.
"What is it?"
"She left the Wellington, you know--
Bella, I mean. I went there late in the afternoon
yesterday and they said she'd left.
Without a word to me, either! Most extraordinary!
It makes me feel that perhaps, after
all. Dr. Tanios was right. He spoke so nicely about her and seemed so distressed, and now
it really looks as though he were right after
all."
"But what's happened. Miss Lawson? Is
it just that Mrs. Tanios left the hotel without
telling you?"
"Oh, no, it's not that! Oh, dear me, no. If
that were all it would be quite all right. Though
I do think it was odd, you know. Dr. Tanios
did say that he was afraid she wasn't
quite—not quite—if you know what I mean.
Persecution mania, he called it."
"Yes." (Damn the woman!) "But what's
happened?"
"Oh, dear—it is terrible. Died in her
sleep. An overdose of some sleeping stuff!
And those poor little children! It all seems
so dreadfully sad! I've done nothing but cry
since I heard."
"How did you hear? Tell me all about it."
Out of the tail of my eye I noticed that
Poirot had stopped opening his letters. He
was listening to my side of the conversation.
I did not like to cede my place to him. If I
did it seemed highly probable that Miss
Lawson would start with lamentations all
over again.
"They rang me up. From the hotel. The
Coniston it's called. It seems they found my
name and address in her bag. Oh, dear, M.
Poirot--Captain Hastings, I mean--isn't it
terrible? Those poor little children left motherless."

"Look here," I said. "Are you sure it's an
accident? They didn't think it could be suicide?"

"Oh, what a dreadful idea. Captain Hastings!
Oh, dear, I don't know, I'm sure. Do
you think it could be? That would be dreadful! Of course she did seem very depressed.
But she needn't have been. I mean there
wouldn't have been any difficulty about money. 1 was going to share with her--indeed
I was! Dear Miss Arundell would have
wished it. I'm sure of that! It seems so awful
to think of her taking her own life--but perhaps
she didn't. . . . The hotel people
seemed to think it was an accident."
"What did she take?"
"One of those sleeping things. Veronal, I
think. No, chloral. Yes, that was it. Chloral.
Oh, dear. Captain Hastings, do you think--"
Unceremoniously I banged down the receiver.
I turned to Poirot.
"Mrs. Tanios--"
He raised a hand.
"Yes, yes, I know what you are going to
say. She is dead, is she not?"
"Yes. Overdose of sleeping-draught.
:hloral."
Poirot got up.
"Come, Hastings, we must go there at
once."
"Is this what you feared--last night?
When you said you were always nervous towards
the end of a case?"
"I feared another death--yes."
Poirot5 s face was set and stern. We said
very little as we drove towards Euston. Once
or twice Poirot shook his head.
I said timidly:
"You don't think--? Could it be an accident?"

"No, Hastings--no. It was not an acci1.
dent."
"How on earth did he find out where she
had gone?"
Poirot only shook his head without replying.

I The Coniston was an unsavoury-looking
place quite near Euston station. Poirot, with
his card, and a suddenly bullying manner, , soon fought his way into the manager's ofy_fice.
^fc
The facts were quite simple. ^| Mrs. Peters, as she had called herself, and
her two children had arrived about half-past
twelve. They had had lunch at one o'clock.
At four o'clock a man had arrived with a
note for Mrs. Peters. The note had been sent
up to her. A few minutes later she had come
down with the two children and a suitcase.
The children had then left with the visitor.
Mrs. Peters had gone to the office and explained
that she should only want the one
room after all.
She had not appeared exceptionally distressed
or upset, indeed she had seemed
quite calm and collected. She had had dinner
about seven-thirty and had gone to her room
soon afterwards.
On calling her in the morning the chambermaid
had found her dead.
A doctor had been sent for and had pronounced
her to have been dead for some
hours. An empty glass was found on the table
by the bed. It seemed fairly obvious that she
had taken a sleeping-draught, and, by mistake, taken an overdose. Chloral hydrate, the
doctor said, was a somewhat uncertain drug.
There were no indications of suicide. No
letter had been left. Searching for means of
notifying her relations. Miss Lawson's name
and address had been found and she had
been communicated with by telephone.
Poirot asked if anything had been found
tin the way of letters or papers. The letter,
for instance, brought by the man who had
called for the children.
No papers of any kind had been found,
the man said, but there was a pile of charred
paper on the hearth.
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
As far as any one could say, Mrs. Peters
had had no visitors and no one had come to
her room—with the solitary exception of the
man who had called for the two children.
I questioned the porter myself as to his
appearance, but the man was very vague. A
man of medium height—he thought fairhaired—rather
military build—of somewhat
nondescript appearance. No, he was positive
the man had no beard.
"It wasn't Tanios," I murmured to Poirot.
"My dear Hastings! Do you really believe
that Mrs. Tanios, after all the trouble she
was taking to get the children away from
their father, would quite meekly hand them
over to him without the least fuss or protest?
A, that, no!"
"Then who was the man?"
"Clearly it was some one in whom Mrs.
'anios had confidence or rather it was some
one sent by a third person in whom Mrs.
Tanios had confidence."
"A man of medium height," I mused.
"You need hardly trouble yourself about
his appearance, Hastings. I am quite sure
that the man who actually called for the children
was some quite unimportant personage.
The real agent kept himself in the background!"

"And the note was from this third person?"

"Yes."
"Some one in whom Mrs. Tanios had confidence?"

"Obviously."
"And the note is now burnt?"
"Yes, she was instructed to burn it."
"What about that resume of the case that
you gave her?"
Poirot's face looked unusually grim.
"That, too, is burned. But that does not
matter!"
"No?"
"No. For you see--it is all in the head of
Hercule Poirot."
He took me by the arm.
"Come, Hastings, let us leave here. Our
concern is not with the dead but with the
living. It is with them I have to deal."
XXIX
Inquest at Littlegreen House
it was eleven o'clock the following morning.
Seven people were assembled at Littlegreen
House. Hercule Poirot stood by the
mantelpiece. Charles and Theresa Arundell
were on the sofa, Charles on the arm of it
with his hand on Theresa's shoulder. Dr.
Tanios sat in a grandfather chair. His eyes
were red-rimmed and he wore a black band
round his arm.
On an upright chair by a round table sat
the owner of the house. Miss Lawson. She,
too, had red eyes. Her hair was even untidier
than usual. Dr. Donaldson sat directly facing
Poirot. His face was quite expressionless.
My interest quickened as I looked at each
face in turn.
In the course of my association with Poirot
I had assisted at many such a scene. A little
company of people, all outwardly composed
with well-bred masks for faces. And I had
seen Poirot strip the mask from one face and
show it for what it was--the face of a killer!
Yes, there was no doubt of it. One of these
people was a murderer! But which? Even now
I was not sure.
Poirot cleared his throat--a little pompously
as was his habit--and began to speak.
"We are assembled here, ladies and
gentlemen, to inquire into the death of Emily
Arundell on the first of May last. There are
four possibilities--that she died naturally--
that she died as the result of an accident--
that she took her own life--or lastly that she
met her death at the hands of some person
known or unknown.
"No inquest was held at the time of her
death, since it was assumed that she died
from natural causes and a medical certificate
to that effect was given by Dr. Grainger.
"In a case where suspicion arises after burial
has taken place it is usual to exhume the
body of the person in question. There are
reasons why I have not advocated that
course. The chief of them is that my client
would not have liked it.55
It was Dr. Donaldson who interrupted.
He said:
"Your client?"
Poirot turned to him.
"My client is Miss Emily Arundell. I am
acting for her. Her greatest desire was that
there should be no scandal."
I will pass over the next ten minutes, since
it would involve much needless repetition.
Poirot told of the letter he had received, and
producing it he read it aloud. He went on
to explain the steps he had taken on coming
to Market Basing, and of his discovery of
the means taken to bring about the accident.
Then he paused, cleared his throat once
more, and went on:
"I am now going to take you over the
ground I travelled to get at the truth. I am
going to show you what I believe to be a true
reconstruction of the facts of the case.
"To begin with it is necessary to picture
exactly what passed in Miss ArundelFs
mind. That, I think, is fairly easy. She has
a fall, her fall is supposed to be occasioned
by a dog's ball, but she herself knows better. Lying there on her bed her active and shrewd
mind goes over the circumstances of her fall
and she comes to a very definite conclusion
about it. Some one has deliberately tried to
injure--perhaps to kill her.
"From that conclusion she passes to a consideration
of who that person can be. There
were seven people in the house--four guests,
her companion and two servants. Of these
seven people only one can be entirely
exonerated--since to that one person no advantage
could accrue. She does not seriously
suspect the two servants, both of whom have
been with her for many years and whom she
knows to be devoted to her. There remain
then, four persons, three of them members
of her family, and one of them a connection
by marriage. Each of those four persons benefit,
three directly, one indirectly, by her death.
"She is in a difficult position, since she is
a woman with a strong sense of family feeling.
Essentially she is not one who wishes to
wash the dirty linen in public, as the saying
goes. On the other hand, she is not one to
submit tamely to attempted murder!
"She takes her decision and writes to me.
She also takes a further step. That further
step was, I believe, actuated by two motives.
One, I think, was a distant feeling of spite against her entire family! She suspected
them all impartially, and she determined at
all costs to score off them! The second and
more reasoned motive was a wish to protect
herself and a realization of how this could
be accomplished. As you know, she wrote
to her lawyer, Mr. Pur vis, and directed him
to draw up a will in favour of the one person
in the house whom, she felt convinced, could
have had no hand in her accident.
"Now I may say that, from the terms of
her letter to me and from her subsequent
actions, I am quite sure that Miss Arundell
passed from indefinite suspicion of four people
to definite suspicion of one of those four.
The whole tenor of her letter to me is an
insistence that this business must be kept
strictly private, since the honour of the family
is involved.
"I think that, from a Victorian point of
view, this means that a person of her own
name was indicated--and preferably a man.
"If she had suspected Mrs. Tanios she
would have been quite as anxious to secure
her own safety, but not quite as concerned
for the family honour. She might have felt
much the same about Theresa Arundell, but
not nearly as intensely as she would feel
about Charles.
"Charles was an Arundell. He bore the
family name! Her reasons for suspecting him
seem quite clear. To begin with, she had no
illusions about Charles. He had come near
to disgracing the family once before. That
is, she knew him to be not only a potential but an actual criminal! He had already forged
her name to a cheque. After forgery--a step
further--murder!
"Also she had had a somewhat suggestive
conversation with him only two days before
her accident. He had asked her for money
and she had refused and he had thereupon
remarked--oh, lightly enough--that she
was going the right way to get herself
bumped off. To this she had responded that
she could take care of herself! To this, we
are told, her nephew responded, 'Don't be
too sure.' And two days later this sinister accident
takes place.
"It is hardly to be wondered at that lying
there and brooding over the occurrence, Miss Arundell came definitely to the conclusion
that it was Charles Arundell who had
made an attempt upon her life.
"The sequence of events is perfectly clear.
The conversation with Charles. The accident.
The letter written to me in great distress
of mind. The letter to the lawyer. On
the following Tuesday, the 21st, Mr. Purvis
brings the will and she signs it.
"Charles and Theresa Arundell come
down the following week-end and Miss
Arundell at once takes the necessary steps
to safeguard herself. She tells Charles about
the will. She not only tells him but she actually shows it to him! That, to my mind, is absolutely conclusive. She is making it quite
clear to a would-be murderer that murder would
bring him nothing whatever!
"She probably thought that Charles would
pass on that information to his sister. But he
did not do so. Why? I fancy that he had a
very good reason--he felt guilty! He believed
that it was his doing that the will had
been made. But why did he feel guilty? Because
he had really attempted murder? Or
merely because he had helped himself to a
small sum of ready cash? Either the serious
crime or the petty one might account for his
reluctance. He said nothing, hoping that his
aunt would relent and change her mind.
"As far as Miss ArundelFs state of mind
was concerned I felt that I had reconstructed
events with a fair amount of correctness. I
had next to make up my mind if her suspicions
were, in actual fact, justified.
"Just as she had done, I realized that my
suspicions were limited to a narrow circle--
seven people to be exact. Charles and Theresa
Arundell, Dr. Tanios and Mrs. Tanios, the two servants, and Miss Lawson. There
was an eighth person who had to be taken
into account--namely. Dr. Donaldson, who
dined there that night, but I did not learn
of his presence until later.
"These seven persons that I was considering
fell easily into two categories. Six of
them stood to benefit in a greater or lesser
degree by Miss ArundelFs death. If any one
of those six had committed the crime the
reason was probably a plain matter of gain. The second category contained one person
only--Miss Lawson. Miss Lawson did not stand to gain by Miss Arundell's death, but as a result of the accident, she did benefit
considerably later!
"That meant that if Miss Lawson staged
the so-called accident--"
"I never did anything of the kind!" Miss Lawson interrupted. "It's disgraceful!
Standing up there and saying such things!"
"A little patience, mademoiselle. And be
kind enough not to interrupt," said Poirot.
Miss Lawson tossed her head angrily.
"I insist on making my protest! Disgraceful,
that's what it is! Disgraceful!"
Poirot went on, unheeding.
"I was saying that i/Miss Lawson staged
that accident she did so for an entirely different reason--that is, she engineered it so
that Miss Arundell would naturally suspect her
own family and become alienated from them.
410
That was a possibility! I searched to see if
there were any confirmation or otherwise
and I unearthed one very definite fact. If
Miss Lawson wanted Miss Arundell to suspect
her own family, she would have stressed
the fact of the dog. Bob, being out that night.
But on the contrary Miss Lawson took the
utmost pains to prevent Miss Arundell hearing
of that. Therefore, I argued. Miss Lawson
must be innocent."
Miss Lawson said sharply:
"I should hope so!"
"I next considered the problem of Miss
Arundell5 s death. If one attempt to murder
a person is made, a second attempt usually
follows. It seemed to me significant that
within a fortnight of the first attempt Miss
Arundell should have died. I began to make
inquiries.
"Dr. Grainger did not seem to think there
was anything unusual about his patient's
death. That was a little damping to my theory.
But, inquiring into the happenings of
the last evening before she was taken ill, I
came across a rather significant fact. Miss
Isabel Tripp mentioned a halo of light that
had appeared round Miss Arundell5 s head.
Her sister confirmed her statement. They
might, of course, be inventing--in a roman411
tic spirit--but I did not think that the incident
was quite a likely one to occur to them
unprompted. When questioning Miss Lawson
she also gave me an interesting piece of
information. She referred to a luminous ribbon
issuing from Miss ArundelFs mouth and
forming a luminous haze round her head.
"Obviously, though described somewhat
differently by two different observers 5 the
actual fact was the same. What it amounted
to, shorn of spiritualistic significance, was
this: On the night in question Miss ArundelFs
breath was phosphorescent!"
Dr. Donaldson moved a little in his chair.
Poirot nodded to him.
"Yes, you begin to see. There are not very
many phosphorescent substances. The first
and most common one gave me exactly what
I was looking for. I will read you a short
extract from an article on phosphorus poisoning.

"The person's breath may be phosphorescent
before he feels in any way affected. That is
what Miss Lawson and the Misses Tripp saw
in the dark--Miss ArundelFs phosphorescent
breath--'a luminous haze.' And here I
will read you again. The jaundice having thoroughly
pronounced itself, the system may be considered
as not only under the influence of the
toxic action of phosphorus, but as suffering in
addition from all the accidents incidental to the
retention of the biliary secretion in the blood,
nor is therefrom this point any special difference
between phosphorus poisoning and certain affections
of the liver--such for example as yellow
atrophy.
"You see the cleverness of that? Miss
Arundell has suffered for years from liver
trouble. The symptoms of phosphorus poisoning
would only look like another attack of
the same complaint. There will be nothing
new, nothing startling about it.
"Oh! it was well planned! Foreign
matches--vermin paste? It is not difficult to
get hold of phosphorus, and a very small
dose will kill. The medicinal dose is from
1/100 to 1/30 grain.
"Voila. How clear--how marvellously
clear the whole business becomes! Naturally, the doctor is deceived--especially as I find
his sense of smell is affected--the garlic
odour of the breath is a distinct symptom
of phosphorus poisoning. He had no suspicions--why
should he have? There were
no suspicious circumstances and the one
thing that might have given him a hint was
the one thing he would never hear--or if he
did hear it he would only class it as spiritualistic
nonsense.
"I was now sure (from the evidence of
Miss Lawson and the Misses Tripp) that
murder had been committed. The question
still was by whom? I eliminated the
servants--their mentality was obviously not
adapted to such a crime. I eliminated Miss
Lawson, since she would hardly have prattled
on about luminous ectoplasm if she had
been connected with the crime. I eliminated
Charles Arundell, since he knew, having seen
the will, that he would gain nothing by his
aunts death.
"There remained his sister Theresa, Dr.
Tanios, Mrs. Tanios and Dr. Donaldson, who I discovered to have been dining in the
house on the evening of the dog's ball incident.

"At this point I had very little to help me.
I had to fall back upon the psychology of the
crime and the personality of the murderer!
Both crimes had roughly the same outline. They were both simple. They were cunning,
and carried out with efficiency. They required
a certain amount of knowledge but
not a great deal. The facts about phosphorus
poisoning are easily learned, and the stuff
itself, as I say, is quite easily obtained, especially
abroad.
"I considered first the two men. Both of
them were doctors, and both were clever
men. Either of them might have thought of
phosphorus and its suitability in this particular
case, but the incident of the dog's ball
did not seem to fit a masculine mind. The
incident of the ball seemed to me essentially
a woman's idea.
"I considered first of all Theresa Arundell.
She had certain potentialities. She was bold, ruthless, and not overscrupulous. She had
led a selfish and greedy life. She had always
had everything she wanted and she had
reached a point where she was desperate for
money--both for herself and for the man
she loved. Her manner, also, showed plainly
that she knew her aunt had been murdered.
"There was an interesting little passage
between her and her brother. I conceived
the idea that each suspected the other of the
crime. Charles endeavoured to make her say
that she knew of the existence of the new will. Why? Clearly because if she knew of it she
could not be suspected of the murder. She,
on the other hand, clearly did not believe
Charles's statement that Miss Arundell had
shown it to him! She regarded it as a singularly clumsy attempt on his part to divert
suspicion from himself.
"There was another significant point.
Charles displayed a reluctance to use the
word arsenic. Later I found that he had questioned
the old gardener at length upon the
strength of some weed-killer. It was clear
what had been in his mind."
Charles Arundell shifted his position a little.

"I thought of it," he said. "But--well, I
suppose I hadn't got the nerve."
Poirot nodded at him.
"Precisely, it is not in your psychology. Your
crimes will always be the crimes of weakness.
To steal, to forge--yes, it is the easiest
way--but to kill--no! To kill one needs the
type of mind that can be obsessed by an
idea."
He resumed his lecturing manner.
"Theresa Arundell, I decided, had quite
sufficient strength of mind to carry such a
design through, but there were other facts
to take into consideration. She had never
been thwarted, she had lived fully and
selfishly--but that type of person is not the
type that kills--except perhaps in sudden anger.
And yet--I felt sure--it was Theresa
Arundell who had taken the weed-killer from
the tin."
Theresa spoke suddenly:
"I'll tell you the truth. I thought of it. I
actually took some weed-killer from a tin
down at Littlegreen House. But I couldn't
do it! I'm too fond of living--of being
alive--I couldn't do that to any one--take
life from them. . . . I may be bad and selfish, but there are things I can't do! I couldn't
kill a living, breathing, human creature!"
Poirot nodded.
"No, that is true. And you are not as bad
as you paint yourself, mademoiselle. You are
only young--and reckless."
He went on:
"There remained Mrs. Tanios. As soon as
I saw her I realized that she was afraid. She
saw that I realized that and she very quickly
made capital out of that momentary betrayal.
She gave a very convincing portrait of a
woman who is afraid for her husband. A little
later she changed her tactics. It was very
cleverly done--but the change did not deceive
me. A woman can be afraid for her
husband or she can be afraid of her husband--but
she can hardly be both. Mrs.
Tanios decided on the latter role--and she
played her part cleverly--even to coming out
after me into the hall of the hotel and pretending
that there was something she wanted
to tell me. When her husband followed her
as she knew he would, she pretended that
she could not speak before him.
"I realized at once, not that she feared her
husband, but that she disliked him. And at
once, summing the matter up, I felt convinced
that here was the exact character I
had been looking for. Here was--not a selfindulgent
woman--but a thwarted one. A
plain girl, leading a dull existence, unable to
attract the men she would like to attract, finally accepting a man she did not care for
rather than be left an old maid. I could trace
her growing dissatisfaction with life, her life
in Smyrna exiled from all she cared for in
life. Then the birth of her children and her
passionate attachment to them.
"Her husband was devoted to her, but she
came secretly to dislike him more and more.
He had speculated with her money and lost
it--another grudge against him.
"There was only one thing that illumined
her drab life, the expectation of her aunt
Emily's death. Then she would have money,
independence, the means to educate her children
as she wished--and remember educa-
tion meant a lot to her--she was a professor's
daughter!
"She may have already planned the crime, or had the idea of it in her mind, before she
came to England. She had a certain knowledge
of chemistry 3 having assisted her father
in the laboratory. She knew the nature of
Miss ArundelFs complaint and she was well
aware that phosphorus would be an ideal
substance for her purpose.
"Then, when she came to Littlegreen
House, a simpler method presented itself to
her. The dog's ball--a thread or string
across the top of the stairs. A simple, ingenious
woman's idea.
"She made her attempt--and failed. I do
not think that she had any idea that Miss
Arundell was aware of the true facts of the
matter. Miss Arundell5 s suspicions were directed
entirely against Charles. I doubt if her
manner to Bella showed any alteration. And
so, quietly and determinedly, this self-contained, unhappy, ambitious woman put her
original plan into execution. She found an
excellent vehicle for the poison, some patent
capsules that Miss Arundell was in the habit
of taking after meals. To open a capsule, place the phosphorus inside and close it
again, was child's play. The capsule was replaced among the others. Sooner or later
Miss Arundell would swallow it. Poison was
not likely to be suspected. Even if, by some
unlikely chance it was, she herself would be
nowhere near Market Basing at the time.
"Yet she took one precaution. She obtained
a double supply of chloral hydrate at
the druggist's, forging her husband's name
to the prescription. I have no doubt of what
that was for--to keep by her in case anything
went wrong.
"As I say, I was convinced from the first
moment I saw her that Mrs. Tanios was the
person I was looking for, but I had absolutely
no proof of the fact. I had to proceed carefully.
If Mrs. Tanios had any idea I suspected
her, I was afraid that she might
proceed to a further crime. Furthermore, I
believed that the idea of that crime had already
occurred to her. Her one wish in life
was to shake herself free of her husband.
"Her original murder had proved a bitter
disappointment. The money, the wonderful
all-intoxicating money, had all gone to Miss
Lawson! It was a blow, but she set to work
most intelligently. She began to work on
Miss Lawson's conscience which, I suspect, was already not too comfortable."
There was a sudden outburst of sobs. Miss
Lawson took out her handkerchief and cried
into it.
"It's been dreadful," she sobbed. "I've
been wicked! Very wicked. You see, I was
very curious about the will--why Miss
Arundell had made a new one, I mean. And
one day, when Miss Arundell was resting, I
managed to unlock the drawer in the desk.
And then I found she'd left it all to me! Of
course, I never dreamed it was so much. Just
a few thousands--that's all I thought it was.
And why not? After all, her own relations
didn't really care for her! But then, when she
was so ill, she asked for the will. I could
see--I felt sure--she was going to destroy
it. ... And that's when I was so wicked. I
told her she'd sent it back to Mr. Pur vis.
Poor dear, she was so forgetful. She never
remembered what she'd done with things.
She believed me. Said I must write for it and
I said I would.
"Oh, dear--oh, dear--and then she got
worse and couldn't think of anything. And
she died. And when the will was read and it
was all that money I felt dreadful. Three
hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds.
I'd never dreamed for a minute it was anything
like that or I wouldn't have done it.
"I felt just as though I'd embezzled the
/ni
money--and I didn't know what to do. The
other day, when Bella came to me, I told her
that she should have half of it. I felt sure
that then I would feel happy again."
"You see?" said Poirot. "Mrs. Tanios was
succeeding in her object. That is why she
was so averse to any attempt to contest the
will. She had her own plans and the last thing
she wanted to do was to antagonize Miss
Lawson. She pretended, of course, to fall in
at once with her husband's wishes, but she
made it quite clear what her real feelings
were.
"She had at that time two objects: to detach
herself and her children from Dr. Tanios
and to obtain her share of the money.
Then she would have what she wanted--a
rich contented life in England with her children.

"As time went on she could no longer conceal
her dislike from her husband. In fact, she did not try to. He, poor man, was seriously
upset and distressed. Her actions
must have seemed quite incomprehensible
to him. Really, they were logical enough.
She was playing the part of the terrorized
woman. If I had suspicions--and she was
fairly sure that that must be the case--she
wished me to believe that her husband had
committed the murder. And at any moment
that second murder which I am convinced
was already planned in her mind might occur.
I knew that she had a lethal dose of
chloral in her possession. I feared that she
would stage a pretended suicide and confession
on his part.
"And still I had no evidence against her!
And then, when I was quite in despair, I got
something at last! Miss Lawson told me that
she had seen Theresa Arundell kneeling on
the stairs on the night of Easter Monday. I
soon discovered that Miss Lawson could not
have seen Theresa at all clearly--not nearly
clearly enough to recognize her features. Yet
she was quite positive in her identification.
On being pressed she mentioned a brooch
with Theresa's initials--T.A.
"On my request Miss Theresa Arundell
showed me the brooch in question. At the
same time she absolutely denied having been
on the stairs at the time stated. At first I
fancied some one else had borrowed her
brooch, but when I looked at the brooch in
the glass the truth leaped at me. Miss Lawson,
waking up, had seen a dim figure with
the initials T.A. flashing in the light. She
had leapt to the conclusion that it was Theresa.
"But if in the glass she had seen the initials
T.A.--then the real initials must have been
A. T., since the glass naturally reversed the
order.
"Of course! Mrs. Tanios's mother was Arabella
Arundell. Bella is only a contraction.
A. T. stood for Arabella Tanios. There was
nothing odd in Mrs. Tanios possessing a similar
type of brooch. It had been exclusive last
Christmas, but by the spring they were all
the rage, and I had already observed that
Mrs. Tanios copied her cousin Theresa's
hats and clothes as far as she was able with
her limited means.
"In my own mind, at any rate, my case
was proved.
"Now--what was I to do? Obtain a Home
Office order for the exhumation of the body?
That could doubtless be managed. I might prove that Miss Arundell had been poisoned
with phosphorus, though there was a little
doubt about that. The body had been buried
two months, and I understand that there
have been cases of phosphorus poisoning
where no lesions have been found and where
the post mortem appearances are very indecisive.
Even then, could I connect Mrs.
Tanios with the purchase or possession of
phosphorus? Very doubtful, since she had
probably obtained it abroad.
"At this juncture Mrs. Tanios took a decisive
action. She left her husband 5 throwing
herself on the pity of Miss Lawson. She also
definitely accused her husband of the murder.

"Unless I acted I felt convinced that he
would be her next victim. I took steps to
isolate them one from the other on the pretext
that it was for her safety. She could
not very well contradict that. Really, it was his safety I had in mind. And then--and
then--"
He paused--a long pause. His face had
gone rather white.
"But that was only a temporary measure.
I had to make sure that the killer would kill
no more. I had to assure the safety of the
innocent.
"So I wrote out my construction of the
case and gave it to Mrs. Tanios."
There was a long silence.
Dr. Tanios cried out:
"Oh, my God, so that's why she killed
herself."
Poirot said gently:
"Was it not the best way? She thought so.
There were, you see, the children to consider."

Dr. Tanios buried his face in his hands.
Poirot came forward and laid a hand on
his shoulder.
"It had to be. Believe me it was necessary.
There would have been more deaths. First
yours--then possibly, under certain circumstances, Miss Lawson's. And so it goes on."
He paused.
In a broken voice Tanios said:
"She wanted me--to take a sleepingdraught
one night. . . . There was something
in her face--I threw it away. That was
when I began to believe her mind was
going. ..."
"Think of it that way. It is indeed partly
true. But not in the legal meaning of the
term. She knew the meaning of her action.
..."
Dr. Tanios said wistfully:
"She was much too good for me--always."
A
strange epitaph on a self-confessed murderess!

XXX
The Last Word
there is very little more to tell.
Theresa married her doctor shortly afterwards.
I know them fairly well now and I
have learnt to appreciate Donaldson--his
clarity of vision and the deep, underlying
force and humanity of the man. His manner, I may say, is just as dry and precise as ever;
Theresa often mimics him to his face. She
is, I think, amazingly happy and absolutely
wrapped up in her husband's career. He is
already making a big name for himself and
is an authority on the functions of ductless
glands.
Miss Lawson, in an acute attack of conscience, had to be restrained forcibly from
denuding herself of every penny. A settlement
agreeable to all parties was drawn up
by Mr. Pur vis whereby Miss ArundelFs fortune
was shared out between Miss Lawson, the two Arundells and the Tanios children.
Charles went through his share in a little
over a year and is now, I believe, in British
Columbia.
Just two incidents.
"You're a downy fellow, ain't you?" said
Miss Peabody, stopping us as we emerged
from the gate of Littlegreen House one day. "Managed to hush everything up! No exhumation.
Everything done decently."
"There seems to be no doubt that Miss
Arundell died of yellow atrophy of the
liver," said Poirot gently.
"That's very satisfactory," said Miss Peabody.
"Bella Tanios took an overdose of
sleeping stuff, I hear."
"Yes, it was very sad."
"She was a miserable kind of woman--
always wanting what she hadn't got. People
go a bit queer sometimes when they're like
that. Had a kitchen maid once. Same thing.
Plain girl. Felt it. Started writing anonymous
letters. Queer kinks people get. Ah, well, I
dare say it's all for the best."
"One hopes so, madame. One hopes so."
"Well," said Miss Peabody, preparing to
resume her walk, "I'll say this for you.
You've hushed things up nicely. Very nicely
indeed."
She walked on.
There was a plaintive "Wuff" behind me.
I turned and opened the gate.
"Come on, old man."
I Bob bounced through. There was a ball
in his mouth.
"You can't take that for a walk."
Bob sighed, turned and slowly ejected the
ball inside the gate. He looked at it anxiously, then passed through.
He looked up at me.
"If you say so, master, I suppose it's all
right."
I drew a long breath.
"My word, Poirot, it's good to have a dog
again."
"The spoils of war," said Poirot. "But I
would remind you, my friend, that it was to me that Miss Lawson presented Bob, not to you."
"Possibly," I said. "But you're not really
any good with a dog, Poirot. You don't understand
dog psychology! Now Bob and I
understand each other perfectly, don't we?"
"Woof," said Bob in energetic assent.