"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 ₤2850 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 present 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.
Chapter 7
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."
"Exactly."
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 ₤2850. 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 Much Benham road – quite a little place. Naylor'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?"
I h
ave 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 left. 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 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.
"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.
Poirot's 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
General 24th Sikhs
Who fell asleep in Christ May 19, 1888
Aged 69
"Fight the good fight with all thy might"
Also of
Mathilda Ann 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.
Chapter 8
INTERIOR OF LITTLEGREEN HOUSE
On leaving the churchyard, Poirot led the way briskly in the direction of Littlegreen House. I gathered that his rôle was still that of the prospective purchaser. Carefully holding the various orders to view in his hand with the Littlegreen House one uppermost, he pushed open the gate and walked up the path to the front door.
On this occasion our friend the terrier was not to be seen, but the sound of barking could be heard inside the house, though at some distance – I guessed in the kitchen quarters.
Presently we heard footsteps crossing the hall and the door was opened by a pleasant-faced woman of between fifty and sixty, clearly the old-fashioned type of servant seldom seen nowadays.
Poirot presented his credentials.
"Yes, sir, the house-agent telephoned. Will you step this way, sir?"
The shutters which I had noticed were closed on our first visit to spy out the land, were now all thrown open in preparation for our visit. Everything, I observed, was spotlessly clean and well kept. Clearly our guide was a thoroughly conscientious woman.
"This is the morning-room, sir."
I glanced round approvingly. A pleasant room with its long windows giving on the street. It was furnished with good, solid, old-fashioned furniture, mostly Victorian, but there was a Chippendale bookcase and a set of attractive Hepplewhite chairs.
Poirot and I behaved in the customary fashion of people being shown over houses. We stood stock still, looking a little ill at ease, murmuring remarks such as: "Very nice." "A very pleasant room." "The morning-room, you say?"
The maid conducted us across the hall and into the corresponding room on the other side. This was much larger.
"The dining-room, sir."
This room was definitely Victorian. A heavy mahogany dining-table, a massive sideboard of almost purplish mahogany with great clusters of carved fruit, solid leather-covered dining-room chairs. On the wall hung what were obviously family portraits.
The terrier had continued to bark in some sequestered spot. Now the sound suddenly increased in volume. With a crescendo of barking he could be heard galloping across the hall.
"Who's come into the house? I'll tear him limb from limb," was clearly the "burden of his song."
He arrived in the doorway, sniffing violently.
"Oh, Bob, you naughty dog," exclaimed our conductress. "Don't mind him, sir. He won't do you no harm."
Bob, indeed, having discovered the intruders, completely changed his manner. He fussed in and introduced himself to us in an agreeable manner.
"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," he observed as he sniffed round our ankles. "Excuse the noise, won't you, but I have my job to do. Got to be careful who we let i
n, 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, 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 cross 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 spinning-wheel, one with a cat on her knee.
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