Eight
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 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 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 as I stooped 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 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 spinning wheel, one with a cat on her knee.
The atmosphere of a bygone day, a day of leisure, of refinement, of “ladies and gentlemen” closed round me. This was indeed a “withdrawing room.” Here ladies sat and did their fancywork, 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, Bobsie.”
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?’ 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 anyone who’s lived to over seventy and you show me a fighter—someone 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?”
“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 stuck-up 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 anyone.”
“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 someone 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.”
“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 maidservant 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 stairhead, 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.
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