Dumb Witness hp-16

by Agatha Christie

  "Disappointed, aren't you? Well, perhaps I will let you have it this time."

  When I next went back to the morning-room, 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?' 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."

  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 skirting-board."

  "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 it! And he'd go back with such an innocent face that darned 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 weekends. 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.

  Chapter 21

  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,' 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?' which made me go out into the garden in search of any l
ikely 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, là là, 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 of Littlegreen 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 – 20, 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 received the parcel.

  Then we left the shop.

  "So Mrs Tanios bought a sleeping-draught," 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,

  "I 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 sleeping-draught. 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 sensible-looking, middle-aged woman.

  Poirot now appeared in yet another rôle 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."

  "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."

  "That is so wise. You nursed Miss Arundell, 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 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.' And Miss Arundell said, 'I'm sure it's in the drawer downstairs.' And Miss Lawson said, 'No, you sent it to Mr Purvis. 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, p
oor 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 ça."

  "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.