Agatha Christie - Dumb Witness

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.

"As you say – a regrettable failure to employ 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 I 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 vie! 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:

"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 today 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 it 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.

Poirot 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 Poirot's 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 go, 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?"

"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 setentiously.

"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.

I don't 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 old-fashioned 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 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."

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."