I always look back upon the case of Miss Matilda Wheeler with special interest simply because of the curious way it worked itself out—from nothing at all as it were!
I remember that it was a particularly hot airless day in August. I was sitting in my friend Poirot’s rooms wishing for the hundredth time that we could be in the country and not in London. The post had just been brought in. I remember the sound of each envelope in turn being opened neatly, as Poirot did everything, by means of a little paper-cutter. Then would come his murmured comment and the letter in question would be allotted to its proper pile. It was an orderly monotonous business.
And then suddenly there came a difference. A longer pause, a letter not read once but twice. A letter that was not docketed in the usual way but which remained in the recipient’s hand. I looked across at my friend. The letter now lay on his knee. He was staring thoughtfully across the room.
‘Anything of interest, Poirot?’ I asked.
‘Cela dépend. Possibly you would not think so. It is a letter from an old lady, Hastings, and it says nothing—but nothing at all.’
‘Very useful,’ I commented sarcastically.
‘N’est ce pas? It is the way of old ladies, that. Round and round the point they go! But see for yourself. I shall be interested to know what you make of it.’
He tossed me the letter. I unfolded it and made a slight grimace. It consisted of four closely written pages in a spiky and shaky handwriting with numerous alterations, erasures, and copious underlining.
‘Must I really read it?’ I asked plaintively. ‘What is it about?’
‘It is, as I told you just now, about nothing.’
Hardly encouraged by this remark I embarked unwillingly on my task. I will confess that I did not read it very carefully. The writing was difficult and I was content to take guesses on the context.
The writer seemed to be a Miss Matilda Wheeler of The Laburnums, Little Hemel. After much doubt and indecision, she wrote, she had felt herself emboldened to write to M. Poirot. At some length she went on to state exactly how and where she had heard M. Poirot’s name mentioned. The matter was such, she said, that she found it extremely difficult to consult anyone in Little Hemel—and of course there was the possibility that she might be completely mistaken—that she was attaching a most ridiculous significance to perfectly natural incidents. In fact she had chided herself unsparingly for fancifulness, but ever since the incident of the dog’s ball she had felt most uneasy. She could only hope to hear from M. Poirot if he did not think the whole thing was a mare’s nest. Also, perhaps, he would be so kind as to let her know what his fee would be? The matter, she knew was very trivial and unimportant, but her health was bad and her nerves not what they had been and worry of this kind was very bad for her, and the more she thought of it, the more she was convinced that she was right, though, of course, she would not dream of saying anything.
That was more or less the gist of the thing. I put it down with a sigh of exasperation.
‘Why can’t the woman say what she’s talking about? Of all the idiotic letters!’
‘N’est ce pas? A regrettable failure to employ order and method in the mental process.’
‘What do you think she does mean? Not that it matters much. Some upset to her pet dog, I suppose. Anyway, it’s not worth taking seriously.’
‘You think not, my friend?’
‘My dear Poirot, I cannot see why you are so intrigued by this letter.’
‘No, you have not seen. The most interesting point in that letter—you have passed it by unnoticed.’
‘What is the interesting point?’
‘The date, mon ami.’
I looked at the heading of the letter again.
‘April 12th,’ I said slowly.
‘C’est curieux, n’est ce pas?’ Nearly four months ago.’
‘I don’t suppose it has any significance. She probably meant to put August 12th.’
‘No, no, Hastings. Look at the colour of the ink. That letter was written a good time ago. No, April 12th is the date assuredly. But why was it not sent? And if the writer changed her mind about sending it, why did she keep it and send it now?’
He rose.
‘Mon ami—the day is hot. In London one stifles, is it not so? Then how say you to a little expedition into the country? To be exact, to Little Hemel which is, I see, in the County of Kent.’
I was only too willing and then and there we started off on our visit of exploration.
Little Hemel we found to be a charming village, untouched in the miraculous way that villages can be when they are two miles from a main road. There was a hostelry called The George, and there we had lunch—a bad lunch I regret to say, as is the way at country inns.
An elderly waiter attended to us, a heavy-breathing man, and as he brought us two cups of a doubtful fluid called coffee, Poirot started his campaign.
‘A house called The Laburnums,’ he said. ‘You know it? The house of a Miss Wheeler.’
‘That’s right, sir. Just past the church. You can’t miss it. Three Miss Wheelers there were, old-fashioned ladies, born and brought up here. Ah! well, they’re all gone now and the house is up for sale.’
He shook his head sadly.
‘So the Miss Wheelers are all dead?’ said Poirot.
‘Yes, sir. Miss Amelia and Miss Caroline twelve years ago and Miss Matilda just a month or two ago. You thinking of buying the house, sir—if I may ask?’
‘The idea had occurred to me,’ said Poirot mendaciously. ‘But I believe it is in a very bad state.’
‘It’s old-fashioned, sir. Never been modernised as the saying goes. But it’s in good condition—roof and drains and all that. Never grudged money on repairs, Miss Wheeler didn’t, and the garden was always a picture.’
‘She was well off?’
‘Oh! very comfortably off indeed, sir. A very well-to-do family.’
‘I suppose the house has been left to someone who has no use for it? A niece or nephew or some distant relative?’
‘No, sir, she left it to her companion, Miss Lawson. But Miss Lawson doesn’t fancy living in it, and so it’s up for sale. But it’s a bad time for selling houses, they say.’
‘Whenever one has to sell anything it is always a bad time,’ said Poirot smiling, as he paid the bill and added a handsome tip. ‘When exactly did you say Miss Matilda Wheeler died?’
‘Just the beginning of May, sir—thank you, sir—or was it the end of April? She’d not been in good health for a long time.’
‘You have a good doctor here?’
‘Yes, sir, Dr Lawrence. He’s getting on now, but he’s well thought of down here. Always very pleasant-spoken and careful.’
Poirot nodded and presently we strolled out into the hot August sunshine and made our way along the street in the direction of the church.
Before we got to it, however, we passed an old-fashioned house set a little way back, with a brass plate on the gate inscribed with the name of Dr Lawrence.
‘Excellent,’ said Poirot. ‘We will make a call here. At this hour we shall make sure of finding the doctor at home.’
‘My dear Poirot! But what on earth are you going to say? And anyway what are you driving at?’
‘For your first question, mon ami, the answer is simple—I shall have to invent. Fortunately I have the imagination fertile. For your second question—eh bien, after we have conversed with the doctor, it may be that I shall find I am not driving at anything.’
Dr Lawrence proved to be a man of about sixty. I put him down as an unambitious kindly sort of fellow, not particularly brilliant mentally, but quite sound.
Poirot is a past master in the art of mendacity. In five minutes we were all chatting together in the most friendly fashion—it being somehow taken for granted that we were old and dear friends of Miss Matilda Wheeler.
‘Her death, it is a great shock to me. Most sad,’ said Poirot. ‘She had the stroke? No?’
‘Oh! no, my dear fellow. Yellow atrophy of the liver. Been coming on for a long time. She had a very bad attack of jaundice a year ago. She was pretty well through the winter except for digestive trouble. Then she had jaundice again the end of April and died of it. A great loss to us—one of the real old-fashioned kind.’
‘Ah! yes, indeed,’ sighed Poirot. ‘And the companion, Miss Lawson—?’
He paused and rather to our surprise the doctor responded promptly.
‘I can guess what you’re after, and I don’t mind telling you that you’ve my entire sympathy. But if you’re coming to me for any hope of “undue influence” it’s no good. Miss Wheeler was perfectly capable of making a will—not only when she did—but right up to the day of her death. It’s no good hoping that I can say anything different because I can’t.’
‘But your sympathy—’
‘My sympathy is with James Graham and Miss Mollie. I’ve always felt strongly that money shouldn’t be left away from the family to an outsider. I daresay there might be some sort of case that Miss Lawson obtained an ascendency over Miss Wheeler owing to spiritualistic tomfoolery—but I doubt if there’s anything that you could take into court. Only run yourself in for terrific expense. Avoid the law, wherever you can, is my motto. And certainly medically I can’t help you. Miss Wheeler’s mind was perfectly clear.’
He shook hands with us and we passed out into the sunlight.
‘Well!’ I said. ‘That was rather unexpected!’
‘Truly. We begin to learn a little about my correspondent. She has at least two relatives—James Graham and a girl called Mollie. They ought to have inherited her money but did not do so. By a will clearly not made very long ago, the whole amount has gone to the companion, Miss Lawson. There is also a very significant mention of spiritualism.’
‘You think that significant?’
‘Obviously. A credulous old lady—the spirits tell her to leave her money to a particular person—she obeys. Something of that kind occurs to one as a possibility, does it not?’
We had arrived at The Laburnums. It was a fair-sized Georgian house, standing a little way back from the street with a large garden behind. There was a board stuck up with ‘For Sale’ on it.
Poirot rang the bell. His efforts were rewarded by a fierce barking within. Presently the door was opened by a neat middle-aged woman who held a barking wire-haired terrier by the collar.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Poirot. ‘The house is for sale, I understand, so Mr James Graham told me.’
‘Oh! yes, sir. You would like to see over it?’
‘If you please.’
‘You needn’t be afraid of Bob, sir. He barks if anyone comes to the door, but he’s as gentle as a lamb really.’
True enough, as soon as we were inside, the terrier jumped up and licked our hands. We were shown over the house—pathetic as an empty house always is, with the marks of pictures showing on the walls, and the bare uncarpeted floors. We found the woman only too ready and willing to talk to friends of the family, as she supposed us to be. By his mention of James Graham, Poirot created this impression very cleverly.
Ellen, for such was our guide’s name, had clearly been very attached to her late mistress. She entered with the gusto of her class into a description of her illness and death.
‘Taken sudden she was. And suffered! Poor dear! Delirious at the end. All sorts of queer things she’d say. How long was it? Well, it must have been three days from the time she was took bad. But poor dear, she’d suffered for many years on and off. Jaundice last year she had—and her food never agreed with her well. She’d take digestion tablets after nearly every meal. Oh! yes, she suffered a good deal one way or another. Sleeplessness for one thing. Used to get up and walk about the house at night, she did, her eyesight being too bad for much reading.’
It was at this point that Poirot produced from his pocket the letter. He held it out to her.
‘Do you recognise this by any chance?’ he asked.
He was watching her narrowly. She gave an exclamation of surprise.
‘Well, now, I do declare! And is it you that’s the gentleman it’s written to?’
Poirot nodded.
‘Tell me how you came to post it to me?’ he said.
‘Well, sir, I didn’t know what to do—and that’s the truth. When the furniture was all cleared out, Miss Lawson she gave me several little odds and ends that had been the mistress’s. And among them was a mother of pearl blotter that I’d always admired. I put it by in a drawer, and it was only yesterday that I took it out and was putting new blotting paper in it when I found this letter slipped inside the pocket. It was the mistress’s handwriting and I saw as she’d meant to post it and slipped it in there and forgot—which was the kind of thing she did many a time, poor dear. Absent-minded as you might say. Well, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t like to put it in the fire and I couldn’t take it upon myself to open it and I didn’t see as it was any business of Miss Lawson’s, so I just put a stamp on it and ran out to the post box and posted it.’
Ellen paused for breath and the terrier uttered a sharp staccato bark. It was so peremptory in sound that Poirot’s attention was momentarily diverted. He looked down at the dog who was sitting with his nose lifted entreatingly towards the empty mantelpiece of the drawing-room where we were at the time.
‘But what is it that he regards so fixedly?’ asked Poirot.
Ellen laughed.
‘It’s his ball, sir. It used to be put in a jar on the mantelpiece and he thinks it ought somehow or other to be there still.’
‘I see,’ said Poirot. ‘His ball …’ He remained thoughtful for a moment or two.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Did your mistress ever mention to you something about the dog and his ball? Something that perturbed her greatly?’
‘Now it’s odd your saying that, sir. She never said anything about a ball, but I do believe there was something about Bob here that was on her mind—for she tried to say something just as she was dying. “The dog,” she said. “The dog—” and then something about a picture ajar—nothing that made sense but there, poor soul, she was delirious and didn’t know what she was saying.’
‘You will comprehend,’ said Poirot, ‘that this letter not reaching me when it should have done, I am greatly intrigued about many things and much in the dark. There are several questions that I should wish to ask.’
By this time Ellen would have taken for granted any statement that Poirot had chosen to make. We adjourned to her somewhat overcrowded sitting-room and having pacified Bob by giving him the desired ball, which he retired under a table to chew, Poirot began his interrogations.
‘First of all,’ he said, ‘I comprehend that Miss Wheeler’s nearest relations were only two in number?’
‘That’s right, sir. Mr James—Mr James Graham whom you mentioned just now—and Miss Davidson. They were first cousins and niece and nephew to Miss Wheeler. There were five Miss Wheelers, you see, and only two of them married.’
‘And Miss Lawson was no relation at all?’
‘No, indeed—nothing but a paid companion.’
Scorn was uppermost in Ellen’s voice.
‘Did you like Miss Lawson, Ellen?’
‘Well, sir, she wasn’t one you could dislike, so to speak. Neither one thing nor the other, she wasn’t, a poor sort of creature, and full of nonsense about spirits. Used to sit in the dark, they did, she and Miss Wheeler and the two Miss Pyms. A sayance, they called it. Why, they were at it the very night she was taken bad. And if you ask me, it was that wicked nonsense that made Miss Wheeler leave her money away from her own flesh and blood.’
‘When exactly did she make the new will? But perhaps you do not know that.’
‘Oh! yes, I do. Sent for the lawyer she did while she was still laid up.’
‘Laid up?’
‘Yes, sir—from a fall she had. Down the stairs. Bob here had left his ball on top of the stairs and she slipped on it and fell. In the night it was. As I tell you, she used to get up and walk about.’
‘Who was in the house at the time?’
‘Mr James and Miss Mollie were here for the weekend. Easter it was, and it was the night of Bank Holiday. There was cook and me and Miss Lawson and Mr James and Miss Mollie and what with the fall and the scream we all came out. Cut her head, she did, and strained her back. She had to lie up for nearly a week. Yes, she was still in bed—it was the following Friday—when she sent for Mr Halliday. And the gardener had to come in and witness it, because for some reason I couldn’t, on account of her having remembered me in it, and cook alone wasn’t enough.’
‘Bank holiday was the 10th of April,’ said Poirot. He looked at me meaningfully. ‘Friday would be the 14th. And what next? Did Miss Wheeler get up again?’
‘Oh! yes, sir. She got up on the Saturday, and Miss Mollie and Mr James they came down again, being anxious about her, you see. Mr James he even came down the weekend after that.’
‘The weekend of the 22nd?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And when was Miss Wheeler finally taken ill?’
‘It was the 25th, sir. Mr James had left the day before. And Miss Wheeler seemed as well as she’d ever been—bar her indigestion, of course, but that was chronic. Taken sudden after the sayance, she was. They had a sayance after dinner, you know, so the Miss Pyms went home and Miss Lawson and I got her to bed and sent for Dr Lawrence.’
Poirot sat frowning for a moment or two, then he asked Ellen for the address of Miss Davidson and Mr Graham and also for that of Miss Lawson.
All three proved to be in London. James Graham was junior partner in some chemical dye works, Miss Davidson worked in a beauty parlour in Dover Street. Miss Lawson had taken a flat near High Street, Kensington.
As we left, Bob, the dog, rushed up to the top of the staircase, lay down and carefully nosed his ball over the edge so that it bumped down the stairs. He remained, wagging his tail, until it was thrown up to him again.
‘The incident of the dog’s ball,’ murmured Poirot under his breath.
A minute or two later we were out in the sunshine again.
‘Well,’ I said with a laugh. ‘The dog’s ball incident did not amount to much after all. We now know exactly what it was. The dog left his ball at the top of the stairs and the old lady tripped over it and fell. So much for that!’
‘Yes, Hastings, as you say—the incident is simple enough. What we do not know—and what I should like to know—and what I mean to know—is why the old lady was so perturbed by it?’
‘Do you think there is anything in that?’
‘Consider the dates, Hastings. On Monday night, the fall. On Wednesday the letter written to me. On Friday the altered will. There is something curious there. Something that I should like to know. And ten days afterwards Miss Wheeler dies. If it had been a sudden death, one of these mysterious deaths due to “heart failure”—I confess I should have been suspicious. But her death appears to have been perfectly natural and due to disease of long standing. Tout de même—’
He went off into a brown study. Finally he said unexpectedly:
‘If you really wished to kill someone, Hastings, how would you set about it?’
‘Well—I don’t know. I can’t imagine myself—’
‘One can always imagine. Think, for instance, of a particularly repellent money-lender, of an innocent girl in his clutches.’
‘Yes,’ I said slowly. ‘I suppose one might always see red and knock a fellow out.’
Poirot sighed.
‘Mais oui, it would be that way with you! But I seek to imagine the mind of someone very different. A cold-blooded but cautious murderer, reasonably intelligent. What would he try first? Well, there is accident. A well-staged accident—that is very difficult for the police to bring home to the perpetrator. But it has its disadvantages—it may disable but not kill. And then, possibly, the victim might be suspicious. Accident cannot be tried again. Suicide? Unless a convenient piece of writing with an ambiguous meaning can be obtained from the victim, suicide would be very uncertain. Then murder—recognised as such. For that you want a scapegoat or an alibi.’
‘But Miss Wheeler wasn’t murdered. Really, Poirot—’
‘I know. I know. But she died, Hastings. Do not forget—she died. She makes a will—and ten days later she dies. And the only two people in the house with her (for I except the cook) both benefit by her death.’
‘I think,’ I said, ‘that you have a bee in your bonnet.’
‘Very possibly. Coincidences do happen. But she wrote to me, mon ami, she wrote to me, and until I know what made her write I cannot rest in peace.’
It was about a week later that we had three interviews.
Exactly what Poirot wrote to them I do not know, but Mollie Davidson and James Graham came together by appointment, and certainly displayed no resentment. The letter from Miss Wheeler lay on the table in a conspicuous position. From the conversation that followed, I gathered that Poirot had taken considerable liberties in his account of the subject matter.
‘We have come here in answer to your request, but I am sorry to say that I do not understand in the least what you are driving at, M. Poirot,’ said Graham with some irritation as he laid down his hat and stick.
He was a tall thin man, looking older than his years, with pinched lips and deep-set grey eyes. Miss Davidson was a handsome fair-haired girl of twenty-nine or so. She seemed puzzled, but unresentful.
‘It is that I seek to aid you,’ said Poirot. ‘Your inheritance it has been wrested from you! It has gone to a stranger!’
‘Well, that’s over and done with,’ said Graham. ‘I’ve taken legal advice and it seems there’s nothing to be done. And I really cannot see where it concerns you, M. Poirot.’
‘I think, James, that that is not very fair to M. Poirot,’ said Mollie Davidson. ‘He is a busy man, but he is going out of his way to help us. I wish he could. All the same, I’m afraid nothing can be done. We simply can’t afford to go to law.’
‘Can’t afford. Can’t afford. We haven’t got a leg to stand upon,’ said her cousin irritably.
‘That is where I come in,’ said Poirot. ‘This letter’—he tapped it with a fingernail—‘has suggested a possible idea to me. Your aunt, I understand, had originally made a will leaving her property to be divided between you. Suddenly, on the 14th April she makes another will. Did you know of that will, by the way?’
It was to Graham he put the question.
Graham flushed and hesitated a moment.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I knew of it. My aunt told me of it.’
‘What?’ A cry of astonishment came from the girl.
Poirot wheeled round upon her.
‘You did not know of it, Mademoiselle?’
‘No, it came as a great shock to me. I thought it did to my cousin also. When did Auntie tell you, James?’
‘That next weekend—the one after Easter.’
‘And I was there and you never told me?’
‘No—I—well, I thought it better to keep it to myself.’
‘How extraordinary of you!’
‘What exactly did your aunt say to you, Mr Graham?’ asked Poirot in his most silky tone.
Graham clearly disliked answering the question. He spoke stiffly.
‘She said that she thought it only fair to let me know that she had made a new will leaving everything to Miss Lawson.’
‘Did she give any reason?’
‘None whatever.’
‘I think you ought to have told me,’ said Miss Davidson.
‘I thought better not,’ said her cousin stiffly.
‘Eh bien,’ said Poirot. ‘It is all very curious. I am not at liberty to tell you what was written to me in this letter, but I will give you some advice. I would apply, if I were you, for an order of exhumation.’
They both stared at him without speaking for a minute or two.
‘Oh! no,’ cried Mollie Davidson.
‘This is outrageous,’ cried Graham. ‘I shall certainly not do anything of the sort. The suggestion is preposterous.’
‘You refuse?’
‘Absolutely.’
Poirot turned to the girl.
‘And you, Mademoiselle? Do you refuse?’
‘I—No, I would not say I refused. But I do not like the idea.’
‘Well, I do refuse,’ said Graham angrily. ‘Come on, Mollie. We’ve had enough of this charlatan.’
He fumbled for the door. Poirot sprang forward to help him. As he did so a rubber ball fell out of his pocket and bounced on the floor.
‘Ah!’ cried Poirot. ‘The ball!’
He blushed and appeared uncomfortable. I guessed that he had not meant the ball to be seen.
‘Come on, Mollie,’ shouted Graham now in a towering passion.
The girl had retrieved the ball and handed it to Poirot.
‘I did not know that you kept a dog, M. Poirot,’ she said.
‘I do not, Mademoiselle,’ said Poirot.
The girl followed her cousin out of the room. Poirot turned to me.
‘Quick, mon ami,’ he said. ‘Let us visit the companion, the now rich Miss Lawson. I wish to see her before she is in any way put upon her guard.’
‘If it wasn’t for the fact that James Graham knew about the new will, I should be inclined to suspect him of having a hand in this business. He was down that last weekend. However, since he knew that the old lady’s death would not benefit him—well, that puts him out of court.’
‘Since he knew—’ murmured Poirot thoughtfully.
‘Why, yes, he admitted as much,’ I said impatiently.
‘Mademoiselle was quite surprised at his knowing. Strange that he should not tell her at the time. Unfortunate. Yes, unfortunate.’
Exactly what Poirot was getting at I did not quite know, but knew from his tone that there was something. However, soon after, we arrived at Clanroyden Mansions.
Miss Lawson was very much as I had pictured her. A middle-aged woman, rather stout, with an eager but somewhat foolish face. Her hair was untidy and she wore pince-nez. Her conversation consisted of gasps and was distinctly spasmodic.
‘So good of you to come,’ she said. ‘Sit here, won’t you? A cushion. Oh! dear, I’m afraid that chair isn’t comfortable. That table’s in your way. We’re just a little crowded here.’ (This was undeniable. There was twice as much furniture in the room than there should have been, and the walls were covered with photographs and pictures.) ‘This flat is really too small. But so central. I’ve always longed to have a little place of my own. But there, I never thought I should. So good of dear Miss Wheeler. Not that I feel at all comfortable about it. No, indeed I don’t. My conscience, M. Poirot. Is it right? I ask myself. And really I don’t know what to say. Sometimes I think that Miss Wheeler meant me to have the money and so it must be all right. And other times—well, flesh and blood is flesh and blood—I feel very badly when I think of Mollie Davidson. Very badly indeed!’
‘And when you think of Mr James Graham?’
Miss Lawson flushed and drew herself up.
‘That is very different. Mr Graham has been very rude—most insulting. I can assure you, M. Poirot—there was no undue influence. I had no idea of anything of the kind. A complete shock to me.’
‘Miss Wheeler did not tell you of her intentions?’
‘No, indeed. A complete shock.’
‘You had not, in any way, found it necessary to—shall we say, open the eyes—of Miss Wheeler in regard to her nephew’s shortcomings?’
‘What an idea, M. Poirot! Certainly not. What put that idea into your head, if I may ask?’
‘Mademoiselle, I have many curious ideas in my head.’
Miss Lawson looked at him uncertainly. Her face, I reflected, was really singularly foolish. The way the mouth hung open for instance. And yet the eyes behind the glasses seemed more intelligent than one would have suspected.
Poirot took something from his pocket.
‘You recognise this, Mademoiselle?’
‘Why, it’s Bob’s ball!’
‘No,’ said Poirot. ‘It is a ball I bought at Woolworth’s.’
‘Well, of course, that’s where Bob’s balls do come from. Dear Bob.’
‘You are fond of him?’
‘Oh! yes, indeed, dear little doggie. He always slept in my room. I’d like to have him in London, but dogs aren’t really happy in town, are they, M. Poirot?’
‘Me, I have seen some very happy ones in the Park,’ returned my friend gravely.
‘Oh! yes, of course, the Park,’ said Miss Lawson vaguely. ‘But it’s very difficult to exercise them properly. He’s much happier with Ellen, I feel sure, at the dear Laburnums. Ah! what a tragedy it all was!’
‘Will you recount to me, Mademoiselle, just what happened on that evening when Miss Wheeler was taken ill?’
‘Nothing out of the usual. At least, oh! of course, we held a séance—with distinct phenomena—distinct phenomena. You will laugh, M. Poirot. I feel you are a sceptic. But oh! the joy of hearing the voices of those who have passed over.’
‘No, I do not laugh,’ said Poirot gently.
He was watching her flushed excited face.
‘You know, it was most curious—really most curious. There was a kind of halo—a luminous haze—all round dear Miss Wheeler’s head. We all saw it distinctly.’
‘A luminous haze?’ said Poirot sharply.
‘Yes. Really most remarkable. In view of what happened, I felt, M. Poirot, that already she was marked, so to speak, for the other world.’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘I think she was—marked for the other world.’ He added, completely incongruously it seemed to me, ‘Has Dr Lawrence got a keen sense of smell?’
‘Now it’s curious you should say that. “Smell this, doctor,” I said, and held up a great bunch of lilies of the valley to him. And would you believe it, he couldn’t smell a thing. Ever since influenza three years ago, he said. Ah! me—physician, heal thyself is so true, isn’t it?’
Poirot had risen and was prowling round the room. He stopped and stared at a picture on the wall. I joined him.
It was rather an ugly needlework picture done in drab wools, and represented a bulldog sitting on the steps of a house. Below it, in crooked letters, were the words ‘Out all night and no key!’
Poirot drew a deep breath.
‘This picture, it comes from The Laburnums?’
‘Yes. It used to hang over the mantelpiece in the drawing-room. Dear Miss Wheeler did it when she was a girl.’
‘Ah!’ said Poirot. His voice was entirely changed. It held a note that I knew well.
He crossed to Miss Lawson.
‘You remember Bank Holiday? Easter Monday. The night that Miss Wheeler fell down the stairs? Eh bien, the little Bob, he was out that night, was he not? He did not come in.’
‘Why, yes, M. Poirot, however did you know that? Yes, Bob was very naughty. He was let out at nine o’clock as usual, and he never came back. I didn’t tell Miss Wheeler—she would have been anxious. That is to say, I told her the next day, of course. When he was safely back. Five in the morning it was. He came and barked underneath my window and I went down and let him in.’
‘So that was it! Enfin!’ He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Mademoiselle. Ah! Just one more little point. Miss Wheeler took digestive tablets after meals always, did she not? What make were they?’
‘Dr Carlton’s After Dinner Tablets. Very efficacious, M. Poirot.’
‘Efficacious! Mon Dieu!’ murmured Poirot, as we left. ‘No, do not question me, Hastings. Not yet. There are still one or two little matters to see to.’
He dived into a chemist’s and reappeared holding a white-wrapped bottle.
He unwrapped it when we got home. It was a bottle of Dr Carlton’s After Dinner Tablets.
‘You see, Hastings. There are at least fifty tablets in that bottle—perhaps more.’
He went to the bookshelf and pulled out a very large volume. For ten minutes he did not speak, then he looked up and shut the book with a bang.
‘But yes, my friend, now you may question. Now I know—everything.’
‘She was poisoned?’
‘Yes, my friend. Phosphorus poisoning.’
‘Phosphorus?’
‘Ah! mais oui—that is where the diabolical cleverness came in! Miss Wheeler had already suffered from jaundice. The symptoms of phosphorus poisoning would only look like another attack of the same complaint. Now listen, very often the symptoms of phosphorus poisoning are delayed from one to six hours. It says here’ (he opened the book again) ‘“The person’s breath may be phosphorescent before he feels in any way affected.” That is what Miss Lawson saw in the dark—Miss Wheeler’s 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 there from this point any special difference between phosphorus poisoning and certain affections of the liver—such, for example, as yellow atrophy.”’
‘Oh! it was well planned, Hastings! 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. Even .116 of a grain has been known to kill. To make a tablet resembling one of these in the bottle—that too would not be too difficult. One can buy a tablet-making machine, and Miss Wheeler she would not observe closely. A tablet placed at the bottom of this bottle—one day, sooner or later, Miss Wheeler will take it, and the person who put it there will have a perfect alibi, for she will not have been near the house for ten days.’
‘She?’
‘Mollie Davidson. Ah! mon ami, you did not see her eyes when that ball bounced from my pocket. The irate M. Graham, it meant nothing to him—but to her! “I did not know you kept a dog, M. Poirot.” Why a dog? Why not a child? A child, too, plays with balls. But that—it is not evidence, you say. It is only the impression of Hercule Poirot. Yes, but everything fits in. M. Graham is furious at the idea of an exhumation—he shows it. But she is more careful. She is afraid to seem unwilling. And the surprise and indignation she cannot conceal when she learns that her cousin has known of the will all along! He knew—and he did not tell her. Her crime had been in vain. Do you remember my saying it was unfortunate he didn’t tell her? Unfortunate for the poor Miss Wheeler. It meant her death sentence and all the good precautions she had taken, such as the will, were in vain.’
‘You mean the will—no, I don’t see.’
‘Why did she make that will? The incident of the dog’s ball, mon ami.
‘Imagine, Hastings, that you wish to cause the death of an old lady. You devise a simple accident. The old lady, before now, has slipped over the dog’s ball. She moves about the house in the night. Bien, you place the dog’s ball on the top of the stairs and perhaps also you place a strong thread or fine string. The old lady trips and goes headlong with a scream. Everyone rushes out. You detach your broken string while everyone else is crowding round the old lady. When they come to look for the cause of the fall, they find—the dog’s ball where he so often left it.
‘But, Hastings, now we come to something else. Suppose the old lady earlier in the evening after playing with the dog, puts the ball away in its usual place, and the dog goes out—and stays out. That is what she learns from Miss Lawson on the following day. She realises that it cannot be the dog who left the ball at the top of the stairs. She suspects the truth—but she suspects the wrong person. She suspects her nephew, James Graham, whose personality is not of the most charming. What does she do? First she writes to me—to investigate the matter. Then she changes her will and tells James Graham that she has done so. She counts on his telling Mollie though it is James she suspects. They will know that her death will bring them nothing! C’est bien imaginé for an old lady.
‘And that, mon ami, was the meaning of her dying words. I comprehend well enough the English to know that it is a door that is ajar, not a picture. The old lady is trying to tell Ellen of her suspicions. The dog—the picture above the jar on the mantelpiece with its subject—‘Out all night’ and the ball put away in the jar. That is the only ground for suspicion she has. She probably thinks her illness is natural—but at the last minute has an intuition that it is not.’
He was silent for a moment or two.
‘Ah! if only she had posted that letter. I could have saved her. Now—’
He took up a pen and drew some notepaper towards him.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I am going to write a full and explicit account of what happened and post it to Miss Mollie Davidson with a hint that an exhumation will be applied for.’
‘And then?’
‘If she is innocent—nothing—’ said Poirot gravely. ‘If she is not innocent—we shall see.’
Two days later there was a notice in the paper stating that a Miss Mollie Davidson had died of an overdose of sleeping draught. I was rather horrified. Poirot was quite composed.
‘But no, it has all arranged itself very happily. No ugly scandal and trial for murder—Miss Wheeler she would not want that. She would have desired the privacy. On the other hand one must not leave a murderess—what do you say?—at loose. Or sooner or later, there will be another murder. Always a murderer repeats his crime. No,’ he went on dreamily ‘it has all arranged itself very well. It only remains to work upon the feelings of Miss Lawson—a task which Miss Davidson was attempting very successfully—until she reaches the pitch of handing over half her fortune to Mr James Graham who is, after all, entitled to the money. Since he was deprived of it under a misapprehension.’
He drew from his pocket the brightly coloured rubber ball.
‘Shall we send this to our friend Bob? Or shall we keep it on the mantelpiece? It is a reminder, n’est ce pas, mon ami, that nothing is too trivial to be neglected? At one end, Murder, at the other only—the incident of the dog’s ball …’