Agatha Christie's Secret Notebooks

Witness.

‘The Incident of the Dog’s Ball’ in the Notebooks

The story is referred to in two Notebooks, but in Notebook 30 it is mentioned only in passing as Idea A in the list above. In Notebook 66 we find more detail with resemblance to the short story rather than the novel:

Dog’s Ball People

Mrs Grant—typical old lady

Miss Lawson—twittery companion

Mollie Davidson—Niece—earns living in a beauty parlour

Her young man—a ne’er do well

Journalist—Ted Weedon—has been in prison for forgery—forged uncle’s name in City office—

owing to girl pressing him for money—some actress

James Grant—prim…respectable gentleman—

Engaged to hospital nurse—Miss O’Gorman

Ellen

Cook

The niece’s name—Mollie Davidson—remains the same, as does her occupation; and that name appears nowhere else in the notes for Dumb Witness. The nephew’s is amended only slightly to Graham, although that of the victim changes substantially from Mrs Grant to Miss Wheeler. Neither Mollie’s young man or James Grant’s fiancee features in the short story although Ted Weedon’s proclivity for forgery is transferred to Charles Arundell, the rechristened nephew in the novel.

The Incident of the Dogs Ball[13] (From the notes of Captain Arthur Hastings O.B.E.)

i

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 depend. 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, erasions, 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.[14]

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 three months ago.’[15]

‘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.

ii

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.