“Thank you, that is very clear indeed. You notice, Lord Peter, the careful arrangements to have the document signed in presence of the witnesses, and witnessed by them in the presence of Miss Dawson and of each other. I needn’t tell you for what kind of document that arrangement is indispensable.”
“Was that it, sir? We couldn’t understand why it was all arranged like that.”
“It might have happened,” explained Mr. Murbles, “that in case of some dispute about this document, you and your sister would have had to come into court and give evidence about it. And if so, you would have been asked whether you actually saw Miss Dawson write her signature, and whether you and your sister and Miss Dawson were all in the same room together when you signed your names as witnesses. And if that had happened, you could have said yes, couldn’t you, and sworn to it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And yet, actually, Miss Dawson would have known nothing about your being there.”
“No, sir.”
“That was it, you see.”
“I see now, sir, but at the time Bertha and me couldn’t make nothing of it.”
“But the document, you say, was never signed.”
“No, sir. At any rate, we never witnessed anything. We saw Miss Dawson write her name—at least, I suppose it was her name—to one or two papers, and then Miss Whittaker puts another lot in front of her and says, ‘Here’s another little lot, auntie, some more of those income-tax forms.’ So the old lady says, ‘What are they exactly, dear, let me see?’ So Miss Whittaker says, ‘Oh, only the usual things.’ And Miss Dawson says, ‘Dear, dear, what a lot of them. How complicated they do make these things to be sure.’ And we could see that Miss Whittaker was giving her several papers, all laid on top of one another, with just the places for the signatures left showing. So Miss Dawson signs the top one, and then lifts up the paper and looks underneath at the next one, and Miss Whittaker says, ‘They’re all the same,’ as if she was in a hurry to get them signed and done with. But Miss Dawson takes them out of her hand and starts looking through them, and suddenly she lets out a screech, and says, ‘I won’t have it, I won’t have it! I’m not dying yet. How dare you, you wicked girl! Can’t you wait till I’m dead?—You want to frighten me into my grave before my time. Haven’t you got everything you want?’ And Miss Whittaker says, ‘Hush, auntie, you won’t let me explain—’ and the old lady says, ‘No, I won’t, I don’t want to hear anything about it. I hate the thought of it. I won’t talk about it. You leave me be. I can’t get better if you keep frightening me so.’ And then she begins to take and carry on dreadful, and Miss Whittaker comes over to us looking awful white and says, ‘Run along, you girls,’ she says, ‘my aunt’s taken ill and can’t attend to business. I’ll call you if I want you,’ she says. And I said, ‘Can we help with her, miss?’ and she says, ‘No, it’s quite all right. It’s just the pain come on again. I’ll give her her injection and then she’ll be all right.’ And she pushes us out of the room, and shuts the door, and we heard the poor old lady crying fit to break anybody’s heart. So we went downstairs and met Nurse just coming in, and we told her Miss Dawson was took worse again, and she runs up quick without taking her things off. So we was in the kitchen, just saying it seemed rather funny-like, when Miss Whittaker comes down again and says, ‘It’s all right now, and Auntie’s sleeping quite peaceful, only we’ll have to put off business till another day.’ And she says, ‘Better not say anything about this to anybody, because when the pain comes on Aunt gets frightened and talks a bit wild. She don’t mean what she says, but if people was to hear about it they might think it odd.’ So I up and says, ‘Miss Whittaker,’ I says, ‘me and Bertha was never ones to talk’; rather stiff, I said it, because I don’t hold by gossip and never did. And Miss Whittaker says, ‘That’s quite all right,’ and goes away. And the next day she gives us an afternoon off and a present—ten shillings each, it was, because it was her aunt’s birthday, and the old lady wanted us to have a little treat in her honour.”
“A very clear account indeed, Mrs. Cropper, and I only wish all witnesses were as sensible and observant as you are. There’s just one thing. Did you by any chance get a sight of this paper that upset Miss Dawson so much?”
“No, sir—only from a distance, that is, and in the looking-glass. But I think it was quite short—just a few lines of typewriting.”
“I see. Was there a typewriter in the house, by the way?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Miss Whittaker used one quite often for business letters and so on. It used to stand in the sitting-room.”
“Quite so. By the way, do you remember Miss Dawson’s solicitor calling shortly after this?”
“No, sir. It was only a little time later Bertha broke the teapot and we left. Miss Whittaker gave her her month’s warning, but I said no. If she could come down on a girl like that for a little thing, and her such a good worker, Bertha should go at once and me with her. Miss Whittaker said, ‘Just as you like,’ she said—she never was one to stand any backchat. So we went that afternoon. But afterwards I think she
