Chapter 8
INTERIOR OF LITTLEGREEN HOUSE
On leaving the churchyard, Poirot led the way briskly in the direction of Littlegreen House. I gathered that his role was still that of the prospective purchaser. Carefully holding the various orders to view in his hand with the Littlegreen House one uppermost, he pushed open the gate and walked up the path to the front door.
On this occasion our friend the terrier was not to be seen, but the sound of barking could be heard inside the house, though at some distance – I guessed in the kitchen quarters.
Presently we heard footsteps crossing the hall and the door was opened by a pleasant-faced woman of between fifty and sixty, clearly the old-fashioned type of servant seldom seen nowadays.
Poirot presented his credentials.
'Yes, sir, the house-agent telephoned. Will you step this way, sir?'
The shutters which I had noticed were closed on our first visit to spy out the land, were now all thrown open in preparation for our visit. Everything, I observed, was spotlessly clean and well kept. Clearly our guide was a thoroughly conscientious woman.
'This is the morning-room, sir.'
I glanced round approvingly. A pleasant room with its long windows giving on the street. It was furnished with good, solid, old-fashioned furniture, mostly Victorian, but there was a Chippendale bookcase and a set of attractive Hepplewhite chairs.
Poirot and I behaved in the customary fashion of people being shown over houses. We stood stock still, looking a little ill at ease, murmuring remarks such as: 'Very nice.' 'A very pleasant room.' 'The morning-room, you say?'
The maid conducted us across the hall and into the corresponding room on the other side. This was much larger.
'The dining-room, sir.'
This room was definitely Victorian. A heavy mahogany dining-table, a massive sideboard of almost purplish mahogany with great clusters of carved fruit, solid leather-covered dining-room chairs. On the wall hung what were obviously family portraits.
The terrier had continued to bark in some sequestered spot. Now the sound suddenly increased in volume. With a crescendo of barking he could be heard galloping across the hall.
'Who's come into the house? I'll tear him limb from limb,' was clearly the 'burden of his song.'
He arrived in the doorway, sniffing violently.
'Oh, Bob, you naughty dog,' exclaimed our conductress. 'Don't mind him, sir. He won't do you no harm.'
Bob, indeed, having discovered the intruders, completely changed his manner. He fussed in and introduced himself to us in an agreeable manner.
'Pleased to meet you, I'm sure,' he observed as he sniffed round our ankles. 'Excuse the noise, won't you, but I have my job to do. Got to be careful who we let in, you know. But it's a dull life and I'm really quite pleased to see a visitor. Dogs of your own, I fancy?'
This last was addressed to me and I stopped and patted him.
'Nice little fellow,' I said to the woman. 'Needs plucking a bit, though.'
'Yes, sir, he's usually plucked three times a year.'
'Is he an old dog?'
'Oh, no, sir. Bob's not more than six. And sometimes he behaves just like a puppy. Gets hold of cook's slippers and prances about with them. And he's very gentle, though you wouldn't believe it to hear the noise he makes sometimes. The only person he goes for is the postman. Downright scared of him, the postman is.'
Bob was now investigating the legs of Poirot's trousers. Having learned all he could, he gave vent to a prolonged sniff ('H'm, not too bad, but not really a doggy person') and returned to me, cocking his head on one side and looking at me expectantly.
'I don't know why dogs always go for postmen, I'm sure,' continued our guide.
'It's a matter of reasoning,' said Poirot. 'The dog, he argues from reason. He is intelligent; he makes his deductions according to his point of view. There are people who may enter a house and there are people who may not – that a dog soon learns. Eh bien, who is the person who most persistently tries to gain admission, rattling on the door twice or three times a day – and who is never by any chance admitted? The postman. Clearly, then, an undesirable guest from the point of view of the master of the house. He is always sent about his business, but he persistently returns and tries again. Then a dog's duty is clear, to aid in driving this undesirable man away, and to bite him if possible. A most reasonable proceeding.' He beamed on Bob. 'And a most intelligent person, I fancy.'
'Oh, he is, sir. He's almost human. Bob is.'
She flung open another door.
'The drawing-room, sir.'
The drawing-room conjured up memories of the past. A faint fragrance of potpourri hung about it. The chintzes were worn, their pattern faded garlands of roses. On the walls were prints and water-colour drawings. There was a good deal of china – fragile shepherds and shepherdesses. There were cushions worked in cross stitch. There were faded photographs in handsome silver frames. There were many inlaid workboxes and tea caddies. Most fascinating of all to me were two exquisitely cut tissue-paper ladies under glass stands. One with a spinning- wheel, one with a cat on her knee.
The atmosphere of a bygone day, a day of leisure, of refinement, of 'ladies and gentlemen,' closed round me. This was indeed a 'withdrawing-room.' Here ladies sat and did their fancy-work, and if a cigarette was ever smoked by a favoured member of the male sex, what a shaking out of curtains and general airing of the room there would be afterwards!
My attention was drawn by Bob. He was sitting in an attitude of rapt attention close beside an elegant little table with two drawers in it.
As he saw that I was noticing him, he gave a short, plaintive yelp, looking from me to the table.
'What does he want?' I asked.
Our interest in Bob was clearly pleasing to the maid who obviously was very fond of him.
'It's his ball, sir. It was always kept in that drawer. That's why he sits there and asks.'
Her voice changed. She addressed Bob in a high falsetto.
'It isn't there any longer, beautiful. Bob's ball is in the kitchen. In the kitchen, Bob.'
Bob shifted his gaze impatiently to Poirot.
'This woman's a fool,' he seemed to be saying. 'You look a brainy sort of chap. Balls are kept in certain places – this drawer is one of those places. There always has been a ball here. Therefore there should be a ball there now. That's obvious dog-logic, isn't it?'
'It's not there now, boy,' I said. He looked at me doubtfully. Then as we went out of the room he followed slowly in an unconvinced manner.
We were shown various cupboards, a downstairs cloakroom, and a small pantry place, 'where the mistress used to do the flowers, sir.'
'You were with your mistress a long time?' asked Poirot.
'Twenty-two years, sir.'
'You are alone here caretaking?'
'Me and cook, sir.'
'She was also a long time with Miss Arundell?'
'Four years, sir. The old cook died.'
'Supposing I were to buy the house, would you be prepared to stay on?'
She blushed a little.
'It's very kind of you, sir, I'm sure, but I'm going to retire from service. The mistress left me a nice little sum, you see, and I'm going to my brother. I'm only remaining here as a convenience to Miss Lawson until the place is sold – to look after everything.'
