spirits.'
'Spirits?' Poirot looked alert.
'Yes, sir, spirits. Sitting in the dark round a table and dead people came back and spoke to you. Downright irreligious I call it – as if we didn't know departed souls had their rightful place and aren't likely to leave it.'
'So Miss Lawson was a spiritualist! Was Miss Arundell a believer too?'
'Miss Lawson would have liked her to be!' snapped the other. There was a spice of satisfied malice in her tone.
'But she wasn't?' Poirot persisted.
'The mistress had too much sense.' She snorted. 'Mind you, I don't say it didn't amuse her. 'I'm willing to be convinced,' she'd say. But she'd often look at Miss Lawson as much as to say, 'My poor dear, what a fool you are to be so taken in!''
'I comprehend. She did not believe in it, but it was a source of amusement to her.'
'That's right, sir. I sometimes wondered if she didn't – well, have a bit of quiet fun, so to speak, pushing the table and that sort of thing. And the others all as serious as death.'
'The others?'
'Miss Lawson and the two Miss Tripps.'
'Miss Lawson was a very convinced spiritualist?'
'Took it all for gospel, sir.'
'And Miss Arundell was very attached to Miss Lawson, of course.'
It was the second time Poirot had made this certain remark and he got the same response.
'Well, hardly that, sir.'
'But surely,' said Poirot, 'if she left her everything – She did, did she not?'
The change was immediate. The human being vanished. The correct maid-servant returned. The woman drew herself up and said in a colourless voice that held reproof for familiarity in it:
'The way the mistress left her money is hardly my business, sir.'
I felt that Poirot had bungled the job. Having got the woman in a friendly mood, he was now proceeding to throw away his advantage.
He was wise enough to make no immediate attempt to recover lost ground. After a commonplace remark about the size and number of the bedrooms he went towards the head of the stairs.
Bob had disappeared, but as I came to the stair-head, I stumbled and nearly fell. Catching at the banister to steady myself I looked down and saw that I had inadvertently placed my foot on Bob's ball which he had left lying on the top of the stairs.
The woman apologized quickly.
'I'm sorry, sir. It's Bob's fault. He leaves his ball there. And you can't see it against the dark carpet. Death of some one some day it'll be. The poor mistress had a nasty fall through it. Might easily have been the death of her.'
Poirot stopped suddenly on the stairs.
'She had an accident, you say?'
'Yes, sir. Bob left his ball there, as he often did, and the mistress came out of her room and fell over it and went right down the stairs. Might have been killed.'
'Was she much hurt?'
'Not as much as you'd think. Very lucky she was. Dr Grainger said. Cut her head a little, and strained her back and of course there were bruises and it was a nasty shock. She was in bed for about a week, but it wasn't serious.'
'Was this long ago?'
'Just a week or two before she died.'
Poirot stopped to recover something he had dropped.
'Pardon – my fountain pen – ah, yes, there it is.' He stood up again.
'He is careless, this Master Bob,' he observed.
'Ah, well, he don't know no better, sir,' said the woman in an indulgent voice. 'Nearly human he may be, but you can't have everything. The mistress, you see, usedn't to sleep well at nights and often she'd get up and wander downstairs and round and about the house.'
'She did that often?'
'Most nights. But she wouldn't have Miss Lawson or any one fussing after her.'
Poirot had turned into the drawing-room again.
'A beautiful room this,' he observed. 'I wonder, would there be space in this recess for my bookcase? What do you think, Hastings?'
Quite fogged I remarked cautiously that it would be difficult to say.
'Yes, sizes are so deceptive. Take, I pray you, my little rule and measure the width of it and I will write it down.'
Obediently I took the folding rule that Poirot handed me and took various measurements under his direction whilst he wrote on the back of an envelope.
I was just wondering why he adopted such an untidy and uncharacteristic method of making a neat entry in his little pocketbook when he handed the envelope to me, saying:
'That is right, is it not? Perhaps you had better verify it.'
There were no figures on the envelope. Instead was written: 'When we go upstairs again, pretend to remember an appointment and ask if you can telephone. Let the woman come with you and delay her as long as you can.'
'That's all right,' I said, pocketing the envelope. 'I should say both bookcases would go in perfectly.'
'It is as well to be sure, though. I think, if it is not too much trouble, I would like to look at the principal bedroom again. I am not quite sure of the wall space there.'
'Certainly, sir. It's no trouble.'
We went up again. Poirot measured a portion of wall, and was just commenting aloud on the respective possible positions of bed, wardrobe and writing table when I looked at my watch, gave a somewhat exaggerated start and exclaimed:
'By Jove, do you know it's three o'clock already? What will Anderson think? I ought to telephone to him.' I turned to the woman. 'I wonder if I might use your telephone if you have one.'
'Why, certainly, sir. It's in the little room off the hall. I'll show you.'
She bustled down with me, indicating the instrument, and then I got her to help me in finding a number in the telephone directory.
In the end I made a call – to a Mr Anderson in the neighbouring town of Harchester. Fortunately he was out and I was able to leave a message saying it was unimportant and that I would ring up later!
When I emerged Poirot had descended the staircase and was standing in the hall. His eyes had a slightly green tinge. I had no clue to his excitement, but I realized that he was excited. Poirot said:
'That fall from the top of the stairs must have given your mistress a great shock. Did she seem perturbed about Bob and his ball after it?'
'It's funny your saying that, sir. It worried her a lot. Why, just as she was dying, she was delirious and she rambled on a lot about Bob and his ball and something about a picture that was ajar.'
'A picture that was ajar,' said Poirot thoughtfully.
'Of course, it didn't make sense, sir, but she was rambling, you see.'
'One moment – I must just go into the drawing-room once more.'
He wandered round the room, examining the ornaments. In especial, one big jar with a lid on it seemed to attract him. It was not, I fancy, a particularly good bit of china. A piece of Victorian humour – it had on it a rather crude picture of a bulldog sitting outside a front door with a mournful expression on its face. Below was written: Out all night and no key.
Poirot, whose taste I have always been convinced is hopelessly bourgeois, seemed lost in admiration.
'Out all night and no key,' he murmured. 'It is amusing, that! Is that true of our Master Bob? Does he sometimes stay out all night?'
'Very occasional, sir. Oh, very occasional. He's a very good dog, Bob is.'
