Dumb Witness

‘I haven’t left out a sheet?’ I murmured in some perplexity.

Poirot chuckled.

‘No, no.’

‘Because this doesn’t seem to make sense. What is it she is talking about?’

‘Continuez toujours.’

‘The matter is such, as you will readily understand—No, I’d got past that. Oh! here we are. In the circumstances as I am sure you will be the first to appreciate, it is quite impossible for me to consult anyone in Market Basing (I glanced back at the heading of the letter. Littlegreen House, Market Basing, Berks), but at the same time you will naturally understand that I feel uneasy (uneasy underlined). During the last few days I have reproached myself with being unduly fanciful (fanciful underlined three times) but have only felt increasingly perturbed. I may be attaching undue importance to what is, after all, a trifle (trifle underlined twice) but my uneasiness remains. I feel definitely that my mind must be set at rest on the matter. It is actually preying on my mind and affecting my health, and naturally I am in a difficult position as I can say nothing to anyone (nothing to anyone underlined with heavy lines). In your wisdom you may say, of course, that the whole thing is nothing but a mare’s nest. The facts may be capable of a perfectly innocent explanation (innocent underlined). Nevertheless, however trivial it may seem, ever since the incident of the dog’s ball, I have felt increasingly doubtful and alarmed. I should therefore welcome your views and counsel on the matter. It would, I feel sure, take a great weight off my mind. Perhaps you would kindly let me know what your fees are and what you advise me to do in the matter?

‘I must impress on you again that nobody here knows anything at all. The facts are, I know, very trivial and unimportant, but my health is not too good and my nerves (nerves underlined three times) are not what they used to be. Worry of this kind, I am convinced, is very bad for me, and the more I think over the matter, the more I am convinced that I was quite right and no mistake was possible. Of course, I shall not dream of saying anything (underlined) to anyone (underlined).

Hoping to have your advice in the matter at an early date.

I remain, Yours faithfully,

Emily Arundell.’

I turned the letter over and scanned each page closely. ‘But, Poirot,’ I expostulated, ‘what is it all about?’

My friend shrugged his shoulders.

‘What indeed?’

I tapped the sheets with some impatience.

‘What a woman! Why can’t Mrs—or Miss Arundell—’

‘Miss, I think. It is typically the letter of a spinster.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A real, fussy old maid. Why can’t she say what she’s talking about?’

Poirot sighed.

‘As you say—a regrettable failure to employ order and method in the mental processes, and without order and method, Hastings—’

‘Quite so,’ I interrupted hastily. ‘Little grey cells practically non-existent.’

‘I would not say that, my friend.’

‘I would. What’s the sense of writing a letter like that?’

‘Very little—that is true,’ Poirot admitted.

‘A long rigmarole all about nothing,’ I went on. ‘Probably some upset to her fat lapdog—an asthmatic pug or a yapping Pekinese!’ I looked at my friend curiously. ‘And yet you read that letter through twice. I do not understand you, Poirot.’

Poirot smiled.

‘You, Hastings, you would have put it straight in the waste-paper basket?’

‘I’m afraid I should.’ I frowned down on the letter. ‘I suppose I’m being dense, as usual, but I can’t see anything of interest in this letter!’

‘Yet there is one point in it of great interest—a point that struck me at once.’

‘Wait,’ I cried. ‘Don’t tell me. Let me see if I can’t discover it for myself.’

It was childish of me, perhaps. I examined the letter very thoroughly. Then I shook my head.

‘No, I don’t see it. The old lady’s got the wind up, I realize that—but then, old ladies often do! It may be about nothing—it may conceivably be about something, but I don’t see that you can tell that that is so. Unless your instinct—’

Poirot raised an offended hand.

‘Instinct! You know how I dislike that word. “Something seems to tell me”—that is what you infer. Jamais de la vie! Me, I reason. I employ the little grey cells. There is one interesting point about that letter which you have overlooked utterly, Hastings.’

‘Oh, well,’ I said wearily. ‘I’ll buy it.’

‘Buy it? Buy what?’

‘An expression. Meaning that I will permit you to enjoy yourself by telling me just where I have been a fool.’

‘Not a fool, Hastings, merely unobservant.’

‘Well, out with it. What’s the interesting point? I suppose, like the “incident of the dog’s ball,” the point is that there is no interesting point!’

Poirot disregarded this sally on my part. He said quietly and calmly:

‘The interesting point is the date.’

‘The date?’

I picked up the letter. On the top left-hand corner was written April 17th.

‘Yes,’ I said slowly. ‘That is odd. April 17th.’

‘And we are today June 28th. C’est curieux, n’est ce pas? Over two months ago.’

I shook my head doubtfully.

‘It probably doesn’t mean anything. A slip. She meant to put June and wrote April instead.’

‘Even then it would be ten or eleven days old—an odd fact. But actually you are in error. Look at the colour of the ink. That letter was written more than ten or eleven days ago. No, April 17th is the date assuredly. But why was the letter not sent?’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘That’s easy. The old pussy changed her mind.’

‘Then why did she not destroy the letter? Why keep it over two months and post it now?’