Dumb Witness

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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 as I stooped 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 crewel stitch. There were faded photographs in handsome silver frames. There were many inlaid work-boxes 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, Bobsie.’

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.’

Poirot nodded.

In the momentary silence a new sound was heard.

‘Bump, bump, BUMP.’

A monotonous sound increasing in volume and seeming to descend from above.

‘It’s Bob, sir.’ She was smiling. ‘He’s got hold of his ball and he’s bumping it down the stairs. It’s a little game of his.’

As we reached the bottom of the stairs a black rubber ball arrived with a thud on the last step. I caught it and looked up. Bob was lying on the top step, his paws splayed out, his tail gently wagging. I threw it up to him. He caught it neatly, chewed it for a minute or two with evident relish, then laid it between his paws and gently edged it forward with his nose till he finally bunted it over and it bumped once more down the stairs, Bob wagging his tail furiously as he watched its progress.

‘He’ll stay like that for hours, sir. Regular game of his. He’d go on all day at it. That’ll do now, Bob. The gentlemen have got something else to do than play with you.’

A dog is a great promoter of friendly intercourse. Our interest and liking for Bob had quite broken down the natural stiffness of the good servant. As we went up to the bedroom floors, our guide was talking quite garrulously as she gave us accounts of Bob’s wonderful sagacity. The ball had been left at the foot of the stairs. As we passed him, Bob gave us a look of deep disgust and stalked down in a dignified fashion to retrieve it. As we turned to the right I saw him slowly coming up again with it in his mouth, his gait that of an extremely old man forced by unthinking persons to exert himself unduly.

As we went round the bedrooms, Poirot began gradually to draw our conductress out.

‘There were four Miss Arundells lived here, did they not?’ he asked.

‘Originally, yes, sir, but that was before my time. There was only Miss Agnes and Miss Emily when I came and Miss Agnes died soon afterwards. She was the youngest of the family. It seemed odd she should go before her sister.’

‘I suppose she was not so strong as her sister?’

‘No, sir, it’s odd that. My Miss Arundell, Miss Emily, she was always the delicate one. She’d had a lot to do with doctors all her life. Miss Agnes was always strong and robust and yet she went first and Miss Emily who’d been delicate from a child outlived all the family. Very odd the way things happen.’

‘Astonishing how often that is the case.’

Poirot plunged into (I feel sure) a wholly mendacious story of an invalid uncle which I will not trouble to repeat here. It suffices to say that it had its effect. Discussions of death and such matters do more to unlock the human tongue than any other subject. Poirot was in a position to ask questions that would have been regarded with suspicious hostility twenty minutes earlier.

‘Was Miss Arundell’s illness a long and painful one?’

‘No, I wouldn’t say that, sir. She’d been ailing, if you know what I mean, for a long time—ever since two winters before. Very bad she was then—this here jaundice. Yellow in the face they go and the whites of their eyes—’