“Come in, sir, if you please, sir.” We entered the hall. From beneath the door on the left, loud snuffling sounds proceeded, interspersed with growls. Bob was endeavouring to “place” us correctly.
“You can let him out,” I suggested.
“I will, sir. He’s quite all right, really, but he makes such a noise and rushes at people so it frightens them. He’s a splendid watchdog though.” She opened the morning-room door, and Bob shot through like a suddenly projected cannonball.
“Who is it? Where are they? Oh, there you are. Dear me, don’t I seem to remember–” Sniff–sniff–sniff–prolonged snort. “Of course! We have metl” “Hullo, old man,” I said. “How goes it?” Bob wagged his tail perfunctorily.
“Nicely, thank you. Let me just see–” He resumed his researches. “Been talking to a spaniel lately, I smell. Foolish dogs, I think. What’s this? A cat? That is interesting.
Wish we had her here. We’d have a rare sport. H’m–not a bad bullterrier.” Having correctly diagnosed a visit I had lately paid to some doggy friends, he trans- ff-rrf-d his attentions to Poirot, inhaled a noseful of benzine and walked away reproachfully.
“Bob,” I called.
He threw me a look over his shoulder.
“It’s all right. I know what I’m doing. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” “The house is all shut up. I hope you’ll excuse–” Ellen hurried into the morningroom and began to unfasten the shutters.
“Excellent, this is excellent,” said Poirot, following her in and sitting down. As I was about to join him. Bob reappeared from some mysterious region, ball in mouth. He dashed up the stairs and sprawled himself on the top step, his ball between his paws.
His tail wagged slowly.
“Come on,” he said. “Come on. Let’s have a game.” My interest in detection momentarily eclipsed, we played for some minutes, then with a feeling of guilt I hurried into the morning-room.
Poirot and Ellen seemed to be well away on the subject of illness and medicines.
“Some little white pills, sir, that’s all she used to take. Two or three after every meal.
That was Dr. Grainger’s orders. Oh, yes, she was very good about it. Tiny little things they were. And then there was some stuff Miss Lawson swore by. Capsules, they were, Dr. Loughbarrow’s Liver Capsules. You can see advertisements of them on all the hoardings.” “She took those too?” “Yes. Miss Lawson got her them to begin with, and she thought they did her good.” “Did Dr. Grainger know?” “Oh, sir, he didn’t mind. ‘You take ’em if you think they do you good,5 he’d say to her. And she said, ‘Well, you may laugh, but they do do me good. A lot better than any of your physic.” And Dr. Grainger, he laughed, and said faith was worth all the drugs ever invented.” “She didn’t take anything else?” “No. Miss Bella’s husband, the foreign doctor, he went out and got her a bottle of something, but although she thanked him very politely she poured it away and that I know for a fact! And I think she was right.
You don’t know where you are with these foreign things.” “Mrs. Tanios saw her pouring it away, didn’t she?” “Yes, and I’m afraid she was rather hurt about it, poor lady. I’m sorry, too, for no doubt it was kindly meant on the doctor’s Ttart ” “No doubt. No doubt. I suppose any medicines that were left in the house were thrown away when Miss Arundell died?” Ellen looked a little surprised at the question.
“Oh, yes, sir. The nurse threw away some and Miss Lawson got rid of all the old lot in the medicine-cupboard in the bathroom.” “Is that where the–er–Dr. Loughbarrow’s Liver Capsules were kept?” “No, they were kept in the corner-cupboard in the dining-room so as to be handy for taking after meals as directed.” “What nurse attended Miss Arundell?
Can you give me her name and address?” Ellen could supply that at once and did.
Poirot continued to ask questions about Miss ArundelFs last illness.
Ellen gave details with relish, describing the sickness, the pain, the onset of jaundice, and the final delirium. I don’t know whether Poirot got any satisfaction out of the catalogue.