Dumb Witness by Agatha Christie Page A

penny of six thousand, let alone the land value and the valuable frontages.”
    â€œMiss Arundell died very suddenly, didn’t she?”
    â€œOh, I wouldn’t say that. Anno domini—anno domini. She had passed her threescore and ten some time ago. And she’d been ailing for a long time. The last of her family—you know something about the family, perhaps?”
    â€œI know some people of the same name who have relations in this part of the world. I fancy it must be the same family.”
    â€œVery likely. Four sisters there were. One married fairly late in life and the other three lived on here. Ladies of the old school. Miss Emily was the last of them. Very highly thought of in the town.”
    He leant forward and handed Poirot the orders.
    â€œYou’ll drop in again and let me know what you think of it, eh? Of course, it may need a little modernizing here and there. That’s only to be expected. But I always say, ‘What’s a bathroom or two? That’s easily done.’”
    We took our leave and the last thing we heard was the vacant voice of Miss Jenkins saying:
    â€œMrs. Samuels rang up, sir. She’d like you to ring her—Holland 5391.”
    As far as I could remember that was neither the number Miss Jenkins had scribbled on her pad nor the number finally arrived at through the telephone.
    I felt convinced that Miss Jenkins was having her revenge for having been forced to find the particulars of Littlegreen House.

Seven
L UNCH AT THE G EORGE
    A s we emerged into the market square, I remarked that Mr. Gabler lived up to his name! Poirot assented with a smile.
    â€œHe’ll be rather disappointed when you don’t return,” I said. “I think he feels he has as good as sold you that house already.”
    â€œIndeed, yes, I fear there is a deception in store for him.”
    â€œI suppose we might as well have lunch here before returning to London, or shall we lunch at some more likely spot on our way back?”
    â€œMy dear Hastings, I am not proposing to leave Market Basing so quickly. We have not yet accomplished that which we came to do.”
    I stared.
    â€œDo you mean—but, my dear fellow, that’s all a washout. The old lady is dead.”
    â€œExactly.”
    The tone of that one word made me stare at him harder thanever. It was evident that he had some bee in his bonnet over this incoherent letter.
    â€œBut if she’s dead, Poirot,” I said gently, “what’s the use? She can’t tell you anything now. Whatever the trouble was, it’s over and finished with.”
    â€œHow lightly and easily you put the matter aside! Let me tell you that no matter is finished with until Hercule Poirot ceases to concern himself with it!”
    I should have known from experience that to argue with Poirot is quite useless. Unwarily I proceeded.
    â€œBut since she is dead—”
    â€œExactly, Hastings. Exactly—exactly—exactly… You keep repeating the significant point with a magnificently obtuse disregard of its significance. Do you not see the importance of the point? Miss Arundell is dead. ”
    â€œBut my dear Poirot, her death was perfectly natural and ordinary! There wasn’t anything odd or unexplained about it. We have old Gabler’s word for that.”
    â€œWe have his word that Littlegreen House is a bargain at £2,850. Do you accept that as gospel also?”
    â€œNo, indeed. It struck me that Gabler was all out to get the place sold—it probably needs modernizing from top to toe. I’d swear he—or rather his client—will be willing to accept a very much lower figure than that. These large Georgian houses fronting right on the street must be the devil to get rid of.”
    â€œ Eh bien, then,” said Poirot. “Do not say, ‘But Gabler says so!’ as though he were an inspired prophet who could not lie.”
    I was about to protest further,