I broke off my difficult task of spelling out the spidery words.
“Poirot,” I said. “Must I go on? Does she ever get to the point?”
“Continue, my friend. Patience.”
“Patience!” I grumbled. “It’s exactly as though a spider had got into an inkpot and was walking over a sheet of notepaper! I remember my Great-Aunt Mary’s writing used to be much the same!”
Once more I plunged into the epistle.
In my present dilemma, it occurs to me that you might undertake the necessary investigations on my behalf. The matter is such, as you will readily understand, as calls for the utmost discretion and I may, in fact—and I need hardly say how sincerely I hope and pray (pray underlined twice) that this may be the case—I may, in fact, be completely mistaken. One is apt sometimes to attribute too much significance to facts capable of a natural explanation.
“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 nonexistent.”
“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.”