“I’m sorry, sir. It’s Bob’s fault. He leaves his ball there. And you can’t see it against the dark carpet. Death of someone some day it’ll be. The poor mistress had a nasty fall through it. Might easily have been the death of her.”
Poirot stopped suddenly on the stairs.
“She had an accident you say?”
“Yes, sir. Bob left his ball there, as he often did, and the mistress came out of her room and fell over it and went right down the stairs. Might have been killed.”
“Was she much hurt?”
“Not as much as you’d think. Very lucky she was, Dr. Grainger said. Cut her head a little, and strained her back, and of course there were bruises and it was a nasty shock. She was in bed for about a week, but it wasn’t serious.”
“Was this long ago?”
“Just a week or two before she died.”
Poirot stooped to recover something he had dropped.
“Pardon—my fountain pen—ah, yes, there it is.”
He stood up again.
“He is careless, this Master Bob,” he observed.
“Ah well, he don’t know no better, sir,” said the woman in an indulgent voice. “Nearly human he may be, but you can’t have everything. The mistress, you see, usedn’t to sleep well at night and often she’d get up and wander downstairs and round and about the house.”
“She did that often?”
“Most nights. But she wouldn’t have Miss Lawson or anyone fussing after her.”
Poirot had turned into the drawing room again.
“A beautiful room this,” he observed. “I wonder, would there be space in this recess for my bookcase? What do you think, Hastings?”
Quite fogged I remarked cautiously that it would be difficult to say.
“Yes, sizes are so deceptive. Take, I pray you, my little rule and measure the width of it and I will write it down.”
Obediently I took the folding rule that Poirot handed me and took various measurements under his direction whilst he wrote on the back of an envelope.
I was just wondering why he adopted such an untidy and uncharacteristic method instead of making a neat entry in his little pocketbook when he handed the envelope to me, saying:
“That is right, is it not? Perhaps you had better verify it.”
There were no figures on the envelope. Instead was written: “When we go upstairs again, pretend to remember an appointment and ask if you can telephone. Let the woman come with you and delay her as long as you can.”
“That’s all right,” I said, pocketing the envelope. “I should say both bookcases would go in perfectly.”
“It is as well to be sure though. I think, if it is not too much trouble, I would like to look at the principal bedroom again. I am not quite sure of the wall space there.”
“Certainly, sir. It’s no trouble.”
We went up again. Poirot measured a portion of wall, and was just commenting aloud on the respective possible positions of bed, wardrobe and writing table, when I looked at my watch, gave a somewhat exaggerated start and exclaimed:
“By Jove, do you know it’s three o’clock already? What will Anderson think? I ought to telephone to him.” I turned to the woman. “I wonder if I might use your telephone if you have one.”
“Why, certainly, sir. It’s in the little room off the hall. I’ll show you.”
She bustled down with me, indicating the instrument, and then I got her to help me in finding a number in the telephone directory. In the end I made a call—to a Mr. Anderson in the neighbouring town of Harchester. Fortunately he was out and I was able to leave a message saying it was unimportant and that I would ring up later!