Dumb Witness (Hercule Poirot 16)

Eleven

VISIT TO THE MISSES TRIPP

“And now,” said Poirot as we reentered the car. “What do we do next?”

Warned by experience I did not this time suggest a return to town. After all, if Poirot was enjoying himself in his own fashion why should I object?

I suggested some tea.

“Tea, Hastings? What an idea! Regard the time.”

“I have regarded it—looked at it, I mean. It’s half past five. Tea is clearly indicated.”

Poirot sighed.

“Always the afternoon tea with you English! No, mon ami, no tea for us. In a book of etiquette I read the other day that one must not make the afternoon call after six o’clock. To do so is to commit the solecism. We have, therefore, but half an hour in which to accomplish our purpose.”

“How social you are today, Poirot! On whom are we calling now?”

“Les demoiselles Tripp.”

“Are you writing a book on spiritualism now? Or is it still the life of General Arundell?”

“It will be simpler than that, my friend. But we must inquire where these ladies live.”

Directions were forthcoming readily enough, but of a somewhat confused nature involving as they did a series of lanes. The abode of the Misses Tripp turned out to be a picturesque cottage—so extremely old-world and picturesque that it looked as though it might collapse any minute.

A child of fourteen or thereabouts opened the door and with difficulty squeezed herself against the wall sufficiently to allow us to pass inside.

The interior was very rich in old oak beams—there was a big open fireplace and such very small windows that it was difficult to see clearly. All the furniture was of pseudo simplicity—ye olde oake for ye cottage dweller—there was a good deal of fruit in wooden bowls and large numbers of photographs—most of them, I noticed, of the same two people represented in different poses—usually with bunches of flowers clasped to their breasts or clutching large leghorn picture hats.

The child who had admitted us had murmured something and disappeared, but her voice was clearly audible in an upper story.

“Two gentlemen to see you, Miss.”

A sort of twitter of female voices arose and presently with a good deal of creaking and rustling a lady descended the staircase and came graciously towards us.

She was nearer fifty than forty, her hair was parted in the middle in Madonna fashion, her eyes were brown and slightly prominent. She wore a sprigged muslin dress that conveyed an odd suggestion of fancy dress.

Poirot stepped forward and started the conversation in his most flourishing manner.

“I must apologize for intruding upon you, mademoiselle, but I am in somewhat of a predicament. I came here to find a certain lady, but she has left Market Basing and I was told

that you would certainly have her address.”

“Really? Who was that?”

“Miss Lawson.”

“Oh, Minnie Lawson. Of course! We are the greatest friends. Do sit down, Mr.—er—?”

“Parotti—my friend, Captain Hastings.”

Miss Tripp acknowledged the introductions and began to fuss a little.

“Sit here, won’t you—no, please—really, I always prefer an upright chair myself. Now, are you sure you are comfortable there? Dear Minnie Lawson—oh, here is my sister.”

More creaking and rustling and we were joined by a second lady, dressed in green gingham that would have been suitable for a girl of sixteen.