“The lawyers were going to contest the Will. Yes, I believe I did hear something about that,” said Mrs. Oliver encouragingly. “And you know something about it, perhaps?”
“I didn’t mean no harm,” said Mrs. Leaman. A slight whine came into her voice, a whine with which Mrs. Oliver had been acquainted several times in the past.
Mrs. Leaman, she thought, was presumably an unreliable woman in some ways, a snooper perhaps, a listener at doors.
“I didn’t say nothing at the time,” said Mrs. Leaman, “because you see I didn’t rightly know. But you see I thought it was queer and I’ll admit to a lady like you, who knows what these things are, that I did want to know the truth about it. I’d worked for Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe for some time, I had, and one wants to know how things happened.”
“Quite,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“If I thought I’d done what I oughtn’t to have done, well, of course, I’d have owned up to it. But I didn’t think as I’d done anything really wrong, you see. Not at the time, if you understand,” she added.
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I’m sure I shall understand. Go on. It was about this codicil.”
“Yes, you see one day Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe—she hadn’t felt too good that day and so she asked us to come in. Me that was, and young Jim who helps down in the garden and brings the sticks in and the coals, and things like that. So we went into her room, where she was, and she’d got papers before her there on the desk. And she turns to this foreign girl—Miss Olga we all called her—and said ‘You go out of the room now, dear, because you mustn’t be mixed up in this part of it,’ or something like that. So Miss Olga, she goes out of the room and Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, she tells us to come close and she says ‘This is my Will, this is.’ She got a bit of blotting paper over the top part of it but the bottom of it’s quite clear. She said ‘I’m writing something here on this piece of paper and I want you to be a witness of what I’ve written and of my signature at the end of it.’ So she starts writing along the page. Scratchy pen she always used, she wouldn’t use Biros or anything like that. And she writes two or three lines of writing and then she signed her name, and then she says to me, ‘Now, Mrs. Leaman, you write your name there. Your name and your address’ and then she says to Jim ‘And now you write your name underneath there, and your address too. There. That’ll do. Now you’ve seen me write that and you’ve seen my signature and you’ve written your names, both of you, to say that’s that.’ And then she says ‘That’s all. Thank you very much.’ So we goes out of the room. Well, I didn’t think nothing more of it at the time, but I wondered a bit. And it happened as I turns my head just as I was going out of the room. You see the door doesn’t always latch properly. You have to give it a pull, to make it click. And so I was doing that—I wasn’t really looking, if you know what I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Oliver, in a noncommittal voice.
“And so I sees Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe pull herself up from the chair—she’d got arthritis and had pain moving about sometimes—and go over to the bookcase and she pulled out a book and she puts that piece of paper she’d just signed—in an envelope it was—in one of the books. A big tall book it was in the bottom shelf. And she sticks it back in the bookcase. Well, I never thought of it again, as you might say. No, really I didn’t. But when all this fuss came up, well, of course I felt—at least, I—” She came to a stop.
Mrs. Oliver had one of her useful intuitions.
“But surely,” she said, “you didn’t wait as long as all that—”
“Well, I’ll tell you the truth, I will. I’ll admit I was curious. After all, I mean, you want to know when you’ve signed anything, what you’ve signed, don’t you? I mean, it’s only human nature.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “it’s only human nature.”
Curiosity, she thought, was a highly component part in Mrs. Leaman’s human nature.
“So I will admit that next day, when Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had driven into Medchester and I was doing her bedroom as usual—a bedsitting room she had because she had to rest a lot. And I thinks, ‘Well, one ought really to know when you’ve signed a thing, what it is you’ve signed.’ I mean they always say with these hire purchase things, you should read the small print.”
“Or in this case, the handwriting,” suggested Mrs. Oliver.
“So I thought, well, there’s no harm—it’s not as though I was taking anything. I mean to say I’d had to sign my name there, and I thought I really ought to know what I’d signed. So I had a look along the bookshelves. They needed dusting anyway. And I found the one. It was on the bottom shelf. It was an old book, a sort of Queen Victoria’s kind of book. And I found this envelope with a folded paper in it and the title of the book said Enquire Within upon Everything. And it seemed then as though it was, sort of meant, if you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It was clearly meant. And so you took out the paper and looked at it.”
“That’s right, Madam. And whether I did wrong or not I don’t know. But anyway, there it was. It was a legal document all right. On the last page there was the writing what she’d made the morning before. New writing with a new scratchy pen she was using. It was clear enough to read, though, although she had a rather spiky handwriting.”
“And what did it say,” said Mrs. Oliver, her curiosity now having joined itself to that previously felt by Mrs. Leaman.
“Well, it said something like, as far as I remember—the exact words I’m not quite sure of—something about a codicil and that after the legacies mentioned in her Will, she bequeathed her entire fortune to Olga—I’m not sure of the surname, it began with an S. Seminoff, or something like that—in consideration of her great kindness and attention to her during her illness. And there it was written down and she’d signed it and I’d signed it, and Jim had signed it. So I put it back where it was because I shouldn’t like Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe to know that I’d been poking about in her things.
“But well, I said to myself, well, this is a surprise. And I thought, fancy that foreign girl getting all that money because we all know as Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe was very rich. Her husband had been in shipbuilding and he’d left her a big fortune, and I thought, well, some people have all the luck. Mind you, I wasn’t particularly fond of Miss Olga myself. She had a sharp way with her sometimes and she had quite a bad temper. But I will say as she was always very attentive and polite and all that, to the old lady. Looking out for herself, all right, she was, and she got away with it. And I thought, well, leaving all that money away from her own family. Then I thought, well, perhaps she’s had a tiff with them and likely as not that will blow over, so maybe she’ll tear this up and make another Will or codicil after all. But anyway, that was that, and I put it back and I forgot about it, I suppose.
“But when all the fuss came up about the Will, and there was talk of how it had been forged and Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe could never have written that codicil herself—for that’s what they were saying, mind you, as it wasn’t the old lady who had written that at all, it was somebody else—”
“I see,” said Mrs. Oliver. “And so, what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. And that’s what’s worrying me…I didn’t get the hang of things at once. And when I’d thought things over a bit I didn’t know rightly what I ought to do and I thought, well, it was all talk because the lawyers were against the foreigner, like people always are. I’m not very fond of foreigners myself, I’ll admit. At any rate, there it was, and the young lady herself was swanking about, giving herself airs, looking as pleased as Punch and I thought, well, maybe it’s all a legal thing of some kind and they’ll say she’s no right to the money because she wasn’t related to the old lady. So everything will be all right. And it was in a way because, you see, they gave up the idea of bringing the case. It didn’t come to court at all and as far as anyone knew, Miss Olga ran away. Went off back to the Continent somewhere, where she came from.
So it looks as though there must have been some hocus-pocus of some kind on her part. Maybe she threatened the old lady and made her do it. You never know, do you? One of my nephews who’s going to be a doctor, says you can do wonderful things with hypnotism. I thought perhaps she hypnotized the old lady.”
“This was how long ago?”
“Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s been dead for—let me see, nearly two years.”
“And it didn’t worry you?”
“No, it didn’t worry me. Not at the time. Because you see, I didn’t rightly see that it mattered. Everything was all right, there wasn’t any question of that Miss Olga getting away with the money, so I didn’t see as it was any call for me—”
“But now you feel differently?”
“It’s that nasty death—the child that was pushed into a bucket of apples. Saying things about a murder, saying she’d seen something or known something about a murder. And I thought maybe as Miss Olga had murdered the old lady because she knew all this money was coming to her and then she got the wind up when there was a fuss and lawyers and the police, maybe, and so she ran away. So then I thought well, perhaps I ought to—well, I ought to tell someone, and I thought you’d be a lady as has got friends in legal departments. Friends in the police perhaps, and you’d explain to them that I was only dusting a bookshelf, and this paper was there in a book and I put it back where it belonged. I didn’t take it away or anything.”
“But that’s what happened, was it, on that occasion? You saw Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe write a codicil to her Will. You saw her write her name and you yourself and this Jim someone were both there and you both wrote your own names yourselves. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“So if you both saw Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe write her name, then that signature couldn’t have been a forgery, could it? Not if you saw her write it herself.”
“I saw her write it herself and that’s the absolute truth I’m speaking. And Jim’d say so too only he’s gone to Australia, he has. Went over a year ago and I don’t know his address or anything. He didn’t come from these parts, anyway.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“Well, I want you to tell me if there’s anything I ought to say, or do—now. Nobody’s asked me, mind you. Nobody ever asked me if I knew anything about a Will.”
“Your name is Leaman. What Christian name?”
“Harriet.”
“Harriet Leaman. And Jim, what was his last name?”
“Well, now, what was it? Jenkins. That’s right. James Jenkins. I’d be much obliged if you could help me because it worries me, you see. All this trouble coming along and if that Miss Olga did it, murdered Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, I mean, and young Joyce saw her do it…She was ever so cock-a-hoop about it all, Miss Olga was, I mean about hearing from the lawyers as she’d come into a lot of money. But it was different when the police came round asking questions, and she went off very sudden, she did. Nobody asked me anything, they didn’t. But now I can’t help wondering if I ought to have said something at the time.”
“I think,” said Mrs. Oliver, “that you will probably have to tell this story of yours to whoever represented Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe as a lawyer. I’m sure a good lawyer will quite understand your feelings and your motive.”
“Well, I’m sure if you’d say a word for me and tell them, being a lady as knows what’s what, how it came about, and how I never meant to—well, not to do anything dishonest in any way. I mean, all I did—”
“All you did was to say nothing,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It seems quite a reasonable explanation.”
“And if it could come from you—saying a word for me first, you know, to explain, I’d be ever so grateful.”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Mrs. Oliver.
Her eyes strayed to the garden path where she saw a neat figure approaching.
“Well, thanks ever so much. They said as you were a very nice lady, and I’m sure I’m much obliged to you.”
She rose to her feet, replaced the cotton gloves which she had twisted entirely off in her anguish, made a kind of half nod or bob, and trotted off. Mrs. Oliver waited until Poirot approached.
“Come here,” she said, “and sit down. What’s the matter with you? You look upset.”
“My feet are extremely painful,” said Hercule Poirot.
“It’s those awful tight patent leather shoes of yours,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Sit down. Tell me what you came to tell me, and then I’ll tell you something that you may be surprised to hear!”
Eighteen
Poirot sat down, stretched out his legs and said: “Ah! that is better.”
“Take your shoes off,” said Mrs. Oliver, “and rest your feet.”
“No, no, I could not do that.” Poirot sounded shocked at the possibility.
“Well, we’re old friends together,” said Mrs. Oliver, “and Judith wouldn’t mind if she came out of the house. You know, if you’ll excuse me saying so, you oughtn’t to wear patent leather shoes in the country. Why don’t you get yourself a nice pair of suède shoes? Or the things all the hippy-looking boys wear nowadays? You know, the sort of shoes that slip on, and you never have to clean them—apparently they clean themselves by some extraordinary process or other. One of these laboursaving gimmicks.”
“I would not care for that at all,” said Poirot severely. “No, indeed!”
“The trouble with you is,” said Mrs. Oliver, beginning to unwrap a package on the table which she had obviously recently purchased, “the trouble with you is that you insist on being smart. You mind more about your clothes and your moustaches and how you look and what you wear than comfort. Now comfort is really the great thing. Once you’ve passed, say, fifty, comfort is the only thing that matters.”
“Madame, chère Madame, I do not know that I agree with you.”
“Well, you’d better,” said Mrs. Oliver. “If not, you will suffer a great deal, and it will be worse year after year.”
Mrs. Oliver fished a gaily covered box from its paper bag. Removing the lid of this, she picked up a small portion of its contents and transferred it to her mouth. She then licked her fingers, wiped them on a handkerchief, and murmured, rather indistinctly:
“Sticky.”
“Do you no longer eat apples? I have always seen you with a bag of apples in your hand, or eating them, or on occasions the bag breaks and they tumble out on the road.”
“I told you,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I told you that I never want to see an apple again. No. I hate apples. I suppose I shall get over it some day and eat them again, but—well, I don’t like the associations of apples.”
“And what is it that you eat now?” Poirot picked up the gaily coloured lid decorated with a picture of a palm tree. “Tunis dates,” he read. “Ah, dates now.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Dates.”
She took another date and put it in her mouth, removed a stone which she threw into a bush and continued to munch.
“Dates,” said Poirot. “It is extraordinary.”
“What is extraordinary about eating dates? People do.”
“No, no, I did not mean that. Not eating them. It is extraordinary that you should say to me like that—dates.”
“Why?” asked Mrs. Oliver.
“Because,” said Poirot, “again and again you indicate to me the path, the how do you say, the chemin that I should take or that I should have already taken. You show me the way that I should go. Dates. Till this moment I did not realize how important dates were.”
“I can’t see that dates have anything to do with what’s happened here. I mean, there’s no real time involved. The whole thing took place what—only five days ago.”
“The event took place four days ago. Yes, that is very true. But to everything that happens there has to be a past. A past which is by now incorporated in today, but which existed yesterday or last month or last year. The present is nearly always rooted in the past. A year, two ye
ars, perhaps even three years ago, a murder was committed. A child saw that murder. Because that child saw that murder on a certain date now long gone by, that child died four days ago. Is not that so?”
“Yes. That’s so. At least, I suppose it is. It mightn’t have been at all. It might be just some mentally disturbed nut who liked killing people and whose idea of playing with water is to push somebody’s head under it and hold it there. It might have been described as a mental delinquent’s bit of fun at a party.”
“It was not that belief that brought you to me, Madame.”
“No,” said Mrs. Oliver, “no, it wasn’t. I didn’t like the feel of things. I still don’t like the feel of things.”
“And I agree with you. I think you are quite right. If one does not like the feel of things, one must learn why. I am trying very hard, though you may not think so, to learn why.”
“By going around and talking to people, finding out if they are nice or not and then asking them questions?”
“Exactly.”
“And what have you learnt?”
“Facts,” said Poirot. “Facts which will have in due course to be anchored in their place by dates, shall we say.”
“Is that all? What else have you learnt?”
“That nobody believes in the veracity of Joyce Reynolds.”
“When she said she saw someone killed? But I heard her.”
“Yes, she said it. But nobody believes it is true. The probability is, therefore, that it was not true. That she saw no such thing.”
“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Oliver, “as though your facts were leading you backwards instead of remaining on the spot or going forward.”
“Things have to be made to accord. Take forgery, for instance. The fact of forgery. Everybody says that a foreign girl, the au pair girl, so endeared herself to an elderly and very rich widow that that rich widow left a Will, or a codicil to a Will, leaving all her money to this girl. Did the girl forge that Will or did somebody else forge it?”
“Who else could have forged it?”