Free Dumb Witness by Agatha Christie

as companions, they are not usually very interesting - very amusing, eh?”
    “No, indeed, sir. They're poor-spirited creatures, most of them. Downright foolish, now and then. Miss Arundell soon got through with them, so to speak. And then she'd make a change and have some one else.”
    “She must have been unusually attached to Miss Lawson, though.”
    “Oh, I don't think so, sir.”
    “Miss Lawson was not in any way a remarkable woman?”
    “I shouldn't have said so, sir. Quite an ordinary person.”
    “You liked her, yes?”
    The woman shrugged her shoulders slightly.
    “There wasn't anything to like or dislike. Fussy she was - a regular old maid and full of this nonsense about spirits.”
    “Spirits?” Poirot looked alert.
    “Yes, sir, spirits. Sitting in the dark round a table and dead people came back and spoke to you. Downright irreligious I call it - as if we didn't know departed souls had their rightful place and aren't likely to leave it.”
    “So Miss Lawson was a spiritualist! Was Miss Arundell a believer too?”
    “Miss Lawson would have liked her to be!” snapped the other. There was a spice of satisfied malice in her tone.
    “But she wasn't?” Poirot persisted.
    “The mistress had too much sense.” She snorted. “Mind you, I don't say it didn't amuse her. 'I'm willing to be convinced,' she'd say. But she'd often look at Miss Lawson as much as to say, 'My poor dear, what a fool you are to be so taken in!'”
    “I comprehend. She did not believe in it, but it was a source of amusement to her.”
    “That's right, sir. I sometimes wondered if she didn't - well, have a bit of quiet fun, so to speak, pushing the table and that sort of thing. And the others all as serious as death.”
    “The others?”
    “Miss Lawson and the two Miss Tripps.”
    “Miss Lawson was a very convinced spiritualist?”
    “Took it all for gospel, sir.”
    “And Miss Arundell was very attached to Miss Lawson, of course.”
    It was the second time Poirot had made this certain remark and he got the same response.
    “Well, hardly that, sir.”
    “But surely,” said Poirot, “if she left her everything - She did, did she not?”
    The change was immediate. The human being vanished. The correct maid-servant returned. The woman drew herself up and said in a colourless voice that held reproof for familiarity in it:
    “The way the mistress left her money is hardly my business, sir.”
    I felt that Poirot had bungled the job. Having got the woman in a friendly mood, he was now proceeding to throw away his advantage.
    He was wise enough to make no immediate attempt to recover lost ground. After a commonplace remark about the size and number of the bedrooms he went towards the head of the stairs.
    Bob had disappeared, but as I came to the stair-head, I stumbled and nearly fell. Catching at the banister to steady myself I looked down and saw that I had inadvertently placed my foot on Bob's ball which he had left lying on the top of the stairs.
    The woman apologized quickly.
    “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 some one 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 stopped to recover something he had dropped.
    “Pardon - my fountain pen - ah, yes, there it is.” He stood up again.
    “He is careless, this