“Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question as much as you please.”
“Very well.” He rang the bell.
Dorcas answered it in due course.
“Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to me here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dorcas withdrew.
We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly at his ease, and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase.
The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimed the approach of Manning. John looked questioningly at Poirot. The latter nodded.
“Come inside, Manning,” said John, “I want to speak to you.”
Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window, and stood as near it as he could. He held his cap in his hands, twisting it very carefully round and round. His back was much bent, though he was probably not as old as he looked, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow and rather cautious speech.
“Manning,” said John, “this gentleman will put some questions to you which I want you to answer.”
“Yessir,” mumbled Manning.
Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning’s eye swept over him with a faint contempt.
“You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of the house yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?”
“Yes, sir, me and Willum.”
“And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she not?”
“Yes, sir, she did.”
“Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that.”
“Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to go on his bicycle down to the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like—I don’t know what exactly—she wrote it down for him.”
“Well?”
“Well, he did, sir.”
“And what happened next?”
“We went on with the begonias, sir.”
“Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?”
“Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called.”
“And then?”
“She made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a long paper—under where she’d signed.”
“Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?” asked Poirot sharply.
“No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part.”
“And you signed where she told you?”
“Yes, sir, first me and then Willum.”
“What did she do with it afterwards?”
“Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it inside a sort of purple box that was standing on the desk.”
“What time was it when she first called you?”
“About four, I should say, sir.”
“Not earlier? Couldn’t it have been about half-past three?”
“No, I shouldn’t say so, sir. It would be more likely to be a bit after four—not before it.”
“Thank you, Manning, that will do,” said Poirot pleasantly.
The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the window.
We all looked at each other.
