Chapter 6 Chapter 5 Hercule Poirot Receives a Letter

It is true that what I have described above was learned only after a long time.I think I have described it precisely enough, for I have questioned every member of the Arundel family in detail. Poirot and I became involved in the case only after receiving Miss Arundell's letter. I remember this day very clearly.It was a hot, windless morning in late June. Poirot had a peculiar habit every morning when he opened the incoming letters.He picked up each letter, carefully observed it first, and then neatly cut the envelope with a paper knife.Then read the contents of the letter word by word, and put the letter in one of the four stacks of files that is farther away from the chocolate. (Poirot usually had chocolate for breakfast—an unnatural habit.) He did it every day, like a machine, with exacting precision!

So any slight shift in his pace of work will be noticed. I sat by the window and looked out into the street at the traffic.I had just arrived from Argentina and was re-immersed in the hustle and bustle of London, which made me very uneasy. I turned my head away, smiled and said: "Poirot, I - my humble Watson Hastings - deduce that..." "It is my pleasure, my friend, what is your inference?" I put on airs and said with exaggeration: "You received a very interesting letter this morning!" "You are very Sherlock Holmes! You are quite right!" I laughed and said:

"You see, I know your method of work, Poirot. If you read a letter twice, it means that you have a special interest in it." "Hastings, judge for yourself!" My friend smiled and handed me the letter. I took the letter with interest, but immediately grimaced.The letter was written in an ancient elongated script, scratched and scratched across two pages of letter paper. "Poirot, must I read this letter?" I said complainingly. "Well, no, not forced. It's really not necessary for you to read." "Can't you tell me what's going on?"

"I'd like to let you draw your own conclusions. But if it bothers you, you needn't bother." "No, I want to know what's going on," I said defensively. My friend replied coldly: "It's hard for you to know what's going on. Actually, the letter doesn't say anything." I think he is a bit exaggerated, so I don't waste any more words.Just concentrate on reading this letter by yourself. Mister Hercule Poirot. Dear Sir: After much deliberation, I write (the word "write" is crossed out, and the letter continues,) I take the liberty of writing to you, asking you to help me in a matter of a purely personal nature one time. (She underlines "Purely Personal" three times) I can say that your name is not unfamiliar to me.A Miss Fox mentioned you to me.Although Miss Fox did not know you directly, she said that her brother-in-law's sister--I regret not recalling her name--had said (these words are underlined) in highly appraised terms: You Treat people with kindness and strong discrimination ability.Let it go, I didn't ask you about the nature of the investigation on her behalf (the word "nature" is underlined again), but I understand from Miss Fox that this is a matter of a painful nature and not public . (Four black lines are heavily drawn under these words)

Spelling these spider-silk scripts is a rather difficult task.I paused for a while. "Poirot," I said, "shall I read on? Has she got to the point?" "Read on! Be patient, my friend." "Patience!" I complained. "The writing on the letter is like a spider falling into an inkwell and crawling over the paper when it comes out! I remember my great-aunt Mary used to write exactly like that! " I continued to read this bible. Given the predicament I am in, I thought you might be able to make the necessary investigations on my behalf.You will understand that great care is required in this matter.As a matter of fact, I—I need not say much, how sincerely I hoped and prayed—("Prayer" is underlined twice) That was the case—perhaps really totally misunderstood.People sometimes take things that are easily explained too seriously.

"Did I miss a piece of paper?" I muttered in bewilderment. "No, not lost." "Why can't I see what the letter means. What is she going to talk about?" "Please read on." Here's the thing, you'll get to the bottom of it shortly. —(No, I don't understand at all. Oh! Please read below.) In the present case, I am sure that only you can make a correct assessment, and it is impossible for me to ask anyone in the town of Market Basing. other people. (I glanced back at the address written on the letterhead, Market Basing Township, Little Green House, Bex.) But at the same time, you will naturally understand that I feel uneasy (under the word "uneasy") Another line is drawn).For the past few days, I've been blaming myself for not needing to meditate ("meditate" is underlined three times), but I've grown increasingly uneasy.Maybe I overestimated a trivial matter (“trivial matter” was underlined twice), but the uneasiness was still there.I really feel that resolving this matter will give me peace of mind.In fact, this incident is hurting my soul and affecting my health.Naturally, I'm in a difficult position because I can't mention this to anyone. (“Don’t mention this to anyone” is heavily underlined).Of course, with a little bit of your wisdom, you'll be fine, that thing doesn't exist, it's just my illusion.Facts might give an interpretation of complete innocence (the word "innocent" is underlined again).Although the matter may not seem like a big deal, since the dog's ball incident, my doubts have grown and I have become more and more alarmed.So I welcome your views and an exchange of views on this matter.This, I am sure, would greatly lighten the burden upon my mind.Maybe you can tell me how much it will cost and what do you suggest I should do about it now?

I must remind you again that no one here knows this.I know that the facts I have stated are trivial and unimportant.But my health is not good, and my nerves (three lines under "nerves") are not what they used to be.I knew that it was not good for me to have such anxieties in my mind, and the more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that I was right and could not be biased.Of course, I never want to tell anyone (underlined) about this ("this" is underlined). Hope to hear your advice soon Shun Zhi respect Emily Arundell I flipped through the letter, examining every page carefully.

"But, Poirot," I said complainingly, "what is the matter with this letter?" My friend shrugged and said: "What are you talking about?" Impatient, I patted the letter paper lightly. "What a strange woman! Why is Mrs. Arundell...perhaps a lady..." "I think she's a lady. It's a typical spinster's letter." "Yes," I said, "what a fussy spinster. Why doesn't she say what she has to say?" Poirot sighed and said: "As you say--it's a pity that her thinking has lost its logic and has become disorganized, Hastings..."

"Indeed," I went on hastily, "she's lost her mind." "My friend, I don't want to say that." "I'm going to say that! What's the point of writing such a letter?" "It doesn't make sense—it's a fact," admitted Poirot. "A long letter with no content," I went on, "whether her favorite fat little dog is sick--a little pug with asthma, or a Chinese dog!" I looked at my friend curiously, and said: "You have read this letter twice. Poirot, I do not understand you." Poirot smiled and said: "Hastings, are you going to throw this letter in the waste-basket?"

"I guess that's what I'm going to do." I frowned at the letter. "Perhaps I'm as obstinate as ever, but I don't see how interesting this letter is!" "Yet there's something interesting about the letter—and that's what attracted me from the very beginning." "Wait a minute!" I called out, "Don't tell me, let's see if I can find out myself!" Maybe I'm being too naive.I read the letter carefully again, and then I shook my head. "No, I don't see it. The old woman is frightened. I realize that--but there are a lot of frightened old women! Maybe it's the old lady's mischief--maybe it has something to do with it, but I don't think you can tell. Unless your instinct..."

Poirot raised his hand and said, somewhat angrily: "Instinct! You know how much I don't like that word. 'Determined from the sky' - that's what you deduce, I've never done that in my life! I'm Bororo, with reason. I use my brain cells, I find an interesting point in this letter which you have entirely missed, Hastings." "Oh, well!" I said listlessly, "I'd love to be taught." "Are you taught? What are you taught?" "An expression of mine, which means: I let you tell me in your own pride, in what respects I am a fool." "Hastings, you're not stupid, you're just not good at observing." "Okay, let's not talk about that. What's the point of interest? I presume the point of 'puppy incident at night' is the point of interest!" Poirot ignored my quip.He said to me calmly and calmly: "The interesting point is the date of the letter." "date?" I picked up the letter and read it.The date was written on the letter paper, April 17th. "Yes," I said slowly, "strange, how could it be the seventeenth of April?" "Today is the twenty-eighth of June. It's strange, isn't it? It was two months ago." I shook my head doubtfully and said: "Perhaps it doesn't mean anything more. It's just a mistake! She meant to write June, but it says April." "Even as you say, the letter is ten or eleven days late--that's odd. But you're wrong. Judging by the color of the ink, the letter was written ten or eleven days earlier. Much earlier. The letter was written on the seventeenth of April, to be sure. Why was it not sent?" I shrugged and said: "It's very simple. This troubled old woman can change her mind." "Then why didn't she destroy the letter? Why kept it for two months and mailed it now?" I have to admit that this problem is difficult to solve.In fact, I really can't think of a satisfactory answer.I just shook my head and kept silent. Poirot nodded and said: "You see—that's the crux of the matter. It's the ever-deterministic unexplored mystery." He went to the desk and picked up the pen. "Are you going to write back?" I asked. "Yes, my friend." Except for the rustle of Poirot's pen, the room was silent.It was a hot, windless morning.The smell of road dust and asphalt wafted in through the windows. Poirot rose from the desk with the completed letter in his hand.He opened a drawer, took out a small square box, and took out a stamp from the small square box.He moistened the glued stamp with a small damp sponge and was about to stick the stamp on the envelope. Suddenly, he stopped, still holding the stamp in his hand, shaking his head vigorously. "No!" he cried, "I did this wrong." He tore the letter upside down and threw it in the wastebasket. "We can't go out like this! My friend, we have to go!" "Do you mean to go to Market Basing?" "Exactly. Why not? Isn't the heat in London dreary today? Isn't the country air more sober?" "Hmm! According to you," I said, "shall we go by car?" Because I've bought an old Austin car. "Excellent. It's a lovely day for a drive. No need for a scarf. But a spring coat and a silk tie..." "Dear partner, you are not going to the North Pole!" I said in a protesting tone. "But you have to be careful not to catch a cold," said Poirot solemnly. "Can you catch a cold in weather like this?" In spite of my protests Poirot put on a tawny overcoat and a silk handkerchief around his neck.He carefully blotted the wet back of the stamp on absorbent paper, and we both left the room.