Poirot nodded and seemed to lose interest. He glanced slowly round the study.

“I have seen, I think, all that there is to be seen here.”

I, too, looked round. “If those walls could speak,” I murmured.

Poirot shook his head. “A tongue is not enough,” he said. “They would have to have also eyes and ears. But do not be too sure that these dead things”⁠—he touched the top of the bookcase as he spoke⁠—“are always dumb. To me they speak sometimes⁠—chairs, tables⁠—they have their message!”

He turned away towards the door.

“What message?” I cried. “What have they said to you today?”