She chuckled—a rich Victorian fruity chuckle.
It was clear that Miss Peabody was enjoying herself. As an audience we were almost forgotten. Miss Peabody was well away in the past.
“Then came Arabella. Plain girl. Face like a scone. She married all right though, even if she were the plainest of the family. Professor at Cambridge. Quite an old man. Must have been sixty if he was a day. He gave a series of lectures here—on the wonders of Modern Chemistry I think it was. I went to ’em. He mumbled, I remember. Had a beard. Couldn’t hear much of what he said. Arabella used to stay behind and ask questions. She wasn’t a chicken herself. Must have been getting on for forty. Ah well, they’re both dead now. Quite a happy marriage it was. There’s something to be said for marrying a plain woman—you know the worst at once and she’s not so likely to be flighty. Then there was Agnes. She was the youngest—the pretty one. Rather gay we used to think her. Almost fast! Odd, you’d think if any of them had married it would have been Agnes, but she didn’t. She died not long after the war.”
Poirot murmured:
“You said that Mr. Thomas’s marriage was rather unexpected.”
Again Miss Peabody produced that rich, throaty chuckle.
“Unexpected? I should say it was! Made a nine days’ scandal. You’d never have thought it of him—such a quiet, timid, retiring man and devoted to his sisters.”
She paused a minute.
“Remember a case that made rather a stir in the late nineties? Mrs. Varley? Supposed to have poisoned her husband with arsenic. Good-looking woman. Made a big do, that case. She was acquitted. Well, Thomas Arundell quite lost his head. Used to get all the papers and read about the case and cut out the photographs of Mrs. Varley. And would you believe it, when the trial was over, off he went to London and asked her to marry him? Thomas! Quiet, stay at home Thomas! Never can tell with men, can you? They’re always liable to break out.”
“And what happened?”
“Oh, she married him all right.”
“It was a great shock to his sisters?”
“I should think so! They wouldn’t receive her. I don’t know that I blame them, all things considered. Thomas was mortally offended. He went off to live in the Channel Islands and nobody heard anymore of him. Don’t know whether his wife poisoned her first husband. She didn’t poison Thomas. He survived her by three years. There were two children, boy and girl. Good-looking pair—took after their mother.”
“I suppose they came here to their aunt a good deal?”
“Not till after their parents died. They were at school and almost grown up by then. They used to come for holidays. Emily was alone in the world then and they and Bella Biggs were the only kith and kin she had.”
“Biggs?”
“Arabella’s daughter. Dull girl—some years older than Theresa. Made a fool of herself though. Married some Dago who was over at the University. A Greek doctor. Dreadful-looking man—got rather a charming manner, though, I must admit. Well, I don’t suppose poor Bella had many chances. Spent her time helping her father or holding wool for her mother. This fellow was exotic. It appealed to her.”
“Has it been a happy marriage?”
Miss Peabody snapped out:
“I wouldn’t like to say for certain about any marriage! They seem quite happy. Two rather yellow-looking children. They live in Smyrna.”
“But they are now in England, are they not?”
“Yes, they came over in March. I rather fancy they’ll be going back soon.”
“Was Miss Emily Arundell fond of her niece?”
“Fond of Bella? Oh, quite. She’s a dull woman—wrapped up in her children and that sort of thing.”
“Did she approve of the husband?”
Miss Peabody chuckled.
“She didn’t approve of him, but I think she rather liked the rascal. He’s got brains, you know. If you ask me, he was jockeying her along very nicely. Got a nose for money that man.”
Poirot coughed.
“I understand Miss Arundell died a rich woman?” he murmured.
Miss Peabody settled herself more comfortably in her chair.
“Yes, that’s what made all the pother! Nobody dreamed she was quite as well off as she was. How it came about was this way. Old General Arundell left quite a nice little income—divided equally among his son and daughters. Some of it was reinvested, and I think every investment has done well. There were some original shares of Mortauld. Now, of course, Thomas and Arabella took their shares with them when they married. The other three sisters lived here, and they didn’t spend a tenth part of their joint income, it all went back and was reinvested. When Matilda died, she left her money to be divided between Emily and Agnes, and when Agnes died she left hers to Emily. And Emily still went on spending very little. Result, she died a rich woman—and the Lawson woman gets it all!”
Miss Peabody brought out the last sentence as a kind of triumphal climax.
“Did that come as a surprise to you, Miss Peabody?”
“To tell you the truth, it did! Emily had always given out quite openly that at her death her money was to be divided between her nieces and her nephew. And as a matter of fact that was the way it was in the original will. Legacies to the servants and so on and then to be divided between Theresa, Charles and Bella. My goodness, there was a to-do when, after her death, it was found she’d made a new will leaving it all to poor Miss Lawson!”
“Was the will made just before her death?”
Miss Peabody directed a sharp glance at him.
“Thinking of undue influence. No, I’m afraid that’s no use. And I shouldn’t think poor Lawson had the brains or the nerve to attempt anything of the sort. To tell you the truth, she seemed as much surprised as anybody—or said she was!”
Poirot smiled at the addition.
“The will was made about ten days before her death,” went on Miss Peabody. “Lawyer says it’s all right. Well—it may be.”
“You mean—” Poirot leaned forward.
“Hanky-panky, that’s what I say,” said Miss Peabody. “Something fishy somewhere.”
“Just what exactly is your idea?”
“Haven’t got one! How should I know where the hanky-panky comes in? I’m not a lawyer. But there’s something queer about it, mark my words.”
Poirot said, slowly:
“Has there been any question of contesting the will?”
“Theresa’s taken counsel’s opinion, I believe. A lot of good that’ll do her! What’s a lawyer’s opinion nine times out of ten? ‘Don’t!’ Five lawyers advised me once against bringing an action. What did I do? Paid no attention. Won my case too. They had me in the witness box and a clever young whippersnapper from London tried to make me contradict myself. But he didn’t manage it. ‘You can hardly identify these furs positively, Miss Peabody,’ he said. ‘There is no furrier’s mark on them.’
“‘That may be,’ I said. ‘But there’s a darn on the lining and if anyone can do a darn like that nowadays I’ll eat my umbrella.’ Collapsed utterly, he did.”
Miss Peabody chuckled heartily.
“I suppose,” said Poirot cautiously, “that—er—feeling—runs rather high between Miss Lawson and members of Miss Arundell’s family?”
“What do you expect? You know what human nature is. Always trouble after a death, anyway. A man or woman is hardly cold in their coffin before most of the mourners are scratching each other’s eyes out.”
Poirot sighed.
“Too true.”
“That’s human nature,” said Miss Peabody tolerantly.
Poirot changed to another subject.
“Is it true that Miss Arundell dabbled in spiritualism?”
Miss Peabody’s penetrating eye observed him very acutely.
“If you think,” she said, “that the spirit of John Arundell came back and ordered Emily to leave her money to Minnie Lawson and that Emily obeyed, I can tell you that you’re very much mistaken. Emily wouldn’t b
e that kind of fool. If you ask me, she found spiritualism one degree better than playing patience or cribbage. Seen the Tripps?”
“No.”
“If you had, you’d realize just the sort of silliness it was. Irritating women. Always giving you messages from one or other of your relations—and always totally incongruous ones. They believe it all. So did Minnie Lawson. Oh, well, one way of passing your evenings is as good as another, I suppose.”
Poirot tried yet another tack.
“You know young Charles Arundell, I presume? What kind of person is he?”
“He’s no good. Charmin’ fellow. Always hard up—always in debt—always returning like a bad penny from all over the world. Knows how to get round women all right.” She chuckled. “I’ve seen too many like him to be taken in! Funny son for Thomas to have had, I must say. He was a staid old fogy if you like. Model of rectitude. Ah, well, bad blood somewhere. Mind you, I like the rascal—but he’s the kind who would murder his grandmother for a shilling or two quite cheerfully. No moral sense. Odd the way some people seem to be born without it.”
“And his sister?”
“Theresa?” Miss Peabody shook her head and said slowly: “I don’t know. She’s an exotic creature. Not usual. She’s engaged to that namby-pamby doctor down here. You’ve seen him, perhaps?”
“Dr. Donaldson.”
“Yes. Clever in his profession, they say. But he’s a poor stick in other ways. Not the sort of young man I’d fancy if I were a young girl. Well, Theresa should know her mind. She’s had her experiences, I’ll be bound.”
“Dr. Donaldson did not attend Miss Arundell?”
“He used to when Grainger was away on holiday.”
“But not in her last illness.”
“Don’t think so.”
Poirot said, smiling:
“I gather, Miss Peabody, that you don’t think much of him as a doctor?”
“Never said so. As a matter of fact you’re wrong. He’s sharp enough, and clever enough in his way—but it’s not my way. Take an instance. In the old days when a child ate too many green apples it had a bilious attack and the doctor called it a bilious attack and went home and sent you along a few pills from the surgery. Nowadays, you’re told the child suffers from pronounced acidosis, that its diet must be supervised and you get the same medicine, only it’s in nice little white tablets put up by manufacturing chemists and costs you about three times as much! Donaldson belongs to that school, and mind you, most young mothers prefer it. It sounds better. Not that that young man will be in this place long ministering to measles and bilious attacks. He’s got his eye on London. He’s ambitious. He means to specialize.”
“In any particular line?”
“Serum therapeutics. I think I’ve got it right. The idea being that you get one of these nasty hypodermic needles stuck into you no matter how well you feel, just in case you should catch something. I don’t hold with all these messy injections myself.”
“Is Dr. Donaldson experimenting with any particular disease?”
“Don’t ask me. All I know is a G.P.’s practice isn’t good enough for him. He wants to set up in London. But to do that he’s got to have money and he’s as poor as a church mouse, whatever a church mouse may be.”
Poirot murmured:
“Sad that real ability is so often baulked by lack of money. And yet there are people who do not spend a quarter of their incomes.”
“Emily Arundell didn’t,” said Miss Peabody. “It was quite a surprise to some people when that will was read. The amount, I mean, not the way it was left.”
“Was it a surprise, do you think, to the members of her own family?”
“That’s telling,” said Miss Peabody screwing up her eyes with a good deal of enjoyment. “I wouldn’t say yes, and I wouldn’t say no. One of ’em had a pretty shrewd idea.”
“Which one?”
“Master Charles. He’d done a bit of calculation on his own account. He’s no fool, Charles.”
“But a little bit of a rogue, eh?”
“At any rate, he isn’t a namby-pamby stick,” said Miss Peabody viciously.
She paused a minute and then asked:
“Going to get in touch with him?”
“That was my intention.” Poirot went on solemnly, “It seems to me possible that he might have certain family papers relating to his grandfather?”
“More likely to have made a bonfire of them. No respect for his elders, that young man.”
“One must try all avenues,” said Poirot sententiously.
“So it seems,” said Miss Peabody drily.
There was a momentary glint in her blue eye that seemed to affect Poirot disagreeably. He rose.
“I must not trespass any longer on your time, madame. I am most grateful for what you have been able to tell me.”
“I’ve done my best,” said Miss Peabody. “Seem to have got rather a long way from the Indian Mutiny, don’t we?”
She shook hands with us both.
“Let me know when the book comes out,” was her parting remark. “I shall be so interested.”
And the last thing we heard as we left the room was a rich, throaty chuckle.
Eleven
VISIT TO THE MISSES TRIPP
“And now,” said Poirot as we reentered the car. “What do we do next?”
Warned by experience I did not this time suggest a return to town. After all, if Poirot was enjoying himself in his own fashion why should I object?
I suggested some tea.
“Tea, Hastings? What an idea! Regard the time.”
“I have regarded it—looked at it, I mean. It’s half past five. Tea is clearly indicated.”
Poirot sighed.
“Always the afternoon tea with you English! No, mon ami, no tea for us. In a book of etiquette I read the other day that one must not make the afternoon call after six o’clock. To do so is to commit the solecism. We have, therefore, but half an hour in which to accomplish our purpose.”
“How social you are today, Poirot! On whom are we calling now?”
“Les demoiselles Tripp.”
“Are you writing a book on spiritualism now? Or is it still the life of General Arundell?”
“It will be simpler than that, my friend. But we must inquire where these ladies live.”
Directions were forthcoming readily enough, but of a somewhat confused nature involving as they did a series of lanes. The abode of the Misses Tripp turned out to be a picturesque cottage—so extremely old-world and picturesque that it looked as though it might collapse any minute.
A child of fourteen or thereabouts opened the door and with difficulty squeezed herself against the wall sufficiently to allow us to pass inside.
The interior was very rich in old oak beams—there was a big open fireplace and such very small windows that it was difficult to see clearly. All the furniture was of pseudo simplicity—ye olde oake for ye cottage dweller—there was a good deal of fruit in wooden bowls and large numbers of photographs—most of them, I noticed, of the same two people represented in different poses—usually with bunches of flowers clasped to their breasts or clutching large leghorn picture hats.
The child who had admitted us had murmured something and disappeared, but her voice was clearly audible in an upper story.
“Two gentlemen to see you, Miss.”
A sort of twitter of female voices arose and presently with a good deal of creaking and rustling a lady descended the staircase and came graciously towards us.
She was nearer fifty than forty, her hair was parted in the middle in Madonna fashion, her eyes were brown and slightly prominent. She wore a sprigged muslin dress that conveyed an odd suggestion of fancy dress.
Poirot stepped forward and started the conversation in his most flourishing manner.
“I must apologize for intruding upon you, mademoiselle, but I am in somewhat of a predicament. I came here to find a certain lady, but she has left Market Basing and I was told
that you would certainly have her address.”
“Really? Who was that?”
“Miss Lawson.”
“Oh, Minnie Lawson. Of course! We are the greatest friends. Do sit down, Mr.—er—?”
“Parotti—my friend, Captain Hastings.”
Miss Tripp acknowledged the introductions and began to fuss a little.
“Sit here, won’t you—no, please—really, I always prefer an upright chair myself. Now, are you sure you are comfortable there? Dear Minnie Lawson—oh, here is my sister.”
More creaking and rustling and we were joined by a second lady, dressed in green gingham that would have been suitable for a girl of sixteen.
“My sister Isabel—Mr.—er—Parrot—and—er—Captain Hawkins. Isabel dear, these gentlemen are friends of Minnie Lawson’s.”
Miss Isabel Tripp was less buxom than her sister. She might indeed have been described as scraggy. She had very fair hair done up into a large quantity of rather messy curls. She cultivated a girlish manner and was easily recognizable as the subject of most of the flower poses in the photography. She clasped her hands now in girlish excitement.
“How delightful! Dear Minnie! You have seen her lately?”
“Not for some years,” explained Poirot. “We have quite lost touch with each other. I have been travelling. That is why I was so astonished and delighted to hear of the good fortune that had befallen my old friend.”
“Yes, indeed. And so well deserved! Minnie is such a rare soul. So simple—so earnest.”
“Julia,” cried Isabel.
“Yes, Isabel?”
“How remarkable. P. You remember the planchette distinctly insisted on P. last night. A visitor from over the water and the initial P.”
“So it did,” agreed Julia.
Dumb Witness Page 9