Dumb Witness (10 page)

“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.

“A
nd 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.

Both ladies looked at Poirot in rapt and delighted surprise.

“It never lies,” said Miss Julia softly.

“Are you interested at all in the occult, Mr. Parrot?”

“I have little experience, mademoiselle, but—like anyone who has travelled much in the East, I am bound to admit that there is much one does not understand and that cannot be explained by natural means.”

“So true,” said Julia. “Profoundly true.”

“The East,” murmured Isabel. “The home of mysticism and the occult.”

Poirot's travellings in the East, as far as I knew, consisted of one journey to Syria extended to Iraq, and which occupied perhaps a few weeks. To judge by his present conversation one would swear
that he had spent most of his life in jungles and bazaars and in intimate converse with fakirs, dervishes, and mahatmas.

As far as I could make out the Misses Tripp were vegetarians, theosophists, British Israelites, Christian Scientists, spiritualists and enthusiastic amateur photographers.

“One sometimes feels,” said Julia with a sigh, “that Market Basing is an impossible place to live. There is no beauty here—no
soul.
One must have soul, don't you think so, Captain Hawkins?”

“Quite,” I said slightly embarrassed. “Oh, quite.”

“
Where there is no vision the people perish,
” quoted Isabel with a sigh. “I have often tried to discuss things with the vicar, but find him painfully
narrow.
Don't you think, Mr. Parrot, that any definite creed is bound to be
narrowing?
”

“And everything is so simple, really,” put in her sister. “As we know so well, everything is joy and love!”

“As you say, as you say,” said Poirot. “What a pity it seems that misunderstandings and quarrels should arise—especially over money.”

“Money is too sordid,” sighed Julia.

“I gather that the late Miss Arundell was one of your converts?” said Poirot.

The two sisters looked at each other.

“I wonder,” said Isabel.

“We were never quite sure,” breathed Julia. “One minute she seemed to be convinced and then she would say something—so—so ribald.”

“Ah, but you remember that last manifestation,” said Julia. “That was really most remarkable.” She turned to Poirot. “It was the night dear Miss Arundell was taken ill. My sister and I went
round after dinner and we had a sitting—just the four of us. And you know we saw—we all three saw—
most
distinctly, a kind of
halo
round Miss Arundell's head.”

“Comment?”

“Yes. It was a kind of luminous haze.” She turned to her sister. “Isn't that how you would describe it, Isabel?”

“Yes. Yes, just that. A luminous haze gradually surrounding Miss Arundell's head—an aureole of faint light. It was a
sign
—we know that now—a sign that she was about to pass over to the other side.”

“Remarkable,” said Poirot in a suitably impressed voice. “It was dark in the room, yes?”

“Oh, yes, we always get better results in the dark, and it was quite a warm evening so we didn't even have the fire on.”

“A most interesting spirit spoke to us,” said Isabel. “Fatima, her name was. She told us she had passed over in the time of the Crusades. She gave us a most beautiful message.”

“She actually spoke to you?”

“No, not direct voice. She rapped it out. Love. Hope. Life. Beautiful words.”

“And Miss Arundell was actually taken ill at the seance?”

“It was just after. Some sandwiches and port wine were brought in, and dear Miss Arundell said she wouldn't have any as she wasn't feeling very well. That was the beginning of her illness. Mercifully, she did not have to endure much suffering.”

“She passed over four days later,” said Isabel. “And we have already had messages from her,” said Julia eagerly. “Saying that she is very happy and that everything is beautiful and that she hopes that there is love and peace among all her dear ones.”

Poirot coughed.

“That—er—is hardly the case, I fear?”

“The relations have behaved
disgracefully
to poor Minnie,” said Isabel. Her face flushed with indignation.

“Minnie is the most
unworldly
soul,” chimed in Julia.

“People have gone about saying the
unkindest
things—that she
schemed
for this money to be left her!”

“When really it was the
greatest
surprise to her—”

“She could hardly believe her
ears
when the lawyer read the will—”

“She told us so herself. ‘Julia,' she said to me. ‘My dear, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Just a few bequests to the servants and then Littlegreen House and the residue of my estate to Wilhelmina Lawson.' She was so flabbergasted she could hardly speak. And when she could she asked how much it would be—thinking perhaps it would be a few thousand pounds—and Mr. Purvis, after humming and hawing and talking about confusing things like gross and net personalities, said it would be in the neighbourhood of three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. Poor Minnie nearly fainted, she told us.”

“She had no
idea,
” the other sister reiterated. “She never thought of such a thing happening!”

“That is what she told you, yes?”

“Oh, yes, she repeated it several times. And that's what makes it so
wicked
of the Arundell family to go on as they have done—cold-shouldering her and treating her with suspicion. After all, this is a free country—”

“English people seem to labour under that misapprehension,” murmured Poirot.

“And I should hope
anyone
can leave their money exactly as they choose!
I
think Miss Arundell acted very
wisely.
Obviously she
mistrusted
her own relatives and I daresay she had her reasons.”

“Ah?” Poirot leant forward with interest. “Indeed?”

This flattering attention encouraged Isabel to proceed.

“Yes, indeed. Mr. Charles Arundell, her nephew, is a thoroughly bad lot. That's well known! I believe he's even wanted by the police in some foreign country. Not at all a desirable character. As for his sister, well, I've not actually
spoken
to her, but she's a very queer-looking girl. Ultra modern, of course, and terribly made-up. Really, the sight of her mouth made me quite
ill.
It looked like
blood.
And I rather suspect she takes drugs—her manner was so
odd
sometimes. She's by way of being engaged to that nice young Dr. Donaldson, but I fancy even
he
looked disgusted sometimes. Of course, she is attractive in her way, but I hope that he will come to his senses in time and marry some nice English girl who is fond of country life and outdoor pursuits.”

“And the other relations?”

“Well, there you are again. Very undesirable. Not that I've anything to say against Mrs. Tanios—she's quite a nice woman—but absolutely stupid and completely under her husband's thumb. Of course, he's really a Turk, I believe—rather dreadful for an English girl to marry a
Turk,
I think, don't you? It shows a certain lack of
fastidiousness.
Of course, Mrs. Tanios is a very good mother, though the children are singularly unattractive, poor little things.”

“So altogether you think Miss Lawson was a more worthy recipient of Miss Arundell's fortune?”

Julia said serenely:

“Minnie Lawson is a thoroughly
good
woman. And so
un
worldly.
It isn't as though she had ever
thought
about money. She was
never
grasping.”

“Still, she has never thought of refusing to accept the legacy?”

Isabel drew back a little.

“Oh, well—one would hardly do
that.
”

Poirot smiled.

“No, perhaps not….”

“You see, Mr. Parrot,” put in Julia. “She regards it as a
trust
—a sacred
trust.
”

“And she is quite willing to do something for Mrs. Tanios or for the Tanios children,” went on Isabel. “Only she doesn't want
him
to get hold of it.”

“She even said she would consider making Theresa an allowance.”

“And that, I think, was very generous of her—considering the offhand way that girl has always treated her.”

“Indeed, Mr. Parrot, Minnie is the most
generous
of creatures. But there now, you know her, of course!”

“Yes,” said Poirot. “I know her. But I still do not know—her address.”

“Of course! How stupid of me! Shall I write it down for you?”

“I can write it down.”

Poirot produced the invariable notebook.

“17, Clanroyden Mansions, W.2. Not very far from Whiteleys. You'll give her our love, won't you? We haven't heard from her just lately.”

Poirot rose and I followed suit.

“I have to thank you both very much,” he declared, “for a most
charming talk as well as for your kindness in supplying me with my friend's address.”