Dumb Witness (9 page)

The word ascendency seemed to act like a red rag to a bull.

Dr. Grainger snorted out:

“Ascendency? Ascendency? Nothing of the kind! Emily Arundell treated Minnie Lawson worse than a dog. Characteristic of that generation! Anyway, women who earn their living as companions are usually fools. If they've got brains they're earning a better living some other way. Emily Arundell didn't suffer fools gladly. She usually wore out one poor devil a year. Ascendency? Nothing of the sort!”

Poirot hastened off the treacherous ground.

“It is possible, perhaps,” he suggested, “that there are old family letters and documents in this Miss—er—Lawson's possession?”

“Might be,” agreed Grainger. “Usually are a lot of things tucked away in an old maid's house. I don't suppose Miss Lawson's been through half of it yet.”

Poirot rose.

“Thank you very much, Dr. Grainger. You have been most kind.”

“Don't thank me,” said the doctor. “Sorry I can't do anything helpful. Miss Peabody's your best chance. Lives at Morton Manor—about a mile out.”

Poirot was sniffing at a large bouquet of roses on the doctor's table.

“Delicious,” he murmured.

“Yes, I suppose so. Can't smell 'em myself. Lost my sense of smell when I had flu four years ago. Nice admission for a doctor, eh? ‘Physician, heal thyself.' Damned nuisance. Can't enjoy a smoke as I used to.”

“Unfortunate, yes. By the way, you
will
give me young Arundell's address?”

“I can get it for you, yes.” He ushered us out into the hall and called: “Donaldson.”

“My partner,” he explained. “He should have it all right. He's by way of being engaged to Charles's sister, Theresa.”

He called again: “Donaldson.”

A young man came out from a room at the back of the house. He was of medium height and of rather colourless appearance. His manner was precise. A greater contrast to Dr. Grainger could not be imagined.

The latter explained what he wanted.

Dr. Donaldson's eyes, very pale blue eyes slightly prominent, swept over us appraisingly. When he spoke it was in a dry, precise manner.

“I don't know exactly where Charles is to be found,” he said. “I can give you Miss Theresa Arundell's address. Doubtless she will be able to put you in touch with her brother.”

Poirot assured him that that would do perfectly.

The doctor wrote down an address on a page of his notebook, tore it out and handed it to Poirot. Poirot thanked him and said good-bye to both doctors. As we went out of the door I was conscious of Dr. Donaldson standing in the hall peering after us with a slightly startled look on his face.

“I
s it really necessary to tell such elaborate lies, Poirot?” I asked as we walked away.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“If one is going to tell a lie at all—and I notice, by the way, that your nature is very much averse to lying—now, me, it does not trouble at all—”

“So I've noticed,” I interjected.

“—As I was remarking,
if
one is going to tell a lie at all, it might as well be an artistic lie, a romantic lie, a convincing lie!”

“Do you consider this a convincing lie? Do you think Dr. Donaldson was convinced?”

“That young man is of a sceptical nature,” admitted Poirot, thoughtfully.

“He looked definitely suspicious to me.”

“I do not see why he should be so. Imbeciles are writing the lives of other imbeciles every day. It is as you say, done.”

“First time I've heard you call yourself an imbecile,” I said, grinning.

“I can adopt a rôle, I hope, as well as anyone,” said Poirot coldly. “I am sorry you do not think my little fiction well imagined. I was rather pleased with it myself.”

I changed the subject.

“What do we do next?”

“That is easy. We get into your car and pay a visit to Morton Manor.”

Morton Manor proved to be an ugly substantial house of the Victorian period. A decrepit butler received us somewhat doubtfully and presently returned to ask if “we had an appointment.”

“Please tell Miss Peabody that we come from Dr. Grainger,” said Poirot.

After a wait of a few minutes the door opened and a short fat woman waddled into the room. Her sparse, white hair was neatly parted in the middle. She wore a black velvet dress, the nap of which was completely rubbed off in various places, and some really beautiful fine point lace was fastened at her neck with a large cameo brooch.

She came across the room peering at us shortsightedly. Her first words were somewhat of a surprise.

“Got anything to sell?”

“Nothing, madame,” said Poirot.

“Sure?”

“But absolutely.”

“No vacuum cleaners?”

“No.”

“No stockings?”

“No.”

“No rugs?”

“No.”

“Oh, well,” said Miss Peabody, settling herself in a chair. “I suppose it's all right. You'd better sit down then.”

We sat obediently.

“You'll excuse my asking,” said Miss Peabody with a trace of apology in her manner. “Got to be careful. You wouldn't believe the people who come along. Servants are no good. They can't tell. Can't blame 'em either. Right voices, right clothes, right names. How are they to tell? Commander Ridgeway, Mr. Scot Edgerton, Captain d'Arcy Fitzherbert. Nice-looking fellows, some of 'em. But before you know where you are they've shoved a cream-making machine under your nose.”

Poirot said earnestly:

“I assure you, madame, that we have nothing whatever of that kind.”

“Well, you should know,” said Miss Peabody.

Poirot plunged into his story. Miss Peabody heard him out without comment, blinking once or twice out of her small eyes. At the end she said:

“Goin' to write a book, eh?”

“Yes.”

“In English?”

“Certainly—in English.”

“But you're a foreigner. Eh? Come now, you're a foreigner, aren't you?”

“That is true.”

She transferred her gaze to me.

“You are his secretary, I suppose?”

“Er—yes,” I said doubtfully.

“Can you write decent English?”

“I hope so.”

“H'm—where did you go to school?”

“Eton.”

“Then you can't.”

I was forced to let this sweeping charge against an old and venerable centre of education pass unchallenged as Miss Peabody turned her attention once more to Poirot.

“Goin' to write a life of General Arundell, eh?”

“Yes. You knew him, I think.”

“Yes, I knew John Arundell. He drank.”

There was a momentary pause. Then Miss Peabody went on musingly:

“Indian Mutiny, eh? Seems a bit like flogging a dead horse to me. But that's your business.”

“You know, madame, there is a fashion in these things. At the moment India is the mode.”

“Something in that. Things do come round. Look at sleeves.”

We maintained a respectful silence.

“Leg o' muttons were always ugly,” said Miss Peabody. “But I always looked well in Bishops.” She fixed a bright eye on Poirot. “Now then, what do you want to know?”

Poirot spread out his hands.

“Anything! Family history. Gossip. Home life.”

“Can't tell you anything about India,” said Miss Peabody. “Truth is, I didn't listen. Rather boring these old men and their anecdotes. He was a very stupid man—but I daresay none the worse
General for that. I've always heard that intelligence didn't get you far in the army. Pay attention to your Colonel's wife and listen respectfully to your superior officers and you'll get on—that's what my father used to say.”

Treating this dictum respectfully, Poirot allowed a moment or two to elapse before he said:

“You knew the Arundell family intimately, did you not?”

“Knew 'em all,” said Miss Peabody. “Matilda, she was the eldest. A spotty girl. Used to teach in Sunday School. Was sweet on one of the curates. Then there was Emily. Good seat on a horse, she had. She was the only one who could do anything with her father when he had one of his bouts on. Cartloads of bottles used to be taken out of that house. Buried them at night, they did. Then, let me see, who came next, Arabella or Thomas? Thomas, I think. Always felt sorry for Thomas. One man and four women. Makes a man look a fool. He was a bit of an old woman himself, Thomas was. Nobody thought he'd ever marry. Bit of a shock when he did.”

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 be that kind of fool. If you ask me, she found spiritualism one degree better than playing patience or cribbage. Seen the Tripps?”