know.'
'I beg your pardon. I am, perhaps, being indiscreet.'
'No, no. After all, the information's public property.'
'She left her money away from her family, I understand?'
'Yes, left it all to a frightened, fluttering hen of a companion. Odd thing to do. Can't understand it myself. Not like her.'
'Ah, well,' said Poirot thoughtfully. 'One can imagine such a thing happening. An old lady, frail and in ill- health. Very dependent on the person who attends and cares for her. A clever woman with a certain amount of personality could gain a great ascendency that way.'
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 there 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 in 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.
Chapter 10
VISIT TO MISS PEABODY
'Is 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 me 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 role, I hope, as well as any one,' 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 short-sightedly. 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 Scott 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:
