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 any one 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?'
'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 a 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 general practitioner'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?'
