'Not at all. There is the evidence of the nail. The evidence of Miss Arundell's letter to me. The evidence of the dog having been out that night. The evidence of Miss Arundell's words about the jar and the picture and Bob's ball. All these things are facts.'
'And the next fact, please?'
'The next fact is the answer to our usual question. Who benefits by Miss Arundell's death? Answer – Miss Lawson.'
'The wicked companion! On the other hand, the others thought they were going to benefit. And at the time of the accident they would have benefited.'
'Exactly, Hastings. That is why they all lie equally under suspicion. There is also the little fact that Miss Lawson took pains to prevent Miss Arundell learning that Bob had been out all night.'
'You call that suspicious?'
'Not at all. I merely note it. It may have been natural concern for the old lady's peace of mind. That is by far the most likely explanation.'
I looked at Poirot sideways. He is so confoundedly slippery.
'Miss Peabody expressed the opinion that there was 'hanky-panky' about the will,' I said. 'What do you suppose she meant by that?'
'It was, I think, her way of expressing various nebulous and unformulated suspicions.'
'Undue influence, it seems, can be washed out,' I said thoughtfully. 'And it certainly looks as though Emily Arundell was much too sensible to believe in any tomfoolery like spiritualism.'
'What makes you say that spiritualism is tomfoolery, Hastings?'
I stared at him in astonishment.
'My dear Poirot – those appalling women -'
He smiled.
'I quite agree with your estimate of the Misses Tripp. But the mere fact that the Misses Tripp have adopted with enthusiasm Christian Science, vegetarianism, theosophy and spiritualism does not really constitute a damning indictment of those subjects! Because a foolish woman will tell you a lot of nonsense about a fake scarab which she has bought from a rascally dealer, that does not necessarily bring discredit on the general subject of Egyptology!'
'Do you mean you believe in spiritualism, Poirot?'
'I have an open mind on the subject. I have never studied any of its manifestations myself, but it must be accepted that many men of science and learning have pronounced themselves satisfied that there are phenomena which cannot be accounted for by – shall we say the credulity of a Miss Tripp?'
'Then you believe in this rigmarole of an aureole of light surrounding Miss Arundell's head?'
Poirot waved a hand.
'I was speaking generally – rebuking your attitude of quite unreasoning scepticism. I may say that, having formed a certain opinion of Miss Tripp and her sister, I should examine very carefully any fact they presented for my notice. Foolish women, mon ami, are foolish women, whether they are talking about spiritualism or politics or the relation of the sexes or the tenets of the Buddhist faith.'
'Yet you listened to what they had to say very carefully.'
'That has been my task today – to listen. To hear what every one has got to tell me about these seven people – and mainly, of course, the five people primarily concerned. Already we know certain aspects of these people. Take Miss Lawson. From the Misses Tripp we learn she was devoted, unselfish, unworldly and altogether a beautiful character.
From Miss Peabody we learn that she was credulous, stupid, without the nerve or the brains to attempt anything criminal. From Dr Grainger we learn that she was downtrodden, that her position was precarious, and that she was a poor 'frightened, fluttering hen,' were, I think, the words he used. From our waiter we learned that Miss Lawson was 'a person,' and from Ellen that Bob, the dog, despised her! Every one, you see, saw her from a slightly different angle. That is the same with the others. Nobody's opinion of Charles Arundell's morals seems to have been high, but nevertheless they vary in their manner of speaking of him. Dr Grainger calls him indulgently 'an irreverent young devil.' Miss Peabody says he would murder his grandmother for twopence' but clearly prefers a rascal to a 'stick.' Miss Tripp hints not only that he would do a criminal action but that he has done one – or more. These sidelights are all very useful and interesting. They lead to the next thing.'
'Which is?'
'To see for ourselves, my friend.'
Chapter 13
THERESA ARUNDELL
On the following morning we made our way to the address given us by Dr Donaldson. I suggested to Poirot that a visit to the lawyer, Mr Purvis, might be a good thing, but Poirot negatived the idea strongly.
'No, indeed, my friend. What could we say – what reason could we advance for seeking information?'
'You're usually pretty ready with reasons, Poirot! Any old lie would do, wouldn't it?'
'On the contrary, my friend, 'any old lie,' as you put it, would not do. Not with a lawyer. We should be – how do you say it? – thrown out with the flea upon the ear.'
'Oh, well,' I said. 'Don't let us risk that!'
So, as I have said, we set out for the flat occupied by Theresa Arundell.
The flat in question was situated in a block at Chelsea overlooking the river. It was furnished expensively in the modern style, with gleaming chromium and thick rugs with geometric designs upon them.
We were kept waiting a few minutes and then a girl entered the room and looked at us inquiringly.
Theresa Arundell looked about twenty-eight or nine. She was tall and very slender, and she looked rather like an exaggerated drawing in black and white. Her hair was jet black – her face heavily made-up, dead pale. Her eyebrows, freakishly plucked, gave her an air of mocking irony. Her lips were the only spot of colour, a brilliant gash of scarlet in a white face. She also conveyed the impression – how I do not quite know, for her manner was almost wearily indifferent – of being at least twice as much alive as most people. There hung about her the restrained energy of a whiplash.
With an air of cool inquiry she looked from me to Poirot.
Wearied (I hoped) of deceit, Poirot had on this occasion sent in his own card. She was holding it now in her fingers, twirling it to and fro.
'I suppose,' she said, 'you're M. Poirot?'
Poirot bowed in his best manner.
'At your service, mademoiselle. You permit me to trespass for a few moments of your valuable time?'
With a faint imitation of Poirot's manner, she replied: 'Enchanted, M. Poirot. Pray sit down.'
Poirot sat, rather gingerly, on a low square easy-chair. I took an upright one of webbing and chromium. Theresa sat negligently on a low stool in front of the fireplace. She offered us both cigarettes. We refused and she lighted one herself.
'You know my name perhaps, mademoiselle?'
She nodded.
'Little friend of Scotland Yard. That's right, isn't it?'
Poirot, I think, did not much relish this description. He said with some importance:
'I concern myself with problems of crime, mademoiselle.'
'How frightfully thrilling,' said Theresa Arundell in a bored voice. 'And to think I've lost my autograph book!'
'The matter with which I concern myself is this,' continued Poirot. 'Yesterday I received a letter from your aunt.'
Her eyes – very long, almond-shaped eyes – opened a little. She puffed smoke in a cloud.
'From my aunt, M. Poirot?'
'That is what I said, mademoiselle.'
