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 unworldly. 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 ge
nerous 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.”
“I wonder they didn’t give it to you at the house,” exclaimed Isabel. “It must be that Ellen! Servants are so jealous and so small-minded. They used to be quite rude to Minnie sometimes.”
Julia shook hands in a grande dame manner.
“We have enjoyed your visit,” she declared graciously. “I wonder—”
She flashed a glance of inquiry at her sister.
“You would, perhaps—” Isabel flushed a little. “Would you, that is to say, stay and share our evening meal? A very simple one—some shredded raw vegetables, brown bread and butter, fruit.”
“It sounds delicious,” Poirot said hastily. “But alas! my friend and I have to return to London.”
With renewed handshaking and messages to be delivered to Miss Lawson, we at last made our exit.
Twelve
POIROT DISCUSSES THE CASE
“Thank goodness, Poirot,” I said with fervour, “you got us out of those raw carrots! What awful women!”
“Pour nous, un bon bifteck—with the fried potatoes—and a good bottle of wine. What should we have had to drink there, I wonder?”
“Well, water, I should think,” I replied with a shudder. “Or nonalcoholic cider. It was that kind of place! I bet there’s no bath and no sanitation except an E.C. in the garden!”
“Strange how women enjoy living an uncomfortable life,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “It is not always poverty, though they are good at making the best of straitened circumstances.”
“What orders for the chauffeur now?” I asked, as I negotiated the last bend of the winding lanes, and we emerged on the road to Market Basing. “On what local light do we call next? Or do we return to the George and interrogate the asthmatic waiter once more?”
“You will be glad to hear, Hastings, that we have finished with Market Basing—”
“Splendid.”
“For the moment only. I shall return!”
“Still on the track of your unsuccessful murderer?”
“Exactly.”
“Did you learn anything from the fandango of nonsense we’ve just been listening to?”
Poirot said precisely:
“There were certain points deserving of attention. The various characters in our drama begin to emerge more clearly. In some ways it resembles, does it not, a novelette of older days? The humble companion, once despised, is raised to affluence and now plays the part of lady bountiful.”
“I should imagine that such a patronage must be very galling to people who regard themselves as the rightful heirs!”
“As you say, Hastings. Yes, that is very true.”
We drove on in silence for some minutes. We had passed through Market Basing and were now once more on the main road. I hummed to myself softly the tune of “Little Man, You’ve had a Busy Day.”
“Enjoyed yourself, Poirot?” I asked at last.
Poirot said coldly:
“I do not know quite what you mean by ‘enjoyed myself,’ Hastings.”
“Well,” I said, “it seemed to me you’ve been treating yourself to a busman’s holiday!”
“You do not think that I am serious?”
“Oh, you’re serious enough. But this business seems to be of the academic kind. You’re tackling it for your own mental satisfaction. What I mean is—it’s not real.”
“Au contraire, it is intensely real.”
“I express myself badly. What I mean is, if there were a question of helping our old lady, or protecting her against further attack—well, there would be some excitement then. But as it is, I can’t help feeling that as she is dead, why worry?”
“In that case, mon ami, one would not investigate a murder case at all!”
“No, no, no. That’s quite different. I mean, then you have a body… Oh, dash it all!”
“Do not enrage yourself. I comprehend perfectly. You make a distinction between a body and a mere decease. Supposing, for instance, that Miss Arundell had died with sudden and alarming violence instead of respectably of a long-standing illness—then you would not remain indifferent to my efforts to discover the truth?”
“Of course I wouldn’t.”
“But all the same, someone did attempt to murder her?”
“Yes, but they didn’t succeed. That makes all the difference.”
“It does not intrigue you at all to know who attempted to kill her?”
“Well, yes, it does in a way.”
“We have a very restricted circle,” said Poirot musingly. “That thread—”
“The thread which you merely deduce from a nail in the skirting board!” I interrupted. “Why, that nail may have been there for years!”
“No. The varnish was quite fresh.”
“Well, I still think there might be all sorts of explanations of it.”
“Give me one.”
At the moment I could not think of anything sufficiently plausible. Poirot took advantage of my silence to sweep on with his discourse.
“Yes, a restricted circle. That thread could only have been stretched across the top of the stairs after everyone had gone to bed. Therefore we have only the occupants of the house to consider. That is to say, the guilt lies between seven people. Dr. Tanios. Mrs. Tanios. Theresa Arundell. Charles Arundell. Miss Lawson. Ellen. Cook.”
“Surely you can leave the servants out of it.”
“They received legacies, mon cher. And there might have been other reasons—spite—a quarrel—dishonesty—one cannot be certain.”
“It seems to me very unlikely.”
“Unlikely, I agree. But one must take all possibilities into consideration.”
“In that case, you must allow for eight people, not seven.”
“How so?”
I felt I was about to score a point.
“You must include Miss Arundell herself. How do you know she may not have stretched that thread across the stairs in order to trip up some other members of the house party?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“It is a bêtise you say there, my friend. If Miss Arundell laid a trap, she would be careful not to fall into it herself. It was she who fell down the stairs, remember.”
I retired crestfallen.
Poirot went on in a thoughtful voice:
“The sequence of events is quite clear—the fall—the letter to me—the visit of the lawyer—but there is one doubtful point. Did Miss Arundell deliberately hold back the letter to me, hesitating to post it? Or did she, once having written it, assume it was posted?”
“That we can’t possibly tell,” I said. “No. We can only guess. Personally, I fancy that she assumed it had been posted. She must have been surprised at getting no reply….”
My thoughts had been busy in another direction.
“Do you think this spiritualistic nonsense counted at all?” I asked. “I mean, do you think, in spite of Miss Peabody’s ridiculing of the suggestion, that a command was given at one of these séances that she should alter her will and leave her money to the Lawson woman?”
Poirot shook his head doubtfully.
“That does not seem to fit in with the general impression I have formed of Miss Arundell’s character.”
“The Tripp women say that Miss Lawson was completely taken aback when the will was read,” I said thoughtfully.
“That is what she told them, yes,” agreed Poirot.
“But you don’t believe it?”
“Mon ami—you know my suspicious nature! I believe nothing that anyone says unless it can be confirmed or corroborated.”
“That’s right, old boy,” I said affectionately. “A thoroughly nice, trustful nature.”
“‘He says,’ ‘she says,’ ‘they say’—Bah! what does that mean? Nothing at all. It may be absolute truth. It may be useful falsehood. Me, I deal only with facts.”
“And the facts are?”
“Miss Arundell had a fall. That, nobody disputes. The fall was not a natural one—it was contrived.”
“The evidence for that being that Hercule Poirot says so!”
“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.”