Dumb Witness - Agatha Christie [31]
“Charles? Yes, I can put you onto him. But he’s an irreverent young devil. Family history means nothing to him.”
“He is quite young?”
“He’s what an old fogy like me calls young,” said the doctor with a twinkle. “Early thirties. The kind of young man that’s born to be a trouble and responsibility to their families. Charm of personality and nothing else. He’s been shipped about all over the world and done no good anywhere.”
“His aunt was doubtless fond of him?” ventured Poirot. “It is often that way.”
“H’m—I don’t know. Emily Arundell was no fool. As far as I know he never succeeded in getting any money out of her. Bit of a tartar that old lady. I liked her. Respected her too. An old soldier every inch of her.”
“Was her death sudden?”
“Yes, in a way. Mind you, she’d been in poor health for some years. But she’d pulled through some narrow squeaks.”
“There was some story—I apologize for repeating gossip—” Poirot spread out his hands deprecatingly—“that she had quarrelled with her family?”
“She didn’t exactly quarrel with them,” said Dr. Grainger slowly. “No, there was no open quarrel as far as I 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 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