Dumb Witness - Agatha Christie [32]
Ten
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 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 rôle, I hope, as well as anyone,” 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 shortsightedly. 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. Scot 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:
“Goin’ to write a book, eh?”
“Yes.”
“In English?”
“Certainly—in English.”
“But you’re a foreigner. Eh? Come now, you’re a foreigner, aren’t you?”
“That is true.”
She transferred her gaze to me.
“You are his secretary, I suppose?”
“Er—yes,” I said doubtfully.
“Can you write decent English?”
“I hope so.”
“H’m—where did you go to school?”
“Eton.”
“Then you can’t.”
I was forced to let this sweeping charge against an old and venerable centre of education pass unchallenged as Miss Peabody turned her attention once more to Poirot.
“Goin’ to write a life of General Arundell, eh?”
“Yes. You knew him, I think.”
“Yes, I knew John Arundell. He drank.”
There was a momentary pause. Then Miss Peabody went on musingly:
“Indian Mutiny, eh? Seems a bit like flogging a dead horse to me. But that’s your business.”
“You know, madame, there is a fashion in these things. At the moment India is the mode.”
“Something in that. Things do come round. Look at sleeves.”
We maintained a respectful