Dumb Witness - Agatha Christie [35]
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 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 G.P.’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