Dumb Witness - Agatha Christie [36]
“Emily Arundell didn’t,” said Miss Peabody. “It was quite a surprise to some people when that will was read. The amount, I mean, not the way it was left.”
“Was it a surprise, do you think, to the members of her own family?”
“That’s telling,” said Miss Peabody screwing up her eyes with a good deal of enjoyment. “I wouldn’t say yes, and I wouldn’t say no. One of ’em had a pretty shrewd idea.”
“Which one?”
“Master Charles. He’d done a bit of calculation on his own account. He’s no fool, Charles.”
“But a little bit of a rogue, eh?”
“At any rate, he isn’t a namby-pamby stick,” said Miss Peabody viciously.
She paused a minute and then asked:
“Going to get in touch with him?”
“That was my intention.” Poirot went on solemnly, “It seems to me possible that he might have certain family papers relating to his grandfather?”
“More likely to have made a bonfire of them. No respect for his elders, that young man.”
“One must try all avenues,” said Poirot sententiously.
“So it seems,” said Miss Peabody drily.
There was a momentary glint in her blue eye that seemed to affect Poirot disagreeably. He rose.
“I must not trespass any longer on your time, madame. I am most grateful for what you have been able to tell me.”
“I’ve done my best,” said Miss Peabody. “Seem to have got rather a long way from the Indian Mutiny, don’t we?”
She shook hands with us both.
“Let me know when the book comes out,” was her parting remark. “I shall be so interested.”
And the last thing we heard as we left the room was a rich, throaty chuckle.
Eleven
VISIT TO THE MISSES TRIPP
“And now,” said Poirot as we reentered the car. “What do we do next?”
Warned by experience I did not this time suggest a return to town. After all, if Poirot was enjoying himself in his own fashion why should I object?
I suggested some tea.
“Tea, Hastings? What an idea! Regard the time.”
“I have regarded it—looked at it, I mean. It’s half past five. Tea is clearly indicated.”
Poirot sighed.
“Always the afternoon tea with you English! No, mon ami, no tea for us. In a book of etiquette I read the other day that one must not make the afternoon call after six o’clock. To do so is to commit the solecism. We have, therefore, but half an hour in which to accomplish our purpose.”
“How social you are today, Poirot! On whom are we calling now?”
“Les demoiselles Tripp.”
“Are you writing a book on spiritualism now? Or is it still the life of General Arundell?”
“It will be simpler than that, my friend. But we must inquire where these ladies live.”
Directions were forthcoming readily enough, but of a somewhat confused nature involving as they did a series of lanes. The abode of the Misses Tripp turned out to be a picturesque cottage—so extremely old-world and picturesque that it looked as though it might collapse any minute.
A child of fourteen or thereabouts opened the door and with difficulty squeezed herself against the wall sufficiently to allow us to pass inside.
The interior was very rich in old oak beams—there was a big open fireplace and such very small windows that it was difficult to see clearly. All the furniture was of pseudo simplicity—ye olde oake for ye cottage dweller—there was a good deal of fruit in wooden bowls and large numbers of photographs—most of them, I noticed, of the same two people represented in different poses—usually with bunches of flowers clasped to their breasts or clutching large leghorn picture hats.
The child who had admitted us had murmured something and disappeared, but her voice was clearly audible in an upper story.
“Two gentlemen to see you, Miss.”
A sort of twitter of female voices arose and presently with a good deal of creaking and rustling a lady descended the staircase and came graciously towards us.
She was nearer fifty than forty, her hair was parted in the middle in Madonna fashion, her eyes were brown and slightly prominent. She wore a sprigged muslin dress that conveyed an odd suggestion