Dumb Witness - Agatha Christie [45]
“That is very satisfactory.”
She laughed.
“I shan’t give the show away in my cups, Hercule.”
Poirot proceeded:
“Love affairs?”
“Plenty in the past.”
“And the present?”
“Only Rex.”
“That is Dr. Donaldson?”
“Yes.”
“He seems, somehow, very alien from the life you mention.”
“Oh, he is.”
“And yet you care for him. Why, I wonder?”
“Oh, what are reasons? Why did Juliet fall for Romeo?”
“Well for one thing, with all due deference to Shakespeare, he happened to be the first man she had seen.”
Theresa said slowly:
“Rex wasn’t the first man I saw—not by a long way.” She added in a lower voice, “But I think—I feel—he’ll be the last man I’ll ever see.”
“And he is a poor man, mademoiselle.”
She nodded.
“And he, too, needs money?”
“Desperately. Oh, not for the reasons I did. He doesn’t want luxury—or beauty—or excitement—or any of these things. He’d wear the same suit until it went into holes—and eat a congealed chop every day for lunch quite happily, and wash in a cracked tin bath. If he had money it would all go on test tubes and a laboratory and all the rest of it. He’s ambitious. His profession means everything to him. It means more to him than—I do.”
“He knew that you would come into money when Miss Arundell died?”
“I told him so. Oh! after we were engaged. He isn’t really marrying me for my money if that is what you are getting at.”
“You are still engaged?”
“Of course we are.”
Poirot did not reply. His silence seemed to disquiet her.
“Of course we are,” she repeated sharply. And then she added, “You—have you seen him?”
“I saw him yesterday—at Market Basing.”
“Why? What did you say to him?”
“I said nothing. I only asked him for your brother’s address.”
“Charles?” Her voice was sharp again. “What did you want with Charles?”
“Charles? Who wants Charles?”
It was a new voice—a delightful, man’s voice.
A bronze-faced young man with an agreeable grin strolled into the room.
“Who is talking about me?” he asked. “I heard my name in the hall, but I didn’t eavesdrop. They were very particular about eavesdropping at Borstal. Now then, Theresa my girl, what’s all this? Spill the beans.”
Fourteen
CHARLES ARUNDELL
I must confess that from the moment I set eyes on him I entertained a sneaking liking for Charles Arundell. There was something so debonair and carefree about him. His eyes had an agreeable and humorous twinkle and his grin was one of the most disarming I have ever encountered.
He came across the room and sat down on the arm of one of the massive, upholstered chairs.
“What’s it all about, old girl?” he asked.
“This is M. Hercule Poirot, Charles. He is prepared to—er—do some dirty work for us in return for a small consideration.”
“I protest,” cried Poirot. “Not dirty work—shall we say a little harmless deception of some kind—so that the original intention of the testator is carried out? Let us put it that way.”
“Put it anyway you like,” said Charles agreeably. “What made Theresa think of you, I wonder?”
“She did not,” said Poirot quickly. “I came here of my own accord.”
“Offering your services?”
“Not quite that. I was asking for you. Your sister told me you had gone abroad.”
“Theresa,” said Charles, “is a very careful sister. She hardly ever makes a mistake. In fact, she’s suspicious as the devil.”
He smiled at her affectionately but she did not smile back. She looked worried and thoughtful.
“Surely,” said Charles. “We’ve got things the wrong way round? Isn’t M. Poirot famous for tracking down criminals? Surely not for aiding and abetting them?”
“We’re not criminals,” said Theresa sharply.
“But we’re willing to be,” said Charles affably. “I’d thought of a spot of forgery myself—that’s rather my line. I got sent down from Oxford because of a little misunderstanding about a cheque. That was childishly simple, though—merely a question of adding a nought. Then there was another little fracas with Aunt Emily and the local bank. Foolish on my part, of course. I ought to have realized the old lady was sharp as needles. However, all these incidents have been very small fry—fivers and