Dumb Witness - Agatha Christie [60]
“I think,” I said slowly, “it was Mrs. Tanios. She looked—she looked—afraid.…”
“Afraid of me?”
“No—no, not of you. It was something else. She spoke so quietly and sensibly to begin with—a natural resentment at the terms of the will, perhaps, but otherwise she seemed so resigned and willing to leave things as they are. It seemed the natural attitude of a well-bred but rather apathetic woman. And then that sudden change—the eagerness with which she came over to Dr. Tanios’ point of view. The way she came out into the hall after us—the—almost furtive way—”
Poirot nodded encouragingly.
“And another little thing which you may not have noticed—”
“I notice everything!”
“I mean the point about her husband’s visit to Littlegreen House on that last Sunday. I could swear she knew nothing of it—that it was the most complete surprise to her—and yet she took her cue so quickly—agreed that he had told her about it and that she had forgotten. I—I didn’t like it, Poirot.”
“You are quite right, Hastings—it was significant that.”
“It left an ugly impression of—of fear on me.”
Poirot nodded his head slowly.
“You felt the same?” I asked.
“Yes—that impression was definitely in the air.” He paused and then went on. “And yet you liked Tanios, did you not? You found him an agreeable man, openhearted, good-natured, genial. Attractive in spite of your insular prejudice against the Argentines, the Portuguese and the Greeks—a thoroughly congenial personality?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “I did.”
In the silence that ensued, I watched Poirot. Presently I said:
“What are you thinking of, Poirot?”
“I am reflecting on various people, handsome young Norman Gale, bluff, hearty Evelyn Howard, the pleasant Dr. Sheppard, the quiet, reliable Knighton.”
For a moment I did not understand these references to people who had figured in past cases.
“What of them?” I asked.
“They were all delightful personalities….”
“My goodness, Poirot, do you really think that Tanios—”
“No, no. Do not jump to conclusions, Hastings. I am only pointing out that one’s own personal reactions to people are singularly unsafe guides. One must go not by one’s feelings but by facts.”
“H’m,” I said. “Facts are not our strong suit. No, no, Poirot, don’t go over it all again!”
“I will be brief, my friend, do not fear. To begin with, we have quite certainly a case of attempted murder. You admit that, do you not?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “I do.”
I had, up to now, been a little sceptical over Poirot’s (as I thought) somewhat fanciful reconstruction of the events on the night of Easter Tuesday. I was forced to admit, however, that his deductions were perfectly logical.
“Très bien. Now one cannot have attempted murder without a murderer. One of the people present on that evening was a murderer—in intention if not in fact.”
“Granted.”
“Then that is our starting point—a murderer. We make a few inquiries—we, as you would say—stir the mud—and what do we get—several very interesting accusations uttered apparently casually in the course of conversations.”
“You think they were not casual?”
“Impossible to tell at the moment! Miss Lawson’s innocent seeming way of bringing out the fact that Charles threatened his aunt may have been quite innocent or it may not. Dr. Tanios’ remarks about Theresa Arundell may have absolutely no malice behind them, but be merely a physician’s genuine opinion. Miss Peabody, on the other hand, is probably quite genuine in her opinion of Charles Arundell’s proclivities—but it is, after all, merely an opinion. So it goes on. There is a saying, is there not, a nigger in the woodpile. Eh bien, that is just what I find here. There is—not a nigger—but a murderer in our woodpile.”
“What I’d like to know is, what you yourself really think, Poirot?”
“Hastings—Hastings—I do not permit myself to ‘think’—not, that is, in the sense that you are using the word. At the moment I only make certain reflections.”
“Such as?”