Dumb Witness - Agatha Christie [75]
“You ought to wear a coat of chain mail,” I said, chaffingly. “And employ a taster in case of poison! In fact, you ought to have a regular band of gunmen to protect you!”
“Merci, Hastings, I shall rely on my wits.”
He then wrote a note to Miss Lawson saying that he would call at Littlegreen House at eleven o’clock.
After that we breakfasted and then strolled out into the Square. It was about a quarter past ten and a hot sleepy morning.
I was looking into the window of the antique shop at a very nice set of Hepplewhite chairs when I received a highly painful lunge in the ribs, and a sharp, penetrating voice said: “Hi!”
I spun round indignantly to find myself face to face with Miss Peabody. In her hand (the instrument of her assault upon me) was a large and powerful umbrella with a spiked point.
Apparently completely callous to the severe pain she had inflicted, she observed in a satisfied voice:
“Ha! Thought it was you. Don’t often make a mistake.”
I said rather coldly:
“Er—Good morning. Can I do anything for you?”
“You can tell me how that friend of yours is getting on with his book—Life of General Arundell?”
“He hasn’t actually started to write it yet,” I said.
Miss Peabody indulged in a little silent but apparently satisfying laughter. She shook like a jelly. Recovering from that attack, she remarked:
“No, I don’t suppose he will be starting to write it.”
I said, smiling:
“So you saw through our little fiction?”
“What d’you take me for—a fool?” asked Miss Peabody. “I saw soon enough what your downy friend was after! Wanted me to talk! Well, I didn’t mind. I like talking. Hard to get anyone to listen nowadays. Quite enjoyed myself that afternoon.”
She cocked a shrewd eye at me.
“What’s it all about, eh? What’s it all about?”
I was hesitating what exactly to reply when Poirot joined us. He bowed with empressement to Miss Peabody.
“Good morning, mademoiselle. Enchanted to encounter you.”
“Good mornin’,” said Miss Peabody. “What are you this morning, Parotti or Poirot—eh?”
“It was very clever of you to pierce my disguise so rapidly,” said Poirot, smiling.
“Wasn’t much disguise to pierce! Not many like you about, are there? Don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad one. Difficult to say.”
“I prefer, mademoiselle, to be unique.”
“You’ve got your wish, I should say,” said Miss Peabody, drily. “Now then, Mr. Poirot, I gave you all the gossip you wanted the other day. Now it’s my turn to ask questions. What’s it all about? Eh? What’s it all about?”
“Are you not asking a question to which you already know the answer?”
“I wonder.” She shot a glance at him. “Something fishy about that will? Or is it something else? Going to dig Emily up? Is that it?”
Poirot did not answer.
Miss Peabody nodded her head slowly and thoughtfully as though she had received a reply.
“Often wondered,” she said inconsequently, “what it would feel like… Readin’ the papers, you know—wondered if anyone would ever be dug up in Market Basing… Didn’t think it would be Emily Arundell….”
She gave him a sudden, piercing look.
“She wouldn’t have liked it, you know. I suppose you’ve thought of that—hey?”
“Yes, I have thought of it.”
“I suppose you would do—you’re not a fool! Don’t think you’re particularly officious either.”
Poirot bowed.
“Thank you, mademoiselle.”
“And that’s more than most people would say—looking at your moustache. Why d’you have a moustache like that? D’you like it?”
I turned away convulsed with laughter.
“In England the cult of the moustache is lamentably neglected,” said Poirot. His hand surreptitiously caressed the hirsute adornment.
“Oh, I see! Funny,” said Miss Peabody. “Knew a woman who once had a goitre and was proud of it! Wouldn’t believe that, but it’s true! Well, what I say is, it’s lucky when you’re pleased with what the Lord has given you. It’s usually the other way about.” She shook her head and sighed.
“Never thought there would be a murder in this out of the world spot.” Again she shot a sudden, piercing look at Poirot. “Which of ’em did it?”
“Am I to shout that to you here in the street?