Dumb Witness - Agatha Christie [76]
“Probably means you don’t know. or do you? Oh, well—bad blood—bad blood. I’d like to know whether that Varley woman poisoned her husband or not. Makes a difference.”
“You believe in heredity?”
Miss Peabody said, suddenly:
“I’d rather it was Tanios. An outsider! But wishes ain’t horses, worse luck. Well, I’ll be getting along. I can see you’re not goin’ to tell me anything… Who are you actin’ for, by the way?”
Poirot said, gravely:
“I am acting for the dead, mademoiselle.”
I am sorry to say that Miss Peabody received this remark with a sudden shriek of laughter. Quickly subduing her mind she said:
“Excuse me. It sounded like Isabel Tripp—that’s all! What an awful woman! Julia’s worse, I think. So painfully girlish. Never did like mutton dressed lamb fashion. Well, good-bye. Seen Dr. Grainger at all?”
“Mademoiselle, I have the bone to pick with you. You betrayed my secret.”
Miss Peabody indulged in her peculiar throaty chuckle.
“Men are simple! He’d swallowed that preposterous tissue of lies you told him. Wasn’t he mad when I told him? Went away snorting with rage! He’s looking for you.”
“He found me last night.”
“Oh! I wish I’d been there.”
“I wish you had, mademoiselle,” said Poirot gallantly.
Miss Peabody laughed and prepared to waddle away. She addressed me over her shoulder.
“Good-bye, young man. Don’t go buying those chairs. They’re a fake.”
She moved off, chuckling.
“That,” said Poirot, “is a very clever old woman.”
“Even although she did not admire your moustaches?”
“Taste is one thing,” said Poirot coldly. “Brains are another.”
We passed into the shop and spent a pleasant twenty minutes looking round. We emerged unscathed in pocket and proceeded in the direction of Littlegreen House.
Ellen, rather redder in the face than usual, admitted us and showed us into the drawing room. Presently footsteps were heard descending the stairs and Miss Lawson came in. She seemed somewhat out of breath and flustered. Her hair was pinned up in a silk handkerchief.
“I hope you’ll excuse my coming in like this, M. Poirot. I’ve been going through some locked-up cupboards—so many things—old people are inclined to hoard a little, I’m afraid—dear Miss Arundell was no exception—and one gets so much dust in one’s hair—astonishing, you know, the things people collect—if you can believe me, two dozen needlebooks—actually, two dozen.”
“You mean that Miss Arundell had bought two dozen needlebooks?”
“Yes, and put them away and forgot about them—and, of course, now the needles are all rusty—such a pity. She used to give them to the maids as Christmas presents.”
“She was very forgetful—yes?”
“Oh, very. Especially in the way of putting things away. Like a dog with a bone, you know. That’s what we used to call it between us. ‘Now don’t go and dog and bone it,’ I used to say to her.”
She laughed and then producing a small handkerchief from her pocket suddenly began to sniff.
“Oh, dear,” she said tearfully. “It seems so dreadful of me to be laughing here.”
“You have too much sensibility,” said Poirot. “You feel things too much.”
“That’s what my mother always used to say to me, M. Poirot. ‘You take things to heart too much, Minnie,’ she used to say. It’s a great drawback, M. Poirot, to be so sensitive. Especially when one has one’s living to get.”
“Ah, yes, indeed, but that is all a thing of the past. You are now your own mistress. You can enjoy yourself—travel—you have absolutely no worries or anxieties.”
“I suppose that’s true,” said Miss Lawson, rather doubtfully.
“Assuredly it is true. Now talking of Miss Arundell’s forgetfulness I see how it was that her letter to me never reached me for so long a time.”
He explained the circumstances of the finding of the letter. A red spot showed in Miss Lawson’s cheek. She said sharply:
“Ellen should have told me! To send that letter off to you without a word was great impertinence! She should have consulted me first. Great impertinence, I call it! Not one word did I hear about the whole thing. Disgraceful!”
“Oh, my dear lady, I am sure it was done in all good faith.”
“Well,