CHAPTER 12. Poirot Discusses the Case

‘Thank goodness, Poirot,’ I said with fervour, ‘you got us out of those raw carrots! What awful women!’

‘Pour nous, un bon bifteck—with the fried potatoes—and a good bottle of wine. What should we have had to drink there, I wonder?’

‘Well, water, I should think,’ I replied with a shudder. ‘Or non-alcoholic cider. It was that kind of place! I bet there’s no bath and no sanitation except an E.C. in the garden!’

‘Strange how women enjoy living an uncomfortable life,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘It is not always poverty, though they are good at making the best of straitened circumstances.’

‘What orders for the chauffeur now?’ I asked, as I negotiated the last bend of the winding lanes, and we emerged on the road to Market Basing. ‘On what local light do we call next? Or do we return to the George and interrogate the asthmatic waiter once more?’

‘You will be glad to hear, Hastings, that we have finished with Market Basing—’

‘Splendid.’

‘For the moment only. I shall return!’

‘Still on the track of your unsuccessful murderer?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Did you learn anything from the fandango of nonsense we’ve just been listening to?’

Poirot said precisely:

‘There were certain points deserving of attention. The various characters in our drama begin to emerge more clearly. In some ways it resembles, does it not, a novelette of older days? The humble companion, once despised, is raised to affluence and now plays the part of lady bountiful.’

‘I should imagine that such a patronage must be very galling to people who regard themselves as the rightful heirs!’

‘As you say, Hastings. Yes, that is very true.’

We drove on in silence for some minutes. We had passed through Market Basing and were now once more on the main road. I hummed to myself softly the tune of ‘Little Man, You’ve had a Busy Day.’

‘Enjoyed yourself, Poirot?’ I asked at last.

Poirot said coldly:

‘I do not know quite what you mean by “enjoyed myself”, Hastings.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘it seemed to me you’ve been treating yourself to a busman’s holiday!’

‘You do not think that I am serious?’

‘Oh, you’re serious enough. But this business seems to be of the academic kind. You’re tackling it for your own mental satisfaction. What I mean is—it’s not real.’

‘Au contraire, it is intensely real.’

‘I express myself badly. What I mean is, if there were a question of helping our old lady, or protecting her against further attack—well, there would be some excitement then. But as it is, I can’t help feeling that as she is dead, why worry?’

‘In that case, mon ami, one would not investigate a murder case at all!’

‘No, no, no. That’s quite different. I mean, then you have a body… Oh, dash it all!’

‘Do not enrage yourself. I comprehend perfectly. You make a distinction between a body and a mere decease. Supposing, for instance, that Miss Arundell had died with sudden and alarming violence instead of respectably of a long-standing illness—then you would not remain indifferent to my efforts to discover the truth?’

‘Of course I wouldn’t.’

‘But all the same, someone did attempt to murder her?’

‘Yes, but they didn’t succeed. That makes all the difference.’

‘It does not intrigue you at all to know who attempted to kill her?’

‘Well, yes, it does in a way.’

‘We have a very restricted circle,’ said Poirot musingly. ‘That thread—’

‘The thread which you merely deduce from a nail in the skirting-board!’ I interrupted. ‘Why, that nail may have been there for years!’

‘No. The varnish was quite fresh.’

‘Well, I still think there might be all sorts of explanations of it.’

‘Give me one.’

At the moment I could not think of anything suffissciently plausible. Poirot took advantage of my silence to sweep on with his discourse.

‘Yes, a restricted circle. That thread could only have been stretched across the top of the stairs after everyone had gone to bed. Therefore we have only the occupants of the house to consider. That is to say, the guilt lies between seven people. Dr Tanios. Mrs Tanios. Theresa Arundell. Charles Arundell. Miss Lawson. Ellen. Cook.’

‘Surely you can leave the servants out of it.’

‘They received legacies, mon cher. And there might have been other reasons—spite—a quarrel—dishonesty—one cannot be certain.’

‘It seems to me very unlikely.’

‘Unlikely, I agree. But one must take all possibilities into consideration.’

‘In that case, you must allow for eight people, not seven.’

‘How so?’

I felt I was about to score a point.

‘You must include Miss Arundell herself. How do you know she may not have stretched that thread across the stairs in order to trip up some other members of the house-party?’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘It is a bêtise you say there, my friend. If Miss Arundell laid a trap, she would be careful not to fall into it herself. It was she who fell down the stairs, remember.’

I retired crestfallen.

Poirot went on in a thoughtful voice:

‘The sequence of events is quite clear—the fall—the letter to me—the visit of the lawyer—but there is one doubtful point. Did Miss Arundell deliberately hold back the letter to me, hesitating to post it? Or did she, once having written it, assume it was posted?’

‘That we can’t possibly tell,’ I said. ‘No. We can only guess. Personally, I fancy that she assumed it had been posted. She must have been surprised at getting no reply…’

My thoughts had been busy in another direction.

‘Do you think this spiritualistic nonsense counted at all?’ I asked. ‘I mean, do you think, in spite of Miss Peabody’s ridiculing of the suggestion, that a command was given at one of these seances that she should alter her will and leave her money to the Lawson woman?’

Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

‘That does not seem to fit in with the general impression I have formed of Miss Arundell’s character.’

‘The Tripp women say that Miss Lawson was completely taken aback when the will was read,’ I said thoughtfully.

‘That is what she told them, yes,’ agreed Poirot.

‘But you don’t believe it?’

‘Mon ami—you know my suspicious nature! I believe nothing that anyone says unless it can be confirmed or corroborated.’

‘That’s right, old boy,’ I said affectionately. ‘A horoughly nice, trustful nature.’

‘“He says,” “she says,” “they say”—Bah! what does that mean? Nothing at all. It may be absolute truth. It may be useful falsehood. Me, I deal only with facts.’

‘And the facts are?’

‘Miss Arundell had a fall. That, nobody disputes. The fall was not a natural one—it was contrived.’

‘The evidence for that being that Hercule Poirot says so!’

‘Not at all. There is the evidence of the nail. The evidence of Miss Arundell’s letter to me. The evidence of the dog having been out that night. The evidence of Miss Arundell’s words about the jar and the picture and Bob’s ball. All these things are facts.’

‘And the next fact, please?’

‘The next fact is the answer to our usual question. Who benefits by Miss Arundell’s death? Answer—Miss Lawson.’

‘The wicked companion! On the other hand, the others thought they were going to benefit. And at the time of the accident they would have benefited.’

‘Exactly, Hastings. That is why they all lie equally under suspicion. There is also the little fact that Miss Lawson took pains to prevent Miss Arundell learning that Bob had been out all night.’

‘You call that suspicious?’

‘Not at all. I merely note it. It may have been natural concern for the old lady’s peace of mind. That is by far the most likely explanation.’

I looked at Poirot sideways. He is so confoundedly slippery.

‘Miss Peabody expressed the opinion that there was “hanky-panky” about the will,’ I said. ‘What do you suppose she meant by that?’

‘It was, I think, her way of expressing various nebulous and unformulated suspicions.’

‘Undue influence, it seems, can be washed out,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘And it certainly looks as though Emily Arundell was much too sensible to believe in any tomfoolery like spiritualism.’

‘What makes you say that spiritualism is tomfoolery, Hastings?’

I stared at him in astonishment.

‘My dear Poirot—those appalling women—’

He smiled.

‘I quite agree with your estimate of the Misses Tripp. But the mere fact that the Misses Tripp have adopted with enthusiasm Christian Science, vegetarianism, theosophy and spiritualism does not really constitute a damning indictment of those subjects! Because a foolish woman will tell you a lot of nonsense about a fake scarab which she has bought from a rascal dealer, that does not necessarily bring discredit on the general subject of Egyptology!’

‘Do you mean you believe in spiritualism, Poirot?’

‘I have an open mind on the subject. I have never studied any of its manifestations myself, but it must be accepted that many men of science and learning have pronounced themselves satisfied that there are phenomena which cannot be accounted for by—shall we say the credulity of a Miss Tripp?’

‘Then you believe in this rigmarole of an aureole of light surrounding Miss Arundell’s head?’

Poirot waved a hand.

‘I was speaking generally—rebuking your attitude of quite unreasoning scepticism. I may say that, having formed a certain opinion of Miss Tripp and her sister, I should examine very carefully any fact they presented for my notice. Foolish women, mon ami, are foolish women, whether they are talking about spiritualism or politics or the relation of the sexes or the tenets of the Budhist faith.’

‘Yet you listened to what they had to say very carefully.’

‘That has been my task today—to listen. To hear what everyone has got to tell me about these seven people—and mainly, of course, the five people primarily concerned. Already we know certain aspects of these people. Take Miss Lawson. From the Misses Tripp we learn she was devoted, unselfish, unworldly and altogether a beautiful character. From Miss Peabody we learn that she was credulous, stupid, without the nerve or the brains to attempt anything criminal. From Dr Grainger we learn that she was down-trodden, that her position was precarious, and that she was a poor “frightened, fluttering hen”, were, I think, the words he used. From our waiter we learned that Miss Lawson was “a person”, and from Ellen that Bob, the dog, despised her! Everyone, you see, saw her from a slightly different angle. That is the same with the others. Nobody’s opinion of Charles Arundell’s morals seems to have been high, but nevertheless they vary in their manner of speaking of him. Dr Grainger calls him indulgently “an irreverent young devil”. Miss Peabody says he would murder his grandmother for twopence but clearly prefers a rascal to a “stick”. Miss Tripp hints not only that he would do a criminal action but that he has done one—or more. These side-lights are all very useful and interesting. They lead to the next thing.’

‘Which is?’

‘To see for ourselves, my friend.’