CHAPTER 16. Mrs Tanios

‘Gentleman to see you, madam.’

The woman who was sitting writing at one of the tables in the writing-room of the Durham Hotel turned her head and then rose, coming towards us uncertainly.

Mrs Tanios might have been any age over thirty. She was a tall, thin woman with dark hair, rather prominent light ‘boiled gooseberry’ eyes and a worried face. A fashionable hat was perched on her head at an unfashionable angle and she wore a rather depressed-looking cotton frock.

‘I don’t think—’ she began vaguely.

Poirot bowed.

‘I have just come from your cousin, Miss Theresa Arundell.’

‘Oh! from Theresa? Yes?’

‘Perhaps I could have a few minutes’ private conversation?’

Mrs Tanios looked about her rather vacantly. Poirot suggested a leather sofa at the far end of the room.

As we made our way there a high voice squeaked out:

‘Mother, where are you going?’

‘I shall be just over there. Go on with your letter, darling.’

The child, a thin, peaky-looking girl of about seven, settled down again to what was evidently a laborious task. Her tongue showed through her parted lips in the effort of composition.

The far end of the room was quite deserted. Mrs Tanios sat down, we did the same. She looked inquiringly at Poirot.

He began:

‘It is in reference to the death of your aunt, the late Miss Emily Arundell.’

Was I beginning to fancy things, or did a look of alarm spring up suddenly in those pale, prominent eyes?

‘Yes?’

‘Miss Arundell,’ said Poirot, ‘altered her will a very short time before she died. By the new will everything was left to Miss Wilhelmina Lawson. What I want to know, Mrs Tanios, is whether you will join with your cousins, Miss Theresa and Mr Charles Arundell, in trying to contest that will?’

‘Oh!’ Mrs Tanios drew a deep breath. ‘But I don’t think that’s possible, is it? I mean, my husband consulted a lawyer and he seemed to think that it was better not to attempt it.’

‘Lawyers, madame, are cautious people. Their advice is usually to avoid litigation at all costs—and no doubt they are usually right. But there are times when it pays to take a risk. I am not a lawyer myself and therefore I look at the matter differently. Miss Arundell—Miss Theresa Arundell, I mean—is prepared to fight. What about you?’

‘I—Oh! I really don’t know.’ She twisted her fingers nervously together: ‘I should have to consult my husband.’

‘Certainly, you must consult your husband before anything definite is undertaken. But what is your own feeling in the matter?’

‘Well, really, I don’t know.’ Mrs Tanios looked more worried than ever. ‘It depends so much on my husband.’

‘But you yourself, what do you think, madame?’

Mrs Tanios frowned, then she said slowly:

‘I don’t think I like the idea very much. It seems—it seems rather indecent, doesn’t it?’

‘Does it, madame?’

‘Yes—after all if Aunt Emily chose to leave her money away from her family, I suppose we must put up with it.’

‘You do not feel aggrieved in the matter, then?’

‘Oh, yes, I do.’ A quick flush showed in her cheeks. ‘I think it was most unfair! Most unfair! And so unexpected. It was so unlike Aunt Emily. And so very unfair on the children.’

‘You think it is very unlike Miss Emily Arundell?’

‘I think it was extraordinary of her!’

‘Then isn’t it possible that she was not acting of her own free will? Don’t you think that perhaps she was being unduly influenced?’

Mrs Tanios frowned again. Then she said almost unwillingly:

‘The difficult thing is that I can’t see Aunt Emily being influenced by anybody! She was such a decided old lady.’

Poirot nodded approvingly.

‘Yes, what you say is true. And Miss Lawson is hardly what one would describe as a strong character.’

‘No, she’s a nice creature really—rather foolish, perhaps— but very, very kind. That’s partly why I feel—’

‘Yes, madame?’ said Poirot as she paused.

Mrs Tanios twisted her fingers nervously again as she answered:

‘Well, that it would be mean to try and upset the will. I feel certain that it wasn’t in any way Miss Lawson’s doing—I’m sure she’d be quite incapable of scheming and intriguing—’

‘Again, I agree with you, madame.’

‘And that’s why I feel that to go to law would be—well, would be undignified and spiteful, and besides it would be very expensive, wouldn’t it?’

‘It would be expensive, yes.’

‘And probably useless, too. But you must speak to my husband about it. He’s got a much better head for business than I have.’

Poirot waited a minute or two, then he said:

‘What reason do you think lay behind the making of that will?’

A quick colour rose in Mrs Tanios’ cheeks as she murmured:

‘I haven’t the least idea.’

‘Madame, I have told you I am not a lawyer. But you have not asked me what my profession is.’

She looked at him inquiringly.

‘I am a detective. And, a short time before she died, Miss Emily Arundell wrote me a letter.’

Mrs Tanios leaned forward, her hands pressed themselves together.

‘A letter?’ she asked, abruptly. ‘About my husband?’

Poirot watched her for a minute or two, then he said, slowly:

‘I am afraid I am not at liberty to answer that question.’

‘Then it was about my husband.’ Her voice rose slightly. ‘What did she say? I can assure you, Mr—er— I don’t know your name.’

‘Poirot is my name. Hercule Poirot.’

‘I can assure you, Mr Poirot, that if anything was said in that letter against my husband, it was entirely untrue! I know, too, who will have inspired that letter! And that is another reason why I would rather have nothing to do with any action undertaken by Theresa and Charles! Theresa has never liked my husband. She has said things! I know she has said things! Aunt Emily was prejudiced against my husband because he was not an Englishman, and she may therefore have believed things that Theresa said about him. But they are not true, Mr Poirot, you can take my word for that!’

Mother—I’ve finished my letter.’

Mrs Tanios turned quickly. With an affectionate smile she took the letter the little girl held out to her.

‘That’s very nice, darling, very nice, indeed. And that’s a beautiful drawing of Mickey Mouse.’

‘What shall I do now, Mother?’

‘Would you like to get a nice postcard with a picture on it? Here’s the money. You go to the gentleman in the hall and choose one and then you can send it to Selim.’

The child moved away. I remembered what Charles Arundell had said. Mrs Tanios was evidently a devoted wife and mother. She was also, as he had said, a little like an earwig.

‘That is your only child, madame?’

‘No, I have a little boy also. He is out with his father at the moment.’

‘They did not accompany you to Littlegreen House on your visits?’

‘Oh yes, sometimes, but you see, my aunt was rather old and children were inclined to worry her. But she was very kind and always sent them out nice presents at Christmas.’

‘Let me see, when did you last see Miss Emily Arundell?’

‘I think it was about ten days before she died.’

‘You and your husband and your two cousins were all down there together, were you not?’

‘Oh, no, that was the weekend before—at Easter.’

‘And you and your husband were down there the weekend after Easter as well?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Miss Arundell was in good health and spirits then?’

‘Yes, she seemed much as usual.’

‘She was not ill in bed?’

‘She was laid up with a fall she had had, but she came downstairs again while we were there.’

‘Did she say anything to you about having made a new will?’

‘No, nothing at all.’

‘And her manner to you was quite unchanged?’

A slightly longer pause this time before Mrs Tanios said:

‘Yes.’

I feel sure that at that moment Poirot and I had the same conviction.

Mrs Tanios was lying!

Poirot paused a minute and then said:

‘Perhaps I should explain that when I asked if Miss Arundell’s manner to you was unchanged, I was not using the “you” plural. I referred to you personally.’

Mrs Tanios replied quickly.

‘Oh! I see. Aunt Emily was very nice to me. She gave me a little pearl and diamond brooch and she sent ten shillings to each of the children.’

There was no constraint in her manner now. The words came freely with a rush.

‘And as regards your husband—was there no change in her manner to him?’

The constraint had returned. Mrs Tanios did not meet Poirot’s eye as she replied:

‘No, of course not—why should there be?’

‘But since you suggest that your cousin Theresa Arundell might have tried to poison your aunt’s mind—

‘She did! I’m sure she did!’ Mrs Tanios leant forward eagerly. ‘You are quite right. There was a change! Aunt Emily was suddenly far more distant to him. And she behaved very oddly. There was a special digestive mixture he recommended—even went to the trouble of getting her some—going to the chemist and having it made up. She thanked him and all that—but rather stiffly, and later I actually saw her pouring the bottle down the sink!’

Her indignation was quite fierce.

Poirot’s eyes flickered.

‘A very odd procedure,’ he said. His voice was carefully unexcited.

‘I thought it most ungrateful,’ said Dr Tanios’ wife hotly.

‘As you say, elderly ladies distrust foreigners sometimes,’ said Poirot. ‘I am sure they think that English doctors are the only doctors in the world. Insularity accounts for a lot.’

‘Yes, I suppose it does.’ Mrs Tanios looked slightly mollified.

‘When do you return to Smyrna, madame?’

‘In a few weeks’ time. My husband—ah! here is my husband and Edward with him.’