CHAPTER 18. ‘A Wolf in the Manger’

We had lunch at a small restaurant not far away. I was eager to learn what he made of the various members of the Arundell family.

‘Well, Poirot?’ I asked impatiently.

With a look of reproof Poirot turned his whole attention to the menu. When he had ordered he leaned back in his chair, broke his roll of bread in half and said with a slightly mocking intonation:

‘Well, Hastings?’

‘What do you think of them now you’ve seen them all?’

Poirot replied slowly.

‘Ma foi, I think they are an interesting lot! Really, this case is an enchanting study! It is, how do you say, the box of surprises? Look how each time I say, “I got a letter from Miss Arundell before she died,” something crops up. From Miss Lawson I learn about the missing money. Mrs Tanios says at once, “About my husband?” Why about her husband? Why should Miss Arundell write to me, Hercule Poirot, about Dr Tanios?’

‘That woman has something on her mind,’ I said.

‘Yes, she knows something. But what? Miss Peabody tells us that Charles Arundell would murder his grandmother for twopence, Miss Lawson says that Mrs Tanios would murder anyone if her husband told her to do so. Dr Tanios says that Charles and Theresa are rotten to the core, and he hints that their mother was a murderess and says apparently carelessly that Theresa is capable of murdering anyone in cold blood.

‘They have a pretty opinion of each other, all these people! Dr Tanios thinks, or says he thinks, that there was undue influence. His wife, before he came in, evidently did not think so. She does not want to contest the will at first. Later she veers round. See you, Hastings—it is a pot that boils and seethes and every now and then a significant fact comes to the surface and can be seen. There is something in the depths there—yes, there is something! I swear it, by my faith as Hercule Poirot, I swear it!’

I was impressed in spite of myself by his earnestness.

After a minute or two I said:

‘Perhaps you are right, but it seems too vague—so nebulous.’

‘But you agree with me that there is something?’

‘Yes,’ I said hesitatingly. ‘I believe I do.’

Poirot leaned across the table. His eyes bored into mine.

‘Yes—you have changed. You are no longer amused, superior—indulging me in my academic pleasures. But what is it that has convinced you? It is not my excellent reasoning—non, ce n’est pas ça! But something—something quite independent—has produced an effect on you. Tell me, my friend, what is it that has suddenly induced you to take this matter seriously?’

‘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, open-hearted, 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 wolf in the manger. Eh bien, that is just what I find here. There is—not a wolf—but a murderer in our manger.’

‘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?’

‘I consider the question of motive. What are the likely motives for Miss Arundell’s death? Clearly the most obvious one is gain. Who would have gained by Miss Arundell’s death—if she had died on Easter Tuesday?’

‘Everyone—with the exception of Miss Lawson.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Well, at any rate, one person is automatically cleared.’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘It would seem so. But the interesting thing is that the person who would have gained nothing if death had occurred on Easter Tuesday, gains everything when death occurs two weeks later.’

‘What are you getting at, Poirot?’ I said, slightly puzzled.

‘Cause and effect, my friend, cause and effect.’

I looked at him doubtfully.

He went on:

‘Proceed logically! What exactly happened—after the accident?’

I hate Poirot in this mood. Whatever one says is bound to be wrong! I proceeded with intense caution.

‘Miss Arundell was laid up in bed.’

‘Exactly. With plenty of time to think. What next?’

‘She wrote to you.’ Poirot nodded.

‘Yes, she wrote to me. And the letter was not posted. A thousand pities, that.’

‘Do you suspect that there was something fishy about that letter not being posted?’

Poirot frowned.

‘There, Hastings, I have to confess that I do not know. I think—in view of everything I am almost sure—that the letter was genuinely mislaid. I believe—but I cannot be sure—that the fact that such a letter was written was unsuspected by anybody. Continue—what happened next?’

I reflected.

‘The lawyer’s visit,’ I suggested.

‘Yes—she sent for her lawyer and in due course he arrived.’

‘And she made a new will,’ I continued.

‘Precisely. She made a new and very unexpected will. Now, in view of that will we have to consider very carefully a statement made to us by Ellen. Ellen said, if you remember, that Miss Lawson was particularly anxious that the news that Bob had been out all night should not get to Miss Arundell’s ears.’

‘But—oh, I see—no, I don’t. Or do I begin to see what you are hinting at…?’

‘I doubt it!’ said Poirot. ‘But if you do, you realize, I hope, the supreme importance of that statement.’

He fixed me with a fierce eye.

‘Of course. Of course,’ I said hurriedly.

‘And then,’ continued Poirot, ‘various other things happen. Charles and Theresa come for the weekend, and Miss Arundell shows the new will to Charles—or so he says.’

‘Don’t you believe him?’

‘I only believe statements that are checked. Miss Arundell does not show it to Theresa.’

‘Because she thought Charles would tell her.’

‘But he doesn’t. Why doesn’t he?’

‘According to Charles himself he did tell her.’

‘Theresa said quite positively that he didn’t—a very interesting and suggestive little clash. And when we depart she calls him a fool.’

‘I’m getting fogged, Poirot,’ I said plaintively.

‘Let us return to the sequence of events. Dr Tanios comes down on Sunday—possibly without the knowledge of his wife.’

‘I should say certainly without her knowledge.’

‘Let us say probably. To proceed! Charles and Theresa leave on the Monday. Miss Arundell is in good health and spirits. She eats a good dinner and sits in the dark with the Tripps and the Lawson. Towards the end of the séance she is taken ill. She retires to bed and dies four days later and Miss Lawson inherits all her money, and Captain Hastings says she died a natural death!’

‘Whereas Hercule Poirot says she was given poison in her dinner on no evidence at all!’

‘I have some evidence, Hastings. Think over our conversation with the Misses Tripp. And also one statement that stood out from Miss Lawson’s somewhat rambling conversation.’

‘Do you mean the fact that she had curry for dinner? Curry would mask the taste of a drug. Is that what you meant?’

Poirot said slowly:

‘Yes, the curry has a certain significance, perhaps.’

‘But,’ I said, ‘if what you advance (in defiance of all the medical evidence) is true, only Miss Lawson or one of the maids could have killed her.’

‘I wonder.’

‘Or the Tripp women? Nonsense. I can’t believe that! All these people are palpably innocent.’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘Remember this, Hastings, stupidity—or even silliness, for that matter—can go hand in hand with intense cunning. And do not forget the original attempt at murder. That was not the handiwork of a particularly clever or complex brain. It was a very simple little murder, suggested by Bob and his habit of leaving the ball at the top of the stairs. The thought of putting a thread across the stairs was quite simple and easy—a child could have thought of it!’

I frowned.

‘You mean—’

‘I mean that what we are seeking to find here is just one thing—the wish to kill. Nothing more than that.’

‘But the poison must have been a very skilful one to leave no trace,’ I argued. ‘Something that the ordinary person would have difficulty in getting hold of. Oh, damn it all, Poirot. I simply can’t believe it now. You can’t know! It’s all pure hypothesis.’

‘You are wrong, my friend. As the result of our various conversations this morning. I have now something definite to go upon. Certain faint but unmistakable indications. The only thing is—I am afraid.’

‘Afraid? Of what?’

He said gravely:

‘Of disturbing the dogs that sleep. That is one of your proverbs, is it not? To let the sleeping dogs lie! That is what our murderer does at present—sleeps happily in the sun… Do we not know, you and I, Hastings, how often a murderer, his confidence disturbed, turns and kills a second—or even a third time!’

‘You are afraid of that happening?’

He nodded.

‘Yes. If there is a murderer in the woodpile—and I think there is, Hastings. Yes, I think there is…’