Dumb Witness (16 page)

P
oirot called for his bill and paid it.

“What do we do next?” I asked.

“We are going to do what you suggested earlier in the morning. We are going to Harchester to interview Mr. Purvis. That is why I telephoned from the Durham Hotel.”

“You telephoned to Purvis?”

“No, to Theresa Arundell. I asked her to write me a letter of introduction to him. To approach him with any chance of success we must be accredited by the family. She promised to send it round to my flat by hand. It should be awaiting us there now.”

We found not only the letter but Charles Arundell who had brought it round in person.

“Nice place you have here, M. Poirot,” he remarked, glancing round the sitting room of the flat.

At that moment my eye was caught by an imperfectly shut drawer in the desk. A small slip of paper was preventing it from shutting.

Now if there was one thing absolutely incredible it was that Poirot should shut a drawer in such a fashion! I looked thoughtfully at Charles. He had been alone in this room awaiting our arrival. I had no doubt that he had been passing the time by snooping among Poirot's papers. What a young crook the fellow was! I felt myself burning with indignation.

Charles himself was in a most cheerful mood.

“Here we are,” he remarked, presenting a letter. “All present and correct—and I hope you'll have more luck with old Purvis than we did.”

“He held out very little hope, I suppose?”

“Definitely discouraging… In his opinion the Lawson bird had clearly got away with the doings.”

“You and your sister have never considered an appeal to the lady's feelings?”

Charles grinned.

“I considered it—yes. But there seemed to be nothing doing. My eloquence was in vain. The pathetic picture of the disinherited black sheep—and a sheep not so black as he was painted—(or so I endeavoured to suggest)—failed to move the woman! You know, she definitely seems to dislike me! I don't know why.” He laughed. “Most old women fall for me quite easily. They think I've never been properly understood and that I've never had a fair chance!”

“A useful point of view.”

“Oh, it's been extremely useful before now. But, as I say, with the Lawson, nothing doing. I think she's rather anti-man. Probably used to chain herself to railings and wave a suffragette flag in good old prewar days.”

“Ah, well,” said Poirot, shaking his head. “If simpler methods fail—”

“We must take to crime,” said Charles cheerfully.

“Aha,” said Poirot. “Now, speaking of crime, young man, is it true that you threatened your aunt—that you said that you would ‘bump her off,' or words to that effect?”

Charles sat down in a chair, stretched his legs out in front of him and stared hard at Poirot.

“Now who told you that?” he said.

“No matter. Is it true?”

“Well, there are elements of truth about it.”

“Come, come, let me hear the story—the
true
story, mind.”

“Oh, you can have it, sir. There was nothing melodramatic about it. I'd been attempting a touch—if you gather what I mean.”

“I comprehend.”

“Well, that didn't go according to plan. Aunt Emily intimated that any efforts to separate her and her money would be quite unavailing! Well, I didn't lose my temper, but I put it to her plainly. ‘Now look here, Aunt Emily,' I said, ‘you know, you're going about things in such a way that you'll end by getting bumped off!' She said, rather sniffily, what did I mean. ‘Just that,' I said. ‘Here are your friends and relations all hanging around with their mouths open, all as poor as church mice—whatever church mice may be—all hoping. And what do you do? Sit down on the dibs and refuse to part. That's the way people get themselves murdered. Take it from me, if you're bumped off, you'll only have yourself to blame.'

“She looked at me then, over the top of her spectacles in a way she had. Looked at me rather nastily. ‘Oh,' she said drily enough, ‘so that's your opinion, is it?' ‘It is,' I said. ‘You loosen up a bit, that's
my advice to you.' ‘Thank you, Charles,' she said, ‘for your well-meant advice. But I think you'll find I'm well able to take care of myself.' ‘Please yourself, Aunt Emily,' I said. I was grinning all over my face—and I fancy she wasn't as grim as she tried to look. ‘Don't say I didn't warn you.' ‘I'll remember it,' she said.”

He paused.

“That's all there was to it.”

“And so,” said Poirot, “you contented yourself with a few pound notes you found in a drawer.”

Charles stared at him, then burst out laughing.

“I take off my hat to you,” he said. “You're some sleuth! How did you get hold of
that?
”

“It is true, then?”

“Oh, it's true enough! I was damned hard up. Had to get money somewhere. Found a nice little wad of notes in a drawer and helped myself to a few. I was very modest—didn't think my little subtraction would be noticed. Even then, they'd probably think it was the servants.”

Poirot said drily:

“It would be very serious for the servants if such an idea had been entertained.”

Charles shrugged his shoulders.

“Everyone for himself,” he murmured.

“And
le diable
takes the hindermost,” said Poirot. “That is your creed, is it?”

Charles was looking at him curiously.

“I didn't know the old lady had ever spotted it. How did you come to know about it—and about the bumping off conversation?”

“Miss Lawson told me.”

“The sly old pussy cat!” He looked, I thought, just a shade disturbed. “She doesn't like me and she doesn't like Theresa,” he said presently. “You don't think—she's got anything more up her sleeve?”

“What could she have?”

“Oh, I don't know. It's just that she strikes me as a malicious old devil.” He paused. “She hates Theresa…” he added.

“Did you know, Mr. Arundell, that Dr. Tanios came down to see your aunt on the Sunday before she died?”

“What—on the Sunday that we were there?”

“Yes. You did not see him?”

“No. We were out for a walk in the afternoon. I suppose he must have come then. Funny that Aunt Emily didn't mention his visit. Who told you?”

“Miss Lawson.”

“Lawson again? She seems to be a mine of information.”

He paused and then said:

“You know, Tanios is a nice fellow. I like him. Such a jolly, smiling chap.”

“He has an attractive personality, yes,” said Poirot.

Charles rose to his feet.

“If I'd been him I'd have murdered the dreary Bella years ago! Doesn't she strike you as the type of woman who is marked out by fate to be a victim? You know, I should never be surprised if bits of her turned up in a trunk at Margate or somewhere!”

“It is not a pretty action that you attribute there to her husband the good doctor,” said Poirot severely.

“No,” said Charles meditatively. “And I don't think really that Tanios would hurt a fly. He's much too kindhearted.”

“And what about you? Would you do murder if it were made worth while?”

Charles laughed—a ringing, genuine laugh.

“Thinking about a spot of blackmail, M. Poirot? Nothing doing. I can assure you that I didn't put—” he stopped suddenly and then went on—“strychnine in Aunt Emily's soup.”

With a careless wave of his hand he departed.

“Were you trying to frighten him, Poirot?” I asked. “If so, I don't think you succeeded. He showed no guilty reactions whatsoever.”

“No?”

“No. He seemed quite unruffled.”

“Curious that pause he made,” said Poirot.

“A pause?”

“Yes. A pause before the word strychnine. Almost as though he had been about to say something else and thought better of it.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“He was probably thinking of a good, venomous-sounding poison.”

“It is possible. It is possible. But let us set off. We will, I think, stay the night at the George in Market Basing.”

Ten minutes later saw us speeding through London, bound once more for the country.

We arrived in Harchester about four o'clock and made our way straight to the offices of Purvis, Purvis, Charlesworth and Purvis.

 

Mr. Purvis was a big solidly-built man with white hair and a rosy complexion. He had a little the look of a country squire. His manner was courteous but reserved.

He read the letter we had brought and then looked at us across the top of his desk. It was a shrewd look and a somewhat searching one.

“I know you by name, of course, M. Poirot,” he said politely. “Miss Arundell and her brother have, I gather, engaged your services in this matter, but exactly in what capacity you propose to be of use to them I am at a loss to imagine.”

“Shall we say, Mr. Purvis, a fuller investigation of all the circumstances?”

The lawyer said drily:

“Miss Arundell and her brother have already had my opinion as to the legal position. The circumstances were perfectly clear and admit of no misrepresentation.”

“Perfectly, perfectly,” said Poirot quickly. “But you will not, I am sure, object to just repeating them so that I can envisage the situation clearly.”

The lawyer bowed his head.

“I am at your service.”

Poirot began:

“Miss Arundell wrote to you giving you instructions on the seventeenth of April, I believe?”

Mr. Purvis consulted some papers on the table before him.

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Can you tell me what she said?”

“She asked me to draw up a will. There were to be legacies to two servants and to three or four charities. The rest of her estate was to pass to Wilhelmina Lawson absolutely.”

“You will pardon me, Mr. Purvis, but you were surprised?”

“I will admit that—yes, I was surprised.”

“Miss Arundell had made a will previously?”

“Yes, she had made a will five years ago.”

“That will, after certain small legacies, left her property to her nephew and nieces?”

“The bulk of her estate was to be divided equally between the children of her brother Thomas and the daughter of Arabella Biggs, her sister.

“What has happened to that will?”

“At Miss Arundell's request I brought it with me when I visited her at Littlegreen House on April 21st.”

“I should be much obliged to you, Mr. Purvis, if you would give me a full description of everything that occurred on that occasion.”

The lawyer paused for a minute or two. Then he said, very precisely:

“I arrived at Littlegreen House at three o'clock in the afternoon. One of my clerks accompanied me. Miss Arundell received me in the drawing room.”

“How did she look to you?”

“She seemed to me in good health in spite of the fact that she was walking with a stick. That, I understand, was on account of a fall she had had recently. Her general health, as I say, seemed good. She struck me as slightly nervous and overexcited in manner.”

“Was Miss Lawson with her?”

“She was with her when I arrived. But she left us immediately.”

“And then?”

“Miss Arundell asked me if I had done what she had asked me to do, and if I had brought the new will with me for her to sign.

“I said I had done so. I—er—” he hesitated for a minute or two,
then went on stiffly. “I may as well say that, as far as it was proper for me to do so, I remonstrated with Miss Arundell. I pointed out to her that this new will might be regarded as grossly unfair to her family who were, after all, her own flesh and blood.”

“And her answer?”

“She asked me if the money was or was not her own to do with as she liked. I replied that certainly that was the case. ‘Very well then,' she said. I reminded her that she had known this Miss Lawson a very short time, and I asked her if she was quite sure that the injustice she was doing her own family was legitimate. Her reply was, ‘My dear friend, I know perfectly what I am doing.'”

“Her manner was excited, you say.”

“I think I can definitely say that it was, but understand me, M. Poirot, she was in full possession of her faculties. She was in every sense of the word fully competent to manage her own affairs. Though my sympathies are entirely with Miss Arundell's family, I should be obliged to maintain that in any court of law.”

“That is quite understood. Proceed, I pray you.”

“Miss Arundell read through her existing will. Then she stretched out her hand for the one I had had drawn up. I may say that I would have preferred to submit a draft first but she had impressed upon me that the will must be brought her ready to sign. That presented no difficulties as its provisions were so simple. She read it through, nodded her head and said she would sign it straightaway. I felt it my duty to enter one last protest. She heard me out patiently, but said that her mind was quite made up. I called in my clerk and he and the gardener acted as witnesses to her signature.
The servants, of course, were ineligible owing to the fact that they were beneficiaries under the will.”

“And afterwards, did she entrust the will to you for safekeeping?”

“No, she placed it in a drawer of her desk, which drawer she locked.”

“What was done with the original will? Did she destroy it?”

“No, she locked it away with the other.”

“After her death, where was the will found?”

“In that same drawer. As executor I had her keys and went through her papers and business documents.”

“Were both wills in the drawer?”

“Yes, exactly as she had placed them there.”

“Did you question her at all as to the motive for this rather surprising action?”