Dumb Witness

  “Most interesting!”

  “And then, unfortunately, Miss Arundell was suddenly taken ill and we had to break up the séance.”

  “You sent for the doctor—when?”

  “First thing the following morning.”

  “Did he think the matter grave?”

  “Well, he sent in a hospital nurse the following evening, but I think he hoped she would pull through.”

  “The—excuse me—the relatives were not sent for?”

  Miss Lawson flushed.

  “They were notified as soon as possible—that is to say, when Dr. Grainger pronounced her to be in danger.”

  “What was the cause of the attack? Something she had eaten?”

  “No, I don’t think there was anything in particular. Dr. Grainger said she hadn’t been quite as careful in diet as she should have been. I think he thought the attack was probably brought on by a chill. The weather had been very treacherous.”

  “Theresa and Charles Arundell had been down that weekend, had they not?”

  Miss Lawson pursed her lips together.

  “They had.”

  “The visit was not a success,” Poirot suggested, watching her.

  “It was not.” She added quite spitefully. “Miss Arundell knew what they’d come for!”

  “Which was?” asked Poirot, watching her.

  “Money!” snapped Miss Lawson. “And they didn’t get it.”

  “No?” said Poirot.

  “And I believe that’s what Dr. Tanios was after too,” she went on.

  “Dr. Tanios. He was not down that same weekend, was he?”

  “Yes, he came down on the Sunday. He only stayed about an hour.”

  “Everyone seems to have been after poor Miss Arundell’s money,” hazarded Poirot.

  “I know, it is not very nice to think of, is it?”

  “No, indeed,” said Poirot. “It must have been a shock to Charles and Theresa Arundell that weekend when they learned that Miss Arundell had definitely disinherited them!”

  Miss Lawson stared at him.

  Poirot said:

  “Is that not so? Did she not specifically inform them of the fact?”

  “As to that, I couldn’t say. I didn’t hear anything about it! There wasn’t any fuss, or anything, as far as I know. Both Charles and his sister seemed to go away quite cheerful.”

  “Ah! possibly I have been misinformed. Miss Arundell actually kept her will in the house, did she not?”

  Miss Lawson dropped her pince-nez and stooped to pick them up.

  “I really couldn’t say. No, I think it was with Mr. Purvis.”

  “Who was the executor?”

  “Mr. Purvis was.”

  “After the death did he come over and look through her papers?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  Poirot looked at her keenly and asked her an unexpected question.

  “Do you like Mr. Purvis?”

  Miss Lawson was flustered.

  “Like Mr. Purvis? Well, really, that’s difficult to say, isn’t it? I mean, I’m sure he’s a very clever man—that is a clever lawyer, I mean. But rather a brusque manner! I mean, it’s not very pleasant always, to have someone speaking to you as though—well, really I can’t explain what I mean—he was quite civil and yet at the same time, almost rude if you know what I mean.”

  “A difficult situation for you,” said Poirot, sympathetically.

  “Yes, indeed it was.”

  Miss Lawson sighed and shook her head.

  Poirot rose to his feet.

  “Thank you very much, mademoiselle, for all your kindness and help.”

  Miss Lawson rose too. She sounded slightly flustered.

  “I’m sure there’s nothing to thank me for—nothing at all! So glad if I’ve been able to do anything—if there’s anything more I can do—”

  Poirot came back from the door. He lowered his voice.

  “I think, Miss Lawson, that there is something you ought to be told. Charles and Theresa Arundell are hoping to upset this will.”

  A sharp flush of colour came into Miss Lawson’s cheeks.

  “They can’t do that,” she said, sharply. “My lawyer says so.”

  “Ah,” said Poirot. “You have consulted a lawyer, then?”

  “Certainly. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “No reason at all. A very wise proceeding. Good day to you, mademoiselle.”

  When we emerged from Clanroyden Mansions into the street Poirot drew a deep breath.

  “Hastings, mon ami, that woman is either exactly what she seems or else she is a very good actress.”

  “She doesn’t believe Miss Arundell’s death was anything but natural. You can see that,” I said.

  Poirot did not answer. There are moments when he is conveniently deaf. He hailed a taxi.

  “Durham Hotel, Bloomsbury,” he told the driver.

  Sixteen

  MRS. TANIOS

  “Gentleman to see you, madame.”

  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?”

&
nbsp; “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.”

  Seventeen

  DR. TANIOS

  I must say that my first sight of Dr. Tanios was rather a shock. I had been imbuing him in my mind with all sorts of sinister attributes. I had been picturing to myself a dark-bearded foreigner with a swarthy aspect and a sinister cast of countenance.

  Instead, I saw a rotund, jolly, brown-haired, brown-eyed man. And though it is true he had a beard, it was a modest brown affair that made him look more like an artist.

  He spoke English perfectly. His voice had a pleasant timbre and matched the cheerful good humour of his face.

  “Here we are,” he s
aid, smiling to his wife. “Edward has been passionately thrilled by his first ride in the tube. He has always been in buses until today.”

  Edward was not unlike his father in appearance, but both he and his little sister had a definitely foreign-looking appearance and I understood what Miss Peabody had meant when she described them as rather yellow-looking children.

  The presence of her husband seemed to make Mrs. Tanios nervous. Stammering a little she introduced Poirot to him. Me, she ignored.

  Dr. Tanios took up the name sharply.

  “Poirot? Monsieur Hercule Poirot? But I know that name well! And what brings you to us, M. Poirot?”

  “It is the affair of a lady lately deceased. Miss Emily Arundell,” replied Poirot.

  “My wife’s aunt? Yes—what of her?”

  Poirot said slowly:

  “Certain matters have arisen in connection with her death—”

  Mrs. Tanios broke in suddenly.

  “It’s about the will, Jacob. M. Poirot has been conferring with Theresa and Charles.”

  Some of the tensity went out of Dr. Tanios’ attitude. He dropped into a chair.

  “Ah, the will! An iniquitous will—but there, it is not my business, I suppose.”

  Poirot sketched an account of his interview with the two Arundells (hardly a truthful one, I may say) and cautiously hinted at a fighting chance of upsetting the will.

  “You interest me, M. Poirot, very much. I may say I am of your opinion. Something could be done. I actually went as far as to consult a lawyer on the subject, but his advice was not encouraging. Therefore—” he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Lawyers, as I have told your wife, are cautious people. They do not like taking chances. But me, I am different! And you?”

  Dr. Tanios laughed—a rich rollicking laugh.

  “Oh, I’d take a chance all right! Often have, haven’t I, Bella, old girl?” He smiled across at her, and she smiled back at him—but in a rather mechanical manner, I thought.

  He turned his attention back to Poirot.

  “I am not a lawyer,” he said. “But in my opinion it is perfectly clear that that will was made when the old lady was not responsible for what she was doing. That Lawson woman is both clever and cunning.”