“You mean—” Poirot leaned forward.
“Hanky-panky, that’s what I say,” said Miss Peabody. “Something fishy somewhere.”
“Just what exactly is your idea?”
“Haven’t got one! How should I know where the hanky-panky comes in? I’m not a lawyer. But there’s something queer about it, mark my words.”
Poirot said, slowly:
“Has there been any question of contesting the will?”
“Theresa’s taken counsel’s opinion, I believe. A lot of good that’ll do her! What’s a lawyer’s opinion nine times out of ten? ‘Don’t!’ Five lawyers advised me once against bringing an action. What did I do? Paid no attention. Won my case too. They had me in the witness box and a clever young whippersnapper from London tried to make me contradict myself. But he didn’t manage it. ‘You can hardly identify these furs positively, Miss Peabody,’ he said. ‘There is no furrier’s mark on them.’
“‘That may be,’ I said. ‘But there’s a darn on the lining and if anyone can do a darn like that nowadays I’ll eat my umbrella.’ Collapsed utterly, he did.”
Miss Peabody chuckled heartily.
“I suppose,” said Poirot cautiously, “that—er—feeling—runs rather high between Miss Lawson and members of Miss Arundell’s family?”
“What do you expect? You know what human nature is. Always trouble after a death, anyway. A man or woman is hardly cold in their coffin before most of the mourners are scratching each other’s eyes out.”
Poirot sighed.
“Too true.”
“That’s human nature,” said Miss Peabody tolerantly.
Poirot changed to another subject.
“Is it true that Miss Arundell dabbled in spiritualism?”
Miss Peabody’s penetrating eye observed him very acutely.
“If you think,” she said, “that the spirit of John Arundell came back and ordered Emily to leave her money to Minnie Lawson and that Emily obeyed, I can tell you that you’re very much mistaken. Emily wouldn’t b
e that kind of fool. If you ask me, she found spiritualism one degree better than playing patience or cribbage. Seen the Tripps?”
“No.”
“If you had, you’d realize just the sort of silliness it was. Irritating women. Always giving you messages from one or other of your relations—and always totally incongruous ones. They believe it all. So did Minnie Lawson. Oh, well, one way of passing your evenings is as good as another, I suppose.”
Poirot tried yet another tack.
“You know young Charles Arundell, I presume? What kind of person is he?”
“He’s no good. Charmin’ fellow. Always hard up—always in debt—always returning like a bad penny from all over the world. Knows how to get round women all right.” She chuckled. “I’ve seen too many like him to be taken in! Funny son for Thomas to have had, I must say. He was a staid old fogy if you like. Model of rectitude. Ah, well, bad blood somewhere. Mind you, I like the rascal—but he’s the kind who would murder his grandmother for a shilling or two quite cheerfully. No moral sense. Odd the way some people seem to be born without it.”
“And his sister?”
“Theresa?” Miss Peabody shook her head and said slowly: “I don’t know. She’s an exotic creature. Not usual. She’s engaged to that namby-pamby doctor down here. You’ve seen him, perhaps?”
“Dr. Donaldson.”
“Yes. Clever in his profession, they say. But he’s a poor stick in other ways. Not the sort of young man I’d fancy if I were a young girl. Well, Theresa should know her mind. She’s had her experiences, I’ll be bound.”
“Dr. Donaldson did not attend Miss Arundell?”
“He used to when Grainger was away on holiday.”