“My sister Isabel—Mr.—er—Parrot—and—er—Captain Hawkins. Isabel dear, these gentlemen are friends of Minnie Lawson’s.”
Miss Isabel Tripp was less buxom than her sister. She might indeed have been described as scraggy. She had very fair hair done up into a large quantity of rather messy curls. She cultivated a girlish manner and was easily recognizable as the subject of most of the flower poses in the photography. She clasped her hands now in girlish excitement.
“How delightful! Dear Minnie! You have seen her lately?”
“Not for some years,” explained Poirot. “We have quite lost touch with each other. I have been travelling. That is why I was so astonished and delighted to hear of the good fortune that had befallen my old friend.”
“Yes, indeed. And so well deserved! Minnie is such a rare soul. So simple—so earnest.”
“Julia,” cried Isabel.
“Yes, Isabel?”
“How remarkable. P. You remember the planchette distinctly insisted on P. last night. A visitor from over the water and the initial P.”
“So it did,” agreed Julia.
Both ladies looked at Poirot in rapt and delighted surprise.
“It never lies,” said Miss Julia softly.
“Are you interested at all in the occult, Mr. Parrot?”
“I have little experience, mademoiselle, but—like anyone who has travelled much in the East, I am bound to admit that there is much one does not understand and that cannot be explained by natural means.”
“So true,” said Julia. “Profoundly true.”
“The East,” murmured Isabel. “The home of mysticism and the occult.”
Poirot’s travellings in the East, as far as I knew, consisted of one journey to Syria extended to Iraq, and which occupied perhaps a few weeks. To judge by his present conversation one would swear that he had spent most of his life in jungles and bazaars and in intimate converse with fakirs, dervishes, and mahatmas.
As far as I could make out the Misses Tripp were vegetarians, theosophists, British Israelites, Christian Scientists, spiritualists and enthusiastic amateur photographers.
“One sometimes feels,” said Julia with a sigh, “that Market Basing is an impossible place to live. There is no beauty here—no soul. One must have soul, don’t you think so, Captain Hawkins?”
“Quite,” I said slightly embarrassed. “Oh, quite.”
“Where there is no vision the people perish,” quoted Isabel with a sigh. “I have often tried to discuss things with the vicar, but find him painfully narrow. Don’t you think, Mr. Parrot, that any definite creed is bound to be narrowing?”
“And everything is so simple, really,” put in her sister. “As we know so well, everything is joy and love!”
“As you say, as you say,” said Poirot. “What a pity it seems that misunderstandings and quarrels should arise—especially over money.”
“Money is too sordid,” sighed Julia.
“I gather that the late Miss Arundell was one of your converts?” said Poirot.
The two sisters looked at each other.
“I wonder,” said Isabel.
“We were never quite sure,” breathed Julia. “One minute she seemed to be convinced and then she would say something—so—so ribald.”
“Ah, but you remember that last manifestation,” said Julia. “That was really most remarkable.” She turned to Poirot. “It was the night dear Miss Arundell was taken ill. My sister and I went round after dinner and we had a sitting—just the four of us. And you know we saw—we all three saw—most distinctly, a kind of halo round Miss Arundell’s head.”
“Comment?”
“Yes. It was a kind of luminous haze.” She turned to her sister. “Isn’t that how you would describe it, Isabel?”