“Strange how women enjoy living an uncomfortable life,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “It is not always poverty, though they are good at making the best of straitened circumstances.”
“What orders for the chauffeur now?” I asked, as I negotiated the last bend of the winding lanes, and we emerged on the road to Market Basing. “On what local light do we call next? Or do we return to the George and interrogate the asthmatic waiter once more?”
“You will be glad to hear, Hastings, that we have finished with Market Basing—”
“Splendid.”
“For the moment only. I shall return!”
“Still on the track of your unsuccessful murderer?”
“Exactly.”
“Did you learn anything from the fandango of nonsense we’ve just been listening to?”
Poirot said precisely:
“There were certain points deserving of attention. The various characters in our drama begin to emerge more clearly. In some ways it resembles, does it not, a novelette of older days? The humble companion, once despised, is raised to affluence and now plays the part of lady bountiful.”
“I should imagine that such a patronage must be very galling to people who regard themselves as the rightful heirs!”
“As you say, Hastings. Yes, that is very true.”
We drove on in silence for some minutes. We had passed through Market Basing and were now once more on the main road. I hummed to myself softly the tune of “Little Man, You’ve had a Busy Day.”
“Enjoyed yourself, Poirot?” I asked at last.
Poirot said coldly:
“I do not know quite what you mean by ‘enjoyed myself,’ Hastings.”
“Well,” I said, “it seemed to me you’ve been treating yourself to a busman’s holiday!”
“You do not think that I am serious?”
“Oh, you’re serious enough. But this business seems to be of the academic kind. You’re tackling it for your own mental satisfaction. What I mean is—it’s not real.”
“Au contraire, it is intensely real.”
“I express myself badly. What I mean is, if there were a question of helping our old lady, or protecting her against further attack—well, there would be some excitement then. But as it is, I can’t help feeling that as she is dead, why worry?”
“In that case, mon ami, one would not investigate a murder case at all!”
“No, no, no. That’s quite different. I mean, then you have a body… Oh, dash it all!”
“Do not enrage yourself. I comprehend perfectly. You make a distinction between a body and a mere decease. Supposing, for instance, that Miss Arundell had died with sudden and alarming violence instead of respectably of a long-standing illness—then you would not remain indifferent to my efforts to discover the truth?”
“Of course I wouldn’t.”
“But all the same, someone did attempt to murder her?”
“Yes, but they didn’t succeed. That makes all the difference.”
“It does not intrigue you at all to know who attempted to kill her?”
“Well, yes, it does in a way.”
“We have a very restricted circle,” said Poirot musingly. “That thread—”