“And I must have all the facts of the case! I must have the truth! You comprehend that once one knows the truth it is an easier matter to know just what lies to tell!”
“That seems eminently reasonable.”
“Very well then. Now, on what date was this will made?”
“On April 21st.”
“And the previous will?”
“Aunt Emily made a will five years ago.”
“Its provisions being—?”
“After a legacy to Ellen and one to a former cook, all her property was to be divided between the children of her brother Thomas and the children of her sister Arabella.”
“Was this money left in trust?”
“No, it was left to us absolutely.”
“Now, be careful. Did you all know the provisions of this will?”
“Oh, yes. Charles and I knew—and Bella knew too. Aunt Emily made no secret of it. In fact, if any of us asked for a loan she would usually say, ‘You’ll have all my money when I’m dead and gone. Be content with that fact.’”
“Would she have refused a loan if there had been a case of illness or any dire necessity?”
“No, I don’t think she would,” said Theresa slowly.
“But she considered you all had enough to live on?”
“She considered so—yes.”
There was bitterness in that voice.
“But you—did not?”
Theresa waited a minute or two before speaking. Then she said:
“My father left us thirty thousand pounds each. The interest on that, safely invested, amounts to about twelve hundred a year. Income tax takes another wedge off it. A nice little income on which one can manage very prettily. But I—” her voice changed, her slim body straightened, her head went back—all that wonderful aliveness I had sensed in her came to the fore—“but I want something better than that out of life! I want the best! The best food, the best clothes—something with line to it—beauty—not just suitable covering in the prevailing fashion. I want to live and enjoy—to go to the Mediterranean and lie in the warm summer sea—to sit round a table and play with exciting wads of money—to give parties—wild, absurd, extravagant parties—I want everything that’s going in this rotten world—and I don’t want it some day—I want it now!”
Her voice was wonderfully exciting, warm, exhilarating, intoxicating.
Poirot was studying her intently.
“And you have, I fancy, had it now?”
“Yes, Hercule—I’ve had it!”
“And how much of the thirty thousand is left?”
She laughed suddenly.
“Two hundred and twenty-one pounds, fourteen and seven-pence. That’s the exact balance. So you see, little man, you’ve got to be paid by results. No results—no fees.”
“In that case,” said Poirot in a matter-of-fact manner, “there will certainly be results.”
“You’re a great little man, Hercule. I’m glad we got together.”
Poirot went on in a businesslike way: