“Then that is our starting point—a murderer. We make a few inquiries—we, as you would say—stir the mud—and what do we get—several very interesting accusations uttered apparently casually in the course of conversations.”
“You think they were not casual?”
“Impossible to tell at the moment! Miss Lawson’s innocent seeming way of bringing out the fact that Charles threatened his aunt may have been quite innocent or it may not. Dr. Tanios’ remarks about Theresa Arundell may have absolutely no malice behind them, but be merely a physician’s genuine opinion. Miss Peabody, on the other hand, is probably quite genuine in her opinion of Charles Arundell’s proclivities—but it is, after all, merely an opinion. So it goes on. There is a saying, is there not, a nigger in the woodpile. Eh bien, that is just what I find here. There is—not a nigger—but a murderer in our woodpile.”
“What I’d like to know is, what you yourself really think, Poirot?”
“Hastings—Hastings—I do not permit myself to ‘think’—not, that is, in the sense that you are using the word. At the moment I only make certain reflections.”
“Such as?”
“I consider the question of motive. What are the likely motives for Miss Arundell’s death? Clearly the most obvious one is gain. Who would have gained by Miss Arundell’s death—if she had died on Easter Tuesday?”
“Everyone—with the exception of Miss Lawson.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, at any rate, one person is automatically cleared.”
“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “It would seem so. But the interesting thing is that the person who would have gained nothing if death had occurred on Easter Tuesday, gains everything when death occurs two weeks later.”
“What are you getting at, Poirot?” I said, slightly puzzled.
“Cause and effect, my friend, cause and effect.”
I looked at him doubtfully.
He went on:
“Proceed logically! What exactly happened—after the accident?”
I hate Poirot in this mood. Whatever one says is bound to be wrong! I proceeded with intense caution.
“Miss Arundell was laid up in bed.”
“Exactly. With plently of time to think. What next?”
“She wrote to you.” Poirot nodded.
“Yes, she wrote to me. And the letter was not posted. A thousand pities, that.”
“Do you suspect that there was something fishy about that letter not being posted?”
Poirot frowned.
“There, Hastings, I have to confess that I do not know. I think—in view of everything I am almost sure—that the letter was genuinely mislaid. I believe—but I cannot be sure—that the fact that such a letter was written was unsuspected by anybody. Continue—what happened next?”
I reflected.
“The lawyer’s visit,” I suggested.
“Yes—she sent for her lawyer and in due course he arrived.”
“And she made a new will,” I continued.
“Precisely. She made a new and very unexpected will. Now, in view of that will we have to consider very carefully a statement made to us by Ellen. Ellen said, if you remember, that Miss Lawson was particularly anxious that the news that Bob had been out all night should not get to Miss Arundell’s ears.”
“But—oh, I see—no, I don’t. Or do I begin to see what you are hinting at…?”