“Oh, dear no, she was no manner of good! Too fussy, you know. She only irritated my patient.”
“Did you, then, do all the nursing yourself? C’est formidable ça.”
“The maid—what was her name—Ellen, helped me. Ellen was very good. She was used to illness and used to looking after the old lady. We managed pretty well between us. As a matter of fact, Dr. Grainger was sending in a night nurse on the Friday, but Miss Arundell died before the night nurse arrived.”
“Perhaps Miss Lawson helped to prepare some of the invalid’s food?”
“No, she didn’t do anything at all. There wasn’t really anything to prepare. I had the Valentine and the brandy—and the Brand’s and glucose and all that. All Miss Lawson did was to go about the house crying and getting in everyone’s way.”
The nurse’s tone held distinct acrimony.
“I can see,” said Poirot smiling, “that you have not a very high opinion of Miss Lawson’s usefulness.”
“Companions are usually a poor lot, in my opinion. They’re not trained, you see, in any way. Just amateurs. And usually they’re women who wouldn’t be any good at anything else.”
“Do you think Miss Lawson was very attached to Miss Arundell?”
“She seemed to be. Very upset and took on terribly when the old lady died. More than the relatives did, in my opinion,” Nurse Carruthers finished with a sniff.
“Perhaps, then,” said Poirot nodding his head sagely, “Miss Arundell knew what she was doing when she left her money as she did.”
“She was a very shrewd old lady,” said the nurse. “There wasn’t much she didn’t take in and know about, I must say!”
“Did she mention the dog, Bob, at all?”
“It’s funny you should say that! She talked about him a lot—when she was delirious. Something about his ball and a fall she’d had. A nice dog, Bob was—I’m very fond of dogs. Poor fellow, he was very miserable when she died. Wonderful, aren’t they? Quite human.”
And on the note of the humanity of dogs, we parted.
“There is one who had clearly no suspicions,” remarked Poirot after we had left.
He sounded slightly discouraged.
We had a bad dinner at the George—Poirot groaning a good deal, especially over the soup.
“And it is so easy, Hastings, to make good soup. Le pot au feu—”
I avoided a disquisition on cookery with some difficulty.
After dinner we had a surprise.
We were sitting in the “lounge” which we had to ourselves. There had been one other man at dinner—a commercial traveller by his appearance—but he had gone out. I was just idly turning over the pages of an antiquated Stock Breeder’s Gazette or some such periodical when I suddenly heard Poirot’s name being mentioned.
The voice in question was somewhere outside.
“Where is he? In here? Right—I can find him.”
The door was flung violently open, and Dr. Grainger, his face rather red, his eyebrows working irritably, strode into the room. He paused to close the door and then advanced upon us in no uncertain fashion.
“Oh, here you are! Now then, M. Hercule Poirot, what the devil do you mean by coming round to see me and telling me a pack of lies?”
“One of the juggler’s balls?” I murmured maliciously.
Poirot said in his oiliest voice:
“My dear doctor, you must allow me to explain—”
“Allow you? Allow you? Damn it, I’ll force you to explain! You’re a detective, that’s what you are! A nosing, prying detective! Coming round to me and feeding me up with a pack of lies about writing old General Arundell’s biography! More fool me to be taken in by such a damn’ fool story.”