“And t
hat’s more than most people would say—looking at your moustache. Why d’you have a moustache like that? D’you like it?”
I turned away convulsed with laughter.
“In England the cult of the moustache is lamentably neglected,” said Poirot. His hand surreptitiously caressed the hirsute adornment.
“Oh, I see! Funny,” said Miss Peabody. “Knew a woman who once had a goitre and was proud of it! Wouldn’t believe that, but it’s true! Well, what I say is, it’s lucky when you’re pleased with what the Lord has given you. It’s usually the other way about.” She shook her head and sighed.
“Never thought there would be a murder in this out of the world spot.” Again she shot a sudden, piercing look at Poirot. “Which of ’em did it?”
“Am I to shout that to you here in the street?”
“Probably means you don’t know. or do you? Oh, well—bad blood—bad blood. I’d like to know whether that Varley woman poisoned her husband or not. Makes a difference.”
“You believe in heredity?”
Miss Peabody said, suddenly:
“I’d rather it was Tanios. An outsider! But wishes ain’t horses, worse luck. Well, I’ll be getting along. I can see you’re not goin’ to tell me anything… Who are you actin’ for, by the way?”
Poirot said, gravely:
“I am acting for the dead, mademoiselle.”
I am sorry to say that Miss Peabody received this remark with a sudden shriek of laughter. Quickly subduing her mind she said:
“Excuse me. It sounded like Isabel Tripp—that’s all! What an awful woman! Julia’s worse, I think. So painfully girlish. Never did like mutton dressed lamb fashion. Well, good-bye. Seen Dr. Grainger at all?”
“Mademoiselle, I have the bone to pick with you. You betrayed my secret.”
Miss Peabody indulged in her peculiar throaty chuckle.
“Men are simple! He’d swallowed that preposterous tissue of lies you told him. Wasn’t he mad when I told him? Went away snorting with rage! He’s looking for you.”
“He found me last night.”
“Oh! I wish I’d been there.”
“I wish you had, mademoiselle,” said Poirot gallantly.
Miss Peabody laughed and prepared to waddle away. She addressed me over her shoulder.
“Good-bye, young man. Don’t go buying those chairs. They’re a fake.”
She moved off, chuckling.
“That,” said Poirot, “is a very clever old woman.”
“Even although she did not admire your moustaches?”
“Taste is one thing,” said Poirot coldly. “Brains are another.”
We passed into the shop and spent a pleasant twenty minutes looking round. We emerged unscathed in pocket and proceeded in the direction of Littlegreen House.
Ellen, rather redder in the face than usual, admitted us and showed us into the drawing room. Presently footsteps were heard descending the stairs and Miss Lawson came in. She seemed somewhat out of breath and flustered. Her hair was pinned up in a silk handkerchief.
“I hope you’ll excuse my coming in like this, M. Poirot. I’ve been going through some locked-up cupboards—so many things—old people are inclined to hoard a little, I’m afraid—dear Miss Arundell was no exception—and one gets so much dust in one’s hair—astonishing, you know, the things people collect—if you can believe me, two dozen needlebooks—actually, two dozen.”