Dumb Witness (Hercule Poirot 16)

“Oh, no, indeed, neither Ellen nor Annie would have dreamed of such a thing. They are both most superior women and absolutely honest I am sure.”

Poirot waited a minute or two. Then he said:

“I wonder if you can give me any idea—I am sure you can, for if anyone possessed Miss Arundell’s confidence you did—”

Miss Lawson murmured confusedly:

“Oh, I don’t know about that, I’m sure—” but she was clearly flattered.

“I feel that you will be able to help me.”

“Oh, I’m sure, if I can—anything I can do—”

Poirot went on:

“This is in confidence—”

A sort of owlish expression appeared on Miss Lawson’s face. The magical words “in confidence” seemed to be a kind of Open Sesame.

“Have you any idea of the reason which caused Miss Arundell to alter her will?”

“Her will? Oh—her will?”

Miss Lawson seemed slightly taken aback.

Poirot said, watching her closely:

“It is true, is it not, that she made a new will shortly before her death, leaving all her fortune to you?”

“Yes, but I knew nothing about it. Nothing at all!” Miss Lawson was shrill in protest. “It was the greatest surprise to me! A wonderful surprise, of course! So good of dear Miss Arundell. And she never even gave me a hint. Not the smallest hint! I was so taken aback when Mr. Purvis read it out, I didn’t know where to look, or whether to laugh or cry! I assure you, M. Poirot, the shock of it—the shock, you know. The kindness—the wonderful kindness of dear Miss Arundell. Of course, I’d hoped perhaps, for just a little something—perhaps just a teeny, teeny legacy—though of course, there was no reason she should have left me even that. I’d not been with her so very long. But this—it was like—it was like a fairy story! Even now I can’t quite believe in it, if you know what I mean. And sometimes—well sometimes—I don’t feel altogether comfortable about it. I mean—well, I mean—”

She knocked off her pince-nez, picked them up, fumbled with them and went on even more incoherently.

“Sometimes I feel that—well, flesh and blood is flesh and blood after all, and I don’t feel quite comfortable at Miss Arundell’s leaving all her money away from her family. I mean, it doesn’t seem right, does it? Not all of it. Such a large fortune, too! Nobody had any idea! But—well—it does make one feel uncomfortable—and everyone saying things, you know—and I’m sure I’ve never been an ill-natured woman! I mean I wouldn’t have dreamed of influencing Miss Arundell in any way! And it’s not as though I could, either. Truth to tell, I was always just a teeny weeny bit afraid of her! She was so sharp, you know, so inclined to jump on you. And quite rude sometimes! ‘Don’t be a downright fool,’ she’d snap. And really, after all, I had my feelings and sometimes I’d feel quite upset… And then to find out that all the time she’d really been fond of me—well, it was very wonderful, wasn’t it? Only of course, as I say, there’s been a lot of unkindness, and really in some ways one feels—I mean, well, it does seem a little hard, doesn’t it, on some people?”

“You mean that you would prefer to relinquish the money?” asked Poirot.

Just for a moment I fancied a flicker of some quite different expression showed itself in Miss Lawson’s dull, pale blue eyes. I imagined that, just for a moment, a shrewd, intelligent woman sat there instead of an amiable, foolish one.

She said with a little laugh.

“Well—of course, there is the other side of it too… I mean there are two sides to every question. What I say is, Miss Arundell meant me to have the money. I mean if I didn’t take it I should be going against her wishes. And that wouldn’t be right, either, would it?”

“It is a difficult question,” said Poirot, shaking his head. “Yes, indeed, I have worried over it a great deal. Mrs. Tanios—Bella—she is such a nice woman—and those dear children! I mean, I feel sure Miss Arundell wouldn’t have wanted her to—I feel, you see, that dear Miss Arundell intended me to use my discretion. She didn’t want to leave any money outright to Bella because she was afraid that man would get hold of it.”

“What man?”

“Her husband. You know, Mr. Poirot, the poor girl is quite under his thumb. She does anything he tells her. I daresay she’d murder someone if he told her to! And she’s afraid of him. I’m quite sure she’s afraid of him. I’ve seen her look simply terrified once or twice. Now that isn’t right, Mr. Poirot—you can’t say that’s right.”

Poirot did not say so. Instead he inquired:

“What sort of man is Dr. Tanios?”

“Well,” said Miss Lawson, hesitating, “he’s a very pleasant man.”

She stopped, doubtfully.

“But you don’t trust him?”