“Where are you off to, Poirot?” “Into the burrow, my friend. This is the house of Dr. Grainger who attended Miss Arundell in her last illness.” Dr. Grainger was a man of sixty odd. His face was thin and bony with an aggressive chin, bushy eyebrows, and a pair of very shrewd grey eyes. He looked keenly from me to Poirot.
“Well, what can I do for you?” he asked abruptly.
Poirot swept into speech in the most flamboyant manner.
“I must apologize. Dr. Grainger, for this intrusion. I must confess straightaway that I do not come to consult you professionally.” Dr. Grainger said drily: “Glad to hear it. You look healthy enough!” “I must explain the purpose of my visit,” went on Poirot. “The truth of the matter is that I am writing a book–the life of the late General Arundell, who I understand lived in Market Basing for some years before his death.” The doctor looked rather surprised.
“Yes, General Arundell lived here till his death. At Littlegreen House–just up the road past the Bank–you’ve been there perhaps?” Poirot nodded assent. “But you understand that was a good bit before my time.
I came here in 1919.” “You knew his daughter, however, the late Miss Arundell?” “I knew Emily Arundell well.” “You comprehend, it has been a severe blow to me to find that Miss Arundell has recently died.” “End of April.” “So I discovered. I counted, you see, on her giving me various personal details and reminiscences of her father.” “Quite–quite. But I don’t see what I can do about it.” Poirot asked: “General Arundell has no other sons or daughters living?” “No. All dead, the lot of them.” “How many were there?” “Five. Four daughters, one son.” “And in the next generation?” “Charles Arundell and his sister Theresa.
You could get on to them. I doubt, though, if it would be much use to you. The young generation doesn’t take much interest in its grandfathers. And there’s a Mrs. Tanios, but I doubt if you’d get much there either.” “They might have family papers–documents?”
“They might have. Doubt it, though. A lot of stuff was cleared out and burnt after Miss Emily’s death, I know.” Poirot uttered a groan of anguish.
Grainger looked at him curiously.
“What’s the interest in old Arundell? I never heard he was a big pot in any way?” “My dear sir.” Poirot’s eyes gleamed with the excitement of the fanatic. “Is there not a saying that history knows nothing of its greatest men? Recently certain papers have come to light which throw an entirely different light on the whole subject of the Indian Mutiny. There is secret history there.
And in that secret history John Arundell played a big part. The whole thing is fascinating—fascinating!
And let me tell you, my dear sir, it is of especial interest at the present time. India—the English policy in regard to it—is the burning question of the hour.” “H’m,” said the doctor. “I have heard that old General Arundell used to hold forth a good deal on the subject of the Mutiny. As a matter of fact, he was considered a prize bore on the subject.” “Who told you that?” “A Miss Peabody. You might call on her, by the way. She’s our oldest inhabitant— knew the Arundells intimately. And gossip is her chief recreation. She’s worth seeing for her own sake—a character.” “Thank you. That is an excellent idea.
Perhaps, too, you would give me the address of young Mr. Arundell, the grandson of the late General Arundell.” “Charles? Yes, I can put you on to him.
But he’s an irreverent young devil. Family history means nothing to him.” “He is quite young?” “He’s what an old fogy like me calls young,” said the doctor with a twinkle.
“Early thirties. The kind of young man that’s born to be in trouble and responsibility & to their families. Charm of personality and nothing else. He’s been shipped about all over the world and done no good anywhere.” “His aunt was doubtless fond of him?” ventured Poirot. “It is often that way.” “H’m–I don’t know. Emily Arundell was no fool. As far as I knew he never succeeded in getting any money out of her. Bit of a tartar that old lady. I liked her. Respected her too. An old soldier every inch of her.” “Was her death sudden?” “Yes, in a way. Mind you, she’d been in poor health for some years. But she’d pulled through some narrow squeaks.” “There was some story–I apologize for repeating gossip–” Poirot spread out his hands deprecatingly–“that she had quarrelled with her family?” “She didn’t exactly quarrel with them,” said Dr. Grainger slowly. “No, there was no open quarrel as far as I know.” “I beg your pardon. I am, perhaps, being indiscreet.” “No, no. After all, the information’s public property.” “She left her money away from her family, I understand?” “Yes, left it all to a frightened, fluttering hen of a companion. Odd thing to do. Can’t understand it myself. Not like her.” “Ah, well,” said Poirot thoughtfully.