“Please tell Miss Peabody that we come from Dr. Grainger,” said Poirot.
After a wait of a few minutes, the door opened and a short, fat woman waddled into the room. Her sparse, white hair was neatly parted in the middle. She wore a black velvet dress, the nap of which was completely rubbed off in various places, and some really beautiful fine point lace was fastened at her neck with a large cameo brooch.
She came across the room peering at us short-sightedly. Her first words were somewhat of a surprise.
“Got anything to sell?” “Nothing, madame,” said Poirot.
“Sure?” “But absolutely.” “No vacuum cleaners?” “No.” “No stockings?” “No.” “No rugs?” “No.” “Oh, well,” said Miss Peabody, settling herself in a chair, “I suppose it’s all right.
You’d better sit down then.” We sat obediently.
“You’ll excuse my asking,” said Miss Peabody with a trace of apology in her manner.
“Got to be careful. You wouldn’t believe the people who come along. Servants are no good. They can’t tell. Can’t blame ’em either.
Right voices, right clothes, right names.
How are they to tell? Commander Ridgeway, Mr. Scot Edgerton, Captain D’Arcy Fitzherbert. Nice-looking fellows, some of ’em. But before you know where you are they’ve shoved a cream-making machine under your nose.” Poirot said earnestly: “I assure you, madame, that we have nothing whatever of that kind.” “Well, you should know,” said Miss Peabody.
Poirot plunged into his story. Miss Pea- body heard him out without comment, blinking once or twice out of her small eyes.
At the end she said: “Goin’ to write a book, eh?” “Yes.” “In English?” (‘Certainly–in English.” “But you’re a foreigner. Eh? Come now, you’re a foreigner, aren’t you?” “That is true.” She transferred her gaze to me.
“You are his secretary, I suppose?” “Er–yes,” I said doubtfully.
“Can you write decent English?” “I hope so.” “H’m–where did you go to school?” “Eton.” “Then you can’t.” I was forced to let this sweeping charge against an old and venerable centre of education pass unchallenged as Miss Peabody turned her attention once more to Poirot.
“Goin’ to write a life of General Arundell, eh?” “Yes. You knew him, I think.” ; “Yes, I knew John Arundell. He drank.” There was a momentary pause. Then Miss Peabody went on musingly: “Indian Mutiny, eh? Seems a bit like flogging a dead horse to me. But that’s your business.” “You know, madame, there is a fashion in these things. At the moment India is the mode.” “Something in that. Things do come round. Look at sleeves.” We maintained a respectful silence.
“Leg o’ muttons were always ugly,” said Miss Peabody. “But I always looked well in Bishops.” She fixed a bright eye on Poirot.
“Now then, what do you want to know?” Poirot spread out his hands.
“Anything! Family history. Gossip.
Home life.” “Can’t tell you anything about India,” said Miss Peabody. “Truth is, I didn’t listen.
Rather boring these old men and their anecdotes.
He was a very stupid man–but I dare say none the worse General for that.
I’ve always heard that intelligence didn’t get you far in the army. Pay attention to your Colonel’s wife and listen respectfully to your superior officers and you’ll get on–that’s what my father used to say.” Treating this dictum respectfully, Poirot allowed a moment or two to elapse before he said: “You knew the Arundell family intimately, did you not?” “Knew “em all,” said Miss Peabody. “Matilda, she was the eldest. A spotty girl. Used to teach in Sunday School. Was sweet on one of the curates. Then there was Emily.
Good seat on a horse, she had. She was the only one who could do anything with her father when he had one of his bouts on. Cartloads of bottles used to be taken out of that house. Buried them at night, they did. Then, let me see, who came next, Arabella or Thomas? Thomas, I think. Always felt sorry for Thomas. One man and four women.
Makes a man look a fool. He was a bit of an old woman himself, Thomas was. Nobody thought he’d ever marry. Bit of a shock when he did.” She chuckled–a rich Victorian fruity chuckle.