XIV Charles Arundell
I must confess that from the moment I set eyes on him I entertained a sneaking liking for Charles Arundell. There was something so debonair and carefree about him. His eyes had an agreeable and humorous twinkle and his grin was one of the most disarming I have ever encountered.
He came across the room and sat down on the arm of one of the massive, upholstered chairs.
“What’s it all about, old girl?” he asked.
“This is M. Hercule Poirot, Charles. He is prepared to–er–do some dirty work for us in return for a small consideration.” “I protest,” cried Poirot. “Not dirty work–shall we say a little harmless deception of some kind–so that the original intention of the testator is carried out? Let us Put it that way.” “Put it any way you like,” said Charles agreeably. “What made Theresa think of you, I wonder?” “She did not,” said Poirot quickly. “I came here of my own accord.” “Offering your services?” “Not quite that. I was asking for you.
Your sister told me you had gone abroad.” “Theresa,” said Charles, “is a very careful sister. She hardly ever makes a mistake. In fact, she’s suspicious as the devil.” He smiled at her affectionately, but she did not smile back. She looked worried and thoughtful.
“Surely,” said Charles, “we’ve got things the wrong way round? Isn’t M. Poirot famous for tracking down criminals? Surely not for aiding and abetting them?” “We’re not criminals,” said Theresa sharply.
“But we’re quite willing to be,” said Charles affably. “I’d thought of a spot of forgery myself–that’s rather my line. I got sent down from Oxford because of a little misunderstanding about a cheque. That was childishly simple, though–merely a question of adding a nought. Then there was another little fracas with Aunt Emily and the local bank. Foolish on my part, of course. I ought to have realized the old lady was sharp as needles. However, all these incidents have been very small fry–fivers or tenners–that class. A deathbed will would be admittedly risky. One would have to get hold of the stiff and starched Ellen and–is suborn the word?–anyway, induce her to say she had witnessed it. It would take some doing, I fear. I might even marry her and then she wouldn’t be able to give evidence against me afterwards.” He grinned amiably at Poirot.
“I feel sure you’ve installed a secret dietaphone and Scotland Yard is listening in,” he said.
“Your problem interests me,” said Poirot with a touch of reproof in his manner.
“Naturally I could not connive at anything against the law. But there are more ways than one–” He stopped significantly.
Charles Arundell shrugged his graceful shoulders.
“I’ve no doubt there’s an equal choice of devious ways inside the law,” he said agreeably.
“You should know.” “By whom was the will witnessed? I mean the one made on April 21st?” “Pur vis brought down his clerk and the second witness was the gardener.” “It was signed then in Mr. Purvis’s presence?”
“It was.” “And Mr. Purvis, I fancy, is a man of the highest respectability?” “Pur vis, Purvis, Charlesworth and once more Purvis are just about as respectable and impeccable as the Bank of England,” said Charles.
“He didn’t like making the will,” said Theresa. “In an ultra-correct fashion I believe he even tried to dissuade Aunt Emily from making it.” Charles said sharply: “Did he tell you that, Theresa?” “Yes. I went to see him again yesterday.” “It’s no good, my sweet–you ought to realize that. Only piles up the six and eightpences.” Theresa shrugged her shoulders.
Poirot said: “I will ask of you to give me as much information as you can about the last weeks of Miss ArundelFs life. Now, to begin with, I understand that you and your brother and also Dr. Tanios and his wife stayed there for Easter?” “Yes, we did.” “Did anything happen of significance during that weekend?” “I don’t think so.” “Nothing? But I thought–” Charles broke in.
“What a self-centred creature you are, Theresa. Nothing of significance happened to you! Wrapped in love’s young dream! Let me tell you, M. Poirot, that Theresa has a blue-eyed boy in Market Basing. One of the local sawbones. She’s got rather a faulty sense of proportion in consequence. As a matter of fact, my revered aunt took a header down the stairs and nearly passed out. Wish she had. It would have saved all this fuss.” “She fell down the stairs?” “Yes, tripped over the dog’s ball. Intelligent little brute left it at the top of the stairs and she took a header over it in the night.” “This was–when?” “Let me see–Tuesday–the evening before we left.” “Your aunt was seriously injured?” “Unfortunately she didn’t fall on her head. If she had we might have pleaded softening of the brain–or whatever it’s called scientifically. No, she was hardly hurt at all.55 Poirot said drily: “Very disappointing for you!” “Eh? Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, as you say, very disappointing. Tough nuts, these old ladies.” “And you all left on the Wednesday morning?”