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“Miss Lawson.”
“Lawson again? She seems to be a mine of information.”
He paused and then said:
“You know, Tanios is a nice fellow. I like him. Such a jolly, smiling chap.”
“He has an attractive personality, yes,” said Poirot.
Charles rose to his feet.
“If I’d been him I’d have murdered the dreary Bella years ago! Doesn’t she strike you as the type of woman who is marked out by fate to be a victim? You know, I should never be surprised if bits of her turned up in a trunk at Margate or somewhere!”
“It is not a pretty action that you attribute there to her husband the good doctor,” said Poirot severely.
“No,” said Charles meditatively. “And I don’t think really that Tanios would hurt a fly. He’s much too kindhearted.”
“And what about you? Would you do murder if it were made worth while?”
Charles laughed—a ringing, genuine laugh.
“Thinking about a spot of blackmail, M. Poirot? Nothing doing. I can assure you that I didn’t put—” he stopped suddenly and then went on—“strychnine in Aunt Emily’s soup.”
With a careless wave of his hand he departed.
“Were you trying to frighten him, Poirot?” I asked. “If so, I don’t think you succeeded. He showed no guilty reactions whatsoever.”
“No?”
“No. He seemed quite unruffled.”
“Curious that pause he made,” said Poirot.
“A pause?”
“Yes. A pause before the word strychnine. Almost as though he had been about to say something else and thought better of it.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“He was probably thinking of a good, venomous-sounding poison.”
“It is possible. It is possible. But let us set off. We will, I think, stay the night at the George in Market Basing.”
Ten minutes later saw us speeding through London, bound once more for the country.
We arrived in Harchester about four o’clock and made our way straight to the offices of Purvis, Purvis, Charlesworth and Purvis.
Mr. Purvis was a big solidly-built man with white hair and a rosy complexion. He had a little the look of a country squire. His manner was courteous but reserved.
He read the letter we had brought and then looked at us across the top of his desk. It was a shrewd look and a somewhat searching one.
“I know you by name, of course, M. Poirot,” he said politely. “Miss Arundell and her brother have, I gather, engaged your services in this matter, but exactly in what capacity you propose to be of use to them I am at a loss to imagine.”
“Shall we say, Mr. Purvis, a fuller investigation of all the circumstances?”
The lawyer said drily:
“Miss Arundell and her brother have already had my opinion as to the legal position. The circumstances were perfectly clear and admit of no misrepresentation.”
