Dumb Witness by Agatha Christie

in the next generation?”
    â€œCharles Arundell and his sister Theresa. You could get onto them. I doubt, though, if it would be much use to you. The younger 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.”
    â€œThey might have family papers—documents?”
    â€œThey 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.
    â€œWhat’s the interest in old Arundell? I never heard he was a big pot in any way?”
    â€œMy 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.”
    â€œH’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.”
    â€œWho told you that?”
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œThank 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.”
    â€œCharles? Yes, I can put you onto him. But he’s an irreverent young devil. Family history means nothing to him.”
    â€œHe is quite young?”
    â€œHe’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 a 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.”
    â€œHis aunt was doubtless fond of him?” ventured Poirot. “It is often that way.”
    â€œH’m—I don’t know. Emily Arundell was no fool. As far as I know 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.”
    â€œWas her death sudden?”
    â€œYes, in a way. Mind you, she’d been in poor health for some years. But she’d pulled through some narrow squeaks.”
    â€œThere was some story—I apologize for repeating gossip—” Poirot spread out his hands deprecatingly—“that she had quarrelled with her family?”
    â€œShe didn’t exactly quarrel with them,” said Dr. Grainger slowly. “No, there was no open quarrel as far as I know.”
    â€œI beg your pardon. I am, perhaps, being indiscreet.”
    â€œNo, no. After all, the information’s public property.”
    â€œShe left her money away from her family, I understand?”
    â€œYes, left it all to a frightened, fluttering hen of a companion. Odd thing to do. Can’t understand it myself. Not like her.”
    â€œAh, well,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “One can imagine such a thing happening. An old lady, frail and in ill health. Very dependent on the person who attends and cares for her. A clever woman with a certain amount of personality could gain a great ascendency that way.”
    The word ascendency seemed to act like a red rag to a bull.
    Dr. Grainger snorted out:
    â€œAscendency? Ascendency?