After the Funeral

  It was over. They came out again into the sunlight. Half a dozen cameras clicked. Mr. Entwhistle shepherded Susan and Miss Gilchrist into the King’s Arms, where he had taken the precaution to arrange for lunch to be served in a private room behind the bar.

  “Not a very good lunch,” he said apologetically.

  But the lunch was not at all bad. Miss Gilchrist sniffed a little and murmured that “it was all so dreadful,” but cheered up and tackled the Irish stew with appetite after Mr. Entwhistle had insisted on her drinking a glass of sherry. He said to Susan:

  “I’d no idea you were coming down today, Susan. We could have come together.”

  “I know I said I wouldn’t. But it seemed rather mean for none of the family to be there. I rang up George but he said he was very busy and couldn’t possibly make it, and Rosamund had an audition and Uncle Timothy, of course, is a crock. So it had to be me.”

  “Your husband didn’t come with you?”

  “Greg had to settle up with his tiresome shop.”

  Seeing a startled look in Miss Gilchrist’s eye, Susan said: “My husband works in a chemist’s shop.”

  A husband in retail trade did not quite square with Miss Gilchrist’s impression of Susan’s smartness, but she said valiantly: “Oh yes, just like Keats.”

  “Greg’s no poet,” said Susan.

  She added:

  “We’ve got great plans for the future—a double-barrelled establishment—Cosmetics and Beauty parlour and a laboratory for special preparations.”

  “That will be much nicer,” said Miss Gilchrist approvingly. “Something like Elizabeth Arden who is really a Countess, so I have been told—or is that Helena Rubenstein? In any case,” she added kindly, “a pharmacist’s is not in the least like an ordinary shop—a draper, for instance, or a grocer.”

  “You kept a tea shop, you said, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Miss Gilchrist’s face lit up. That the Willow Tree had ever been “trade” in the sense that a shop was trade, would never have occurred to her. To keep a tea shop was in her mind the essence of gentility. She started telling Susan about the Willow Tree.

  Mr. Entwhistle, who had heard about it before, let his mind drift to other matters. When Susan had spoken to him twice without his answering he hurriedly apologized.

  “Forgive me, my dear, I was thinking, as a matter of fact, about your Uncle Timothy. I am a little worried.”

  “About Uncle Timothy? I shouldn’t be. I don’t believe really there’s anything the matter with him. He’s just a hypochondriac.”

  “Yes—yes, you may be right. I confess it was not his health that was worrying me. It’s Mrs. Timothy. Apparently she’s fallen downstairs and twisted her ankle. She’s laid up and your uncle is in a terrible state.”

  “Because he’ll have to look after her instead of the other way about? Do him a lot of good,” said Susan.

  “Yes—yes, I dare say. But will your poor aunt get any looking after? That is really the question. With no servants in the house?”

  “Life is really hell for elderly people,” said Susan. “They live in a kind of Georgian Manor house, don’t they?”

  Mr. Entwhistle nodded.

  They came rather warily out of the King’s Arms, but the Press seemed to have dispersed.

  A couple of reporters were lying in wait for Susan by the cottage door. Shepherded by Mr. Entwhistle she said a few necessary and noncommittal words. Then she and Miss Gilchrist went into the cottage and Mr. Entwhistle returned to the King’s Arms where he had booked a room. The funeral was to be on the following day.

  “My car’s still in the quarry,” said Susan. “I’d forgotten about it. I’ll drive it along to the village later.”

  Miss Gilchrist said anxiously:

  “Not too late. You won’t go out after dark, will you?”

  Susan looked at her and laughed.

  “You don’t think there’s a murderer still hanging about, do you?”

  “No—no, I suppose not.” Miss Gilchrist looked embarrassed.

  “But it’s exactly what she does think, thought Susan. “How amazing!”

  Miss Gilchrist had vanished towards the kitchen.

  “I’m sure you’d like tea early. In about half an hour, do you think, Mrs. Banks?”

  Susan thought that tea at half past three was overdoing it, but she was charitable enough to realize that “a nice cup of tea” was Miss Gilchrist’s idea of restoration for the nerves and she had her own reasons for wishing to please Miss Gilchrist, so she said:

  “Whenever you like, Miss Gilchrist.”

  A happy clatter of kitchen implements began and Susan went into the sitting room. She had only been there a few minutes when the bell sounded and was succeeded by a very precise little rat-tat-tat.

  Susan came out into the hall and Miss Gilchrist appeared at the kitchen door wearing an apron and wiping floury hands on it.

  “Oh dear, who do you think that can be?”

  “More reporters, I expect,” said Susan.

  “Oh dear, how annoying for you, Mrs. Banks.”

  “Oh well, never mind, I’ll attend to it.”

  “I was just going to make a few scones for tea.”

  Susan went towards the front door and Miss Gilchrist hovered uncertainly. Susan wondered whether she thought a man with a hatchet was waiting outside.

  The visitor, however, proved to be an elderly gentleman who raised his hat when Susan opened the door and said, beaming at her in avuncular style:

  “Mrs. Banks, I think?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Guthrie—Alexander Guthrie. I was a friend—a very old friend, of Mrs. Lansquenet’s. You, I think, are her niece, formerly Miss Susan Abernethie?”

  “That’s quite right.”

  “Then since we know who we are, I may come in?”

  “Of course.”

  Mr. Guthrie wiped his feet carefully on the mat, stepped inside, divested himself of his overcoat, laid it down with his hat on a small oak chest and followed Susan into the sitting room.

  “This is a melancholy occasion,” said Mr. Guthrie, to whom melancholy did not seem to come naturally, his own inclination being to beam. “Yes, a very melancholy occasion. I was in this part of the world and I felt the least I could do was to attend the inquest—and of course the funeral. Poor Cora—poor foolish Cora. I have known her, my dear Mrs. Banks, since the early days of her marriage. A high-spirited girl—and she took art very seriously—took Pierre Lansquenet seriously, too—as an artist, I mean. All things considered he didn’t make her too bad a husband. He strayed, if you know what I mean, yes, he strayed—but fortunately Cora took it as part of the artistic temperament. He was an artist and therefore immoral! In fact, I’m not sure she didn’t go further: he was immoral and therefore he must be an artist! No kind of sense in artistic matters, poor Cora—though in other ways, mind you, Cora had a lot of sense—yes, a surprising lot of sense.”

  “That’s what everybody seems to say,” said Susan. “I didn’t really know her.”

  “No, no, cut herself off from her family because they didn’t appreciate her precious Pierre. She was never a pretty girl—but she had something. She was good company! You never knew what she’d say next and you never knew if her näiveté was genuine or whether she was doing it deliberately. She made us all laugh a good deal. The eternal child—that’s what we always felt about her. And really the last time I saw her (I have seen her from time to time since Pierre died) she struck me as still behaving very much like a child.”

  Susan offered Mr. Guthrie a cigarette, but the old gentleman shook his head.

  “No thank you, my dear. I don’t smoke. You must wonder why I’ve come? To tell you the truth I was feeling rather conscience-stricken. I promised Cora to come and see her some weeks ago. I usually called upon her once a year, and just lately she’d taken up the hobby of buying pictures at local sales, and wanted me to look at some of them. My profession is that of art crit
ic, you know. Of course most of Cora’s purchases were horrible daubs, but take it all in all, it isn’t such a bad speculation. Pictures go for next to nothing at these country sales and the frames alone are worth more than you pay for the picture. Naturally any important sale is attended by dealers and one isn’t likely to get hold of masterpieces. But only the other day, a small Cuyp was knocked down for a few pounds at a farmhouse sale. The history of it was quite interesting. It had been given to an old nurse by the family she had served faithfully for many years—they had no idea of its value. Old nurse gave it to a farmer nephew who liked the horse in it but thought it was a dirty old thing! Yes, yes, these things sometimes happen, and Cora was convinced that she had an eye for pictures. She hadn’t of course. Wanted me to come and look at a Rembrandt she had picked up last year. A Rembrandt! Not even a respectable copy of one! But she had got hold of a quite nice Bartolozzi engraving—damp spotted unfortunately. I sold it for her for thirty pounds and of course that spurred her on. She wrote to me with great gusto about an Italian Primitive she had bought at some sale and I promised I’d come along and see it.”

  “That’s it over there, I expect,” said Susan, gesturing to the wall behind him.

  Mr. Guthrie got up, put on a pair of spectacles, and went over to study the picture.

  “Poor dear Cora,” he said at last.

  “There are a lot more,” said Susan.

  Mr. Guthrie proceeded to a leisurely inspection of the art treasures acquired by the hopeful Mrs. Lansquenet. Occasionally he said, “Tchk, Tchk,” occasionally he sighed.

  Finally he removed his spectacles.

  “Dirt,” he said, “is a wonderful thing, Mrs. Banks! It gives a patina of romance to the most horrible examples of the painter’s art. I’m afraid that Bartolozzi was beginner’s luck. Poor Cora. Still, it gave her an interest in life. I am really thankful that I did not have to disillusion her.”

  “There are some pictures in the dining room,” said Susan, “but I think they are all her husband’s work.”

  Mr. Guthrie shuddered slightly and held up a protesting hand.

  “Do not force me to look at those again. Life classes have much to answer for! I always tried to spare Cora’s feelings. A devoted wife—a very devoted wife. Well, dear Mrs. Banks, I must not take up more of your time.”

  “Oh, do stay and have some tea. I think it’s nearly ready.”

  “That is very kind of you.” Mr. Guthrie sat down again promptly.

  “I’ll just go and see.”

  In the kitchen, Miss Gilchrist was just lifting a last batch of scones from the oven. The tea tray stood ready and the kettle was just gently rattling its lid.

  “There’s a Mr. Guthrie here, and I’ve asked him to stay for tea.”

  “Mr. Guthrie? Oh, yes, he was a great friend of dear Mrs. Lansquenet’s. He’s the celebrated art critic. How fortunate; I’ve made a nice lot of scones and that’s some homemade strawberry jam, and I just whipped up some little drop cakes. I’ll just make the tea—I’ve warmed the pot. Oh, please, Mrs. Banks, don’t carry that heavy tray. I can manage everything.”

  However, Susan took in the tray and Miss Gilchrist followed with teapot and kettle, greeted Mr. Guthrie, and they set to.

  “Hot scones, that is a treat,” said Mr. Guthrie, “and what delicious jam! Really, the stuff one buys nowadays.”

  Miss Gilchrist was flushed and delighted. The little cakes were excellent and so were the scones, and everyone did justice to them. The ghost of the Willow Tree hung over the party. Here, it was clear, Miss Gilchrist was in her element.

  “Well, thank you, perhaps I will,” said Mr. Guthrie as he accepted the last cake, pressed upon him by Miss Gilchrist. “I do feel rather guilty, though—enjoying my tea here, where poor Cora was so brutally murdered.”

  Miss Gilchrist displayed an unexpected Victorian reaction to this.

  “Oh, but Mrs. Lansquenet would have wished you to take a good tea. You’ve got to keep your strength up.”

  “Yes, yes, perhaps you are right. The fact is, you know, that one cannot really bring oneself to believe that someone you knew—actually knew—can have been murdered!”

  “I agree,” said Susan. “It just seems—fantastic.”

  “And certainly not by some casual tramp who broke in and attacked her. I can imagine, you know, reasons why Cora might have been murdered—”

  Susan said quickly, “Can you? What reasons?”

  “Well, she wasn’t discreet,” said Mr. Guthrie. “Cora was never discreet. And she enjoyed—how shall I put it—showing how sharp she could be? Like a child who’s got hold of somebody’s secret. If Cora got hold of a secret she’d want to talk about it. Even if she promised not to, she’d still do it. She wouldn’t be able to help herself.”

  Susan did not speak. Miss Gilchrist did not either. She looked worried. Mr. Guthrie went on:

  “Yes, a little dose of arsenic in a cup of tea—that would not have surprised me, or a box of chocolates by post. But sordid robbery and assault—that seems highly incongruous. I may be wrong but I should have thought she had very little to take that would be worth a burglar’s while. She didn’t keep much money in the house, did she?”

  Miss Gilchrist said, “Very little.”

  Mr. Guthrie sighed and rose to his feet.

  “Ah! well, there’s a lot of lawlessness about since the war. Times have changed.”

  Thanking them for the tea he took a polite farewell of the two women. Miss Gilchrist saw him out and helped him on with his overcoat. From the window of the sitting room, Susan watched him trot briskly down the front path to the gate.

  Miss Gilchrist came back into the room with a small parcel in her hand.

  “The postman must have been while we were at the inquest. He pushed it through the letter box and it had fallen in the corner behind the door. Now I wonder—why, of course, it must be wedding cake.”

  Happily Miss Gilchrist ripped off the paper. Inside was a small white box tied with silver ribbon.

  “It is!” She pulled off the ribbon, inside was a modest wedge of rich cake with almond paste and white icing. “How nice! Now who—” She consulted the card attached. “John and Mary. Now who can that be? How silly to put no surname.”

  Susan, rousing herself from contemplation, said vaguely:

  “It’s quite difficult sometimes with people just using Christian names. I got a postcard the other day signed Joan. I counted up I knew eight Joans—and with telephoning so much, one often doesn’t know their handwriting.”

  Miss Gilchrist was happily going over the possible Johns and Marys of her acquaintance.

  “It might be Dorothy’s daughter—her name was Mary, but I hadn’t heard of an engagement, still less of a marriage. Then there’s little John Banfield—I suppose he’s grown up and old enough to be married—or the Enfield girl—no, her name was Margaret. No address or anything. Oh well, I dare say it will come to me….”

  She picked up the tray and went out to the kitchen.

  Susan roused herself and said:

  “Well— I suppose I’d better go and put the car somewhere.”

  Ten

  Susan retrieved the car from the quarry where she had left it and drove it into the village. There was a petrol pump but no garage and she was advised to take it to the King’s Arms. They had room for it there and she left it by a big Daimler which was preparing to go out. It was chauffeur driven and inside it, very much muffled up, was an elderly foreign gentleman with a large moustache.

  The boy to whom Susan was talking about the car was staring at her with such rapt attention that he did not seem to be taking in half of what she said.

  Finally he said in an awe-stricken voice:

  “You’re her niece, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “You’re the victim’s niece,” the boy repeated with relish.

  “Oh—yes—yes, I am.”

  “Ar! Wondered where I’d seen you before.”

&n
bsp; “Ghoul,” thought Susan as she retraced her steps to the cottage.

  Miss Gilchrist greeted her with:

  “Oh, you’re safely back,” in tones of relief which further annoyed her. Miss Gilchrist added anxiously:

  “You can eat spaghetti, can’t you? I thought for tonight—”

  “Oh yes, anything. I don’t want much.”

  “I really flatter myself that I can make a very tasty spaghetti au gratin.”

  The boast was not an idle one. Miss Gilchrist, Susan reflected, was really an excellent cook. Susan offered to help wash up but Miss Gilchrist, though clearly gratified by the offer, assured Susan that there was very little to do.

  She came in a little while after with coffee. The coffee was less excellent, being decidedly weak. Miss Gilchrist offered Susan a piece of the wedding cake which Susan refused.

  “It’s really very good cake,” Miss Gilchrist insisted, tasting it. She had settled to her own satisfaction that it must have been sent by someone whom she alluded to as “dear Ellen’s daughter who I know was engaged to be married but I can’t remember her name.”

  Susan let Miss Gilchrist chirrup away into silence before starting her own subject of conversation. This moment, after supper, sitting before the fire, was a companionable one.

  She said at last:

  “My Uncle Richard came down here before he died, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “When was that exactly?”

  “Let me see—it must have been one, two—nearly three weeks before his death was announced.”

  “Did he seem—ill?”

  “Well, no, I wouldn’t say he seemed exactly ill. He had a very hearty vigorous manner. Mrs. Lansquenet was very surprised to see him. She said, ‘Well, really, Richard, after all these years!’ and he said, ‘I came to see for myself exactly how things are with you.’ And Mrs. Lansquenet said, ‘I’m all right.’ I think, you know, she was a teeny bit offended by his turning up so casually—after the long break. Anyway Mr. Abernethie said, ‘No use keeping up old grievances. You and I and Timothy are the only ones left—and nobody can talk to Timothy except about his own health.’ And he said, ‘Pierre seems to have made you happy, so it seems I was in the wrong. There, will that content you?’ Very nicely he said it. A handsome man, though elderly, of course.”