After the Funeral

  “Oh I’m not complaining, sir, and I’m very sensible of Mr. Abernethie’s generosity. I’m well provided for, but it’s not so easy to find a little place to buy nowadays and though my married niece has asked me to make my home with them, well, it won’t be quite the same thing as living on the estate.”

  “I know,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “It’s a hard new world for us old fellows. I wish I’d seen more of my old friend before he went. How did he seem those last few months?”

  “Well, he wasn’t himself, sir, not since Mr. Mortimer’s death.”

  “No, it broke him up. And then he was a sick man—sick men have strange fancies sometimes. I imagine Mr. Abernethie suffered from that sort of thing in his last days. He spoke of enemies sometimes, of somebody wishing to do him harm—perhaps? He may even have thought his food was being tampered with?”

  Old Lanscombe looked surprised—surprised and offended.

  “I cannot recall anything of that kind, sir.”

  Entwhistle looked at him keenly.

  “You’re a very loyal servant, Lanscombe, I know that. But such fancies on Mr. Abernethie’s part would be quite—er—unimportant—a natural symptom in some—er diseases.”

  “Indeed, sir? I can only say Mr. Abernethie never said anything like that to me, or in my hearing.”

  Mr. Entwhistle slid gently to another subject.

  “He had some of his family down to stay with him, didn’t he, before he died. His nephew and his two nieces and their husbands?”

  “Yes, sir, that is so.”

  “Was he satisfied with those visits? Or was he disappointed?

  Lanscombe’s eyes became remote, his old back stiffened.

  “I really could not say, sir.”

  “I think you could, you know,” said Mr. Entwhistle gently. “It’s not your place to say anything of that kind—that’s what you really mean. But there are times when one has to do violence to one’s senses of what is fitting. I was one of your master’s oldest friends. I cared for him very much. So did you. That’s why I’m asking you for your opinion as a man, not as a butler.”

  Lanscombe was silent for a moment, then he said in a colourless voice:

  “Is there anything—wrong, sir?”

  Mr. Entwhistle replied truthfully.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I hope not. I would like to make sure. Have you felt yourself that something was—wrong?”

  “Only since the funeral, sir. And I couldn’t say exactly what it is. But Mrs. Leo and Mrs. Timothy, too, they didn’t seem quite themselves that evening after the others had gone.”

  “You know the contents of the will?”

  “Yes, sir. Mrs. Leo thought I would like to know. It seemed to me, if I may permit myself to comment, a very fair will.”

  “Yes, it was a fair will. Equal benefits. But it is not, I think, the will that Mr. Abernethie originally intended to make after his son died. Will you answer now the question that I asked you just now?”

  “As a matter of personal opinion—”

  “Yes, yes, that is understood.”

  “The master, sir, was very much disappointed after Mr. George had been here… He had hoped, I think, that Mr. George might resemble Mr. Mortimer. Mr. George, if I may say so, did not come up to standard. Miss Laura’s husband was always considered unsatisfactory, and I’m afraid Mr. George took after him.” Lanscombe paused and then went on, “Then the young ladies came with their husbands. Miss Susan he took to at once—a very spirited and handsome young lady, but it’s my opinion he couldn’t abide her husband. Young ladies make funny choices nowadays, sir.”

  “And the other couple?”

  “I couldn’t say much about that. A very pleasant and good-looking young pair. I think the master enjoyed having them here—but I don’t think—” The old man hesitated.

  “Yes, Lanscombe?”

  “Well, the master had never been much struck with the stage. He said to me one day, ‘I can’t understand why anyone gets stage-struck. It’s a foolish kind of life. Seems to deprive people of what little sense they have. I don’t know what it does to your moral sense. You certainly lose your sense of proportion.’ Of course he wasn’t referring directly—”

  “No, no, I quite understand. Now after these visits, Mr. Abernethie himself went away—first to his brother, and afterwards to his sister Mrs. Lansquenet.”

  “That I did not know, sir. I mean he mentioned to me that he was going to Mr. Timothy and afterwards to Something St. Mary.”

  “That is right. Can you remember anything he said on his return in regard to those visits?”

  Lanscombe reflected.

  “I really don’t know—nothing direct. He was glad to be back. Travelling and staying in strange houses tired him very much—that I do remember his saying.”

  “Nothing else? Nothing about either of them?”

  Lanscombe frowned.

  “The master used to—well, to murmur, if you get my meaning—speaking to me and yet more to himself—hardly noticing I was there—because he knew me so well.”

  “Knew you and trusted you, yes.”

  “But my recollection is very vague as to what he said—something about he couldn’t think what he’d done with his money—that was Mr. Timothy, I take it. And then he said something about, ‘Women can be fools in ninety-nine different ways but be pretty shrewd in the hundredth.’ Oh yes, and he said, ‘You can only say what you really think to someone of your own generation. They don’t think you’re fancying things as the younger ones do.’ And later he said—but I don’t know in what connection—‘It’s not very nice to have to set traps for people, but I don’t see what else I can do.’ But I think it possible, sir, that he may have been thinking of the second gardener—a question of the peaches being taken.”

  But Mr. Entwhistle did not think that it was the second gardener who had been in Richard Abernethie’s mind. After a few more questions he let Lanscombe go and reflected on what he had learned. Nothing, really—nothing, that is, that he had not deduced before. Yet there were suggestive points. It was not his sister-in-law, Maude, but his sister Cora of whom he had been thinking when he made the remark about women who were fools and yet shrewd. And it was to her that he had confided his “fancies.” And he had spoken of setting a trap. For whom?

  III

  Mr. Entwhistle had meditated a good deal over how much he should tell Helen. In the end he decided he should take her wholly into his confidence.

  First he thanked her for sorting out Richard’s things and for making various household arrangements. The house had been advertised for sale and there were one or two prospective buyers who would shortly be coming to look over it.

  “Private buyers?”

  “I’m afraid not. The Y.W.C.A. are considering it, and there is a young people’s club, and the Trustees of the Jefferson Trust are looking for a suitable place to house their Collection.”

  “It seems sad that the house will not be lived in, but of course it is not a practicable proposition nowadays.”

  “I am going to ask you if it would be possible for you to remain here until the house is sold. Or would it be a great inconvenience?”

  “No—actually it would suit me very well. I don’t want to go to Cyprus until May, and I much prefer being here than being in London as I had planned. I love this house, you know; Leo loved it, and we were always happy when we were here together.”

  “There is another reason why I should be grateful if you would stay on. There is a friend of mine, a man called Hercule Poirot—”

  Helen said sharply: “Hercule Poirot? Then you think—”

  “You know of him?”

  “Yes. Some friends of mine—but I imagined that he was dead long ago.”

  “He is very much alive. Not young, of course.”

  “No, he could hardly be young.”

  She spoke mechanically. Her face was white and strained. She said with an effort:

  “You think—that Cora was rig
ht? That Richard was—murdered?”

  Mr. Entwhistle unburdened himself. It was a pleasure to unburden himself to Helen with her clear calm mind.

  When he had finished she said:

  “One ought to feel it’s fantastic—but one doesn’t. Maude and I, that night after the funeral—it was in both our minds, I’m sure. Saying to ourselves what a silly woman Cora was—and yet being uneasy. And then—Cora was killed—and I told myself it was just coincidence—and of course it may be—but oh! if one can only be sure. It’s all so difficult.”

  “Yes, it’s difficult. But Poirot is a man of great originality and he has something really approaching genius. He understands perfectly what we need—assurance that the whole thing is a mare’s nest.”

  “And suppose it isn’t?”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Mr. Entwhistle sharply.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been uneasy… Not just about what Cora said that day—something else. Something that I felt at the time to be wrong.”

  “Wrong? In what way?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know.”

  “You mean it was something about one of the people in the room?”

  “Yes—yes—something of that kind. But I don’t know who or what… Oh that sounds absurd—”

  “Not at all. It is interesting—very interesting. You are not a fool, Helen. If you noticed something, that something has significance.”

  “Yes, but I can’t remember what it was. The more I think—”

  “Don’t think. That is the wrong way to bring anything back. Let it go. Sooner or later it will flash into your mind. And when it does—let me know—at once.”

  “I will.”

  Nine

  Miss Gilchrist pulled her black hat down firmly on her head and tucked in a wisp of grey hair. The inquest was set for twelve o’clock and it was not quite twenty past eleven. Her grey coat and skirt looked quite nice, she thought, and she had bought herself a black blouse. She wished she could have been all in black, but that would have been far beyond her means. She looked round the small neat bedroom and at the walls hung with representations of Brixham Harbour, Cockington Forge, Anstey’s Cove, Kyance Cove, Polflexan Harbour, Babbacombe Bay, etc., all signed in a dashing way, Cora Lansquenet. Her eyes rested with particular fondness on Polflexan Harbour. On the chest of drawers a faded photograph carefully framed represented the Willow Tree tea shop. Miss Gilchrist looked at it lovingly and sighed.

  She was disturbed from her reverie by the sound of the doorbell below.

  “Dear me,” murmured Miss Gilchrist, “I wonder who—”

  She went out of her room and down the rather rickety stairs. The bell sounded again and there was a sharp knock.

  For some reason Miss Gilchrist felt nervous. For a moment or two her steps slowed up, then she went rather unwillingly to the door, adjuring herself not to be so silly.

  A young woman dressed smartly in black and carrying a small suitcase was standing on the step. She noticed the alarmed look on Miss Gilchrist’s face and said quickly:

  “Miss Gilchrist? I am Mrs. Lansquenet’s niece—Susan Banks.”

  “Oh dear, yes, of course. I didn’t know. Do come in, Mrs. Banks. Mind the hallstand—it sticks out a little. In here, yes. I didn’t know you were coming down for the inquest. I’d have had something ready—some coffee or something.”

  Susan Banks said briskly:

  “I don’t want anything. I’m so sorry if I startled you.”

  “Well, you know you did, in a way. It’s very silly of me. I’m not usually nervous. In fact I told the lawyer that I wasn’t nervous, and that I wouldn’t be nervous staying on here alone, and really I’m not nervous. Only—perhaps it’s just the inquest and—and thinking of things, but I have been jumpy all this morning, just about half an hour ago the bell rang and I could hardly bring myself to open the door—which was really very stupid and so unlikely that a murderer would come back—and why should he?—and actually it was only a nun, collecting for an orphanage—and I was so relieved I gave her two shillings although I’m not a Roman Catholic and indeed have no sympathy with the Roman Church and all these monks and nuns although I believe the Little Sisters of the Poor really do good work. But do please sit down, Mrs.— Mrs.—”

  “Banks.”

  “Yes, of course, Banks. Did you come down by train?”

  “No, I drove down. The lane seemed so narrow I ran the car on a little way and found a sort of old quarry I backed it into.”

  “This lane is very narrow, but there’s hardly ever any traffic along here. It’s rather a lonely road.”

  Miss Gilchrist gave a little shiver as she said those last words.

  Susan Banks was looking round the room.

  “Poor old Aunt Cora,” she said. “She left what she had to me, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Mr. Entwhistle told me. I expect you’ll be glad of the furniture. You’re newly married, I understand, and furnishing is such an expense nowadays. Mrs. Lansquenet had some very nice things.”

  Susan did not agree. Cora had had no taste for the antique. The contents varied between “modernistic” pieces and the “arty” type.

  “I shan’t want any of the furniture,” she said. “I’ve got my own, you know. I shall put it up for auction. Unless—is there any of it you would like? I’d be very glad….”

  She stopped, a little embarrassed. But Miss Gilchrist was not at all embarrassed. She beamed.

  “Now really, that’s very kind of you, Mrs. Banks—yes, very kind indeed. I really do appreciate it. But actually, you know, I have my own things. I put them in store in case—some day—I should need them. There are some pictures my father left too. I had a small tea shop at one time, you know—but then the war came—it was all very unfortunate. But I didn’t sell up everything, because I did hope to have my own little home again one day, so I put the best things in store with my father’s pictures and some relics of our old home. But I would like very much, if you really wouldn’t mind, to have that little painted tea table of dear Mrs. Lansquenet’s. Such a pretty thing and we always had tea on it.”

  Susan, looking with a slight shudder at a small green table painted with large purple clematis, said quickly that she would be delighted for Miss Gilchrist to have it.

  “Thank you very much, Mrs. Banks. I feel a little greedy. I’ve got all her beautiful pictures, you know, and a lovely amethyst brooch, but I feel that perhaps I ought to give that back to you.”

  “No, no, indeed.”

  “You’ll want to go through her things? After the inquest, perhaps?”

  “I thought I’d stay here a couple of days, go through things, and clear everything up.”

  “Sleep here, you mean?”

  “Yes. Is there any difficulty?”

  “Oh no, Mrs. Banks, of course not. I’ll put fresh sheets on my bed, and I can doss down here on the couch quite well.”

  “But there’s Aunt Cora’s room, isn’t there? I can sleep in that.”

  “You—you wouldn’t mind?”

  “You mean because she was murdered there? Oh no, I wouldn’t mind. I’m very tough, Miss Gilchrist. It’s been—I mean—It’s all right again?”

  Miss Gilchrist understood the question.

  “Oh yes, Mrs. Banks. All the blankets sent away to the cleaners and Mrs. Panter and I scrubbed the whole room out thoroughly. And there are plenty of spare blankets. But come up and see for yourself.”

  She led the way upstairs and Susan followed her.

  The room where Cora Lansquenet had died was clean and fresh and curiously devoid of any sinister atmosphere. Like the sitting room it contained a mixture of modern utility and elaborately painted furniture. It represented Cora’s cheerful tasteless personality. Over the mantelpiece an oil painting showed a buxom young woman about to enter her bath.

  Susan gave a slight shudder as she looked at it and Miss Gilchrist said:

  “That was painted by Mrs. Lansquenet’s husband. There a
re a lot more of his pictures in the dining room downstairs.”

  “How terrible.”

  “Well, I don’t care very much for that style of painting myself—but Mrs. Lansquenet was very proud of her husband as an artist and thought that his work was sadly unappreciated.”

  “Where are Aunt Cora’s own pictures?”

  “In my room. Would you like to see them?”

  Miss Gilchrist displayed her treasures proudly.

  Susan remarked that Aunt Cora seemed to have been fond of seacoast resorts.

  “Oh yes. You see, she lived for many years with Mr. Lansquenet at a small fishing village in Brittany. Fishing boats are always so picturesque, are they not?”

  “Obviously,” Susan murmured. A whole series of picture postcards could, she thought, have been made from Cora Lansquenet’s paintings which were faithful to detail and very highly coloured. They gave rise to the suspicion that they might actually have been painted from picture postcards.

  But when she hazarded this opinion Miss Gilchrist was indignant. Mrs. Lansquenet always painted from Nature! Indeed, once she had had a touch of the sun from reluctance to leave a subject when the light was just right.

  “Mrs. Lansquenet was a real artist,” said Miss Gilchrist reproachfully.

  She glanced at her watch and Susan said quickly:

  “Yes, we ought to start for the inquest. Is it far? Shall I get the car?”

  It was only five minutes’ walk, Miss Gilchrist assured her. So they set out together on foot. Mr. Entwhistle, who had come down by train, met them and shepherded them into the Village Hall.

  There seemed to be a large number of strangers present. The inquest was not sensational. There was evidence of the identification of the deceased. Medical evidence as to the nature of the wounds that had killed her. There were no signs of a struggle. Deceased was probably under a narcotic at the time she was attacked and would have been taken quite unawares. Death was unlikely to have occurred later than four thirty. Between two and four thirty was the nearest approximation. Miss Gilchrist testified to finding the body. A police constable and Inspector Morton gave their evidence. The Coroner summed up briefly. The jury made no bones about the verdict. “Murder by some person or persons unknown.”