After the Funeral

by Agatha Christie

  Timothy lay back in his chair and said:

  “Good thing to get rid of the women. Now we can talk business without any silly interruptions.”

  “The sum left in trust for Cora,” said Mr. Entwhistle, “goes equally to you and the nieces and nephew.”

  “But look here,” Timothy’s cheeks assumed a purplish hue of indignation. “Surely I’m her next of kin? Only surviving brother.”

  Mr. Entwhistle explained with some care the exact provisions of Richard Abernethie’s will, reminding Timothy gently that he had had a copy sent him.

  “Don’t expect me to understand all that legal jargon, do you?” said Timothy ungratefully. “You lawyers! Matter of fact, I couldn’t believe it when Maude came home and told me the gist of it. Thought she’d got it wrong. Women are never clear headed. Best woman in the world, Maude—but women don’t understand finance. I don’t believe Maude even realizes that if Richard hadn’t died when he did, we might have had to clear out of here. Fact!”

  “Surely if you had applied to Richard—”

  Timothy gave a short bark of harsh laughter.

  “That’s not my style. Our father left us all a perfectly reasonable share of his money—that is, if we didn’t want to go into the family concern. I didn’t. I’ve a soul above cornplasters, Entwhistle! Richard took my attitude a bit hard. Well, what with taxes, depreciation of income, one thing and another—it hasn’t been easy to keep things going. I’ve had to realize a good deal of capital. Best thing to do these days. I did hint once to Richard that this place was getting a bit hard to run. He took the attitude that we’d be much better off in a smaller place altogether. Easier for Maude, he said, more labour saving—labour saving, what a term! Oh no, I wouldn’t have asked Richard for help. But I can tell you, Entwhistle, that the worry affected my health most unfavourably. A man in my state of health oughtn’t to have to worry. Then Richard died and though of course naturally I was cut up about it—my brother and all that— I couldn’t help feeling relieved about future prospects. Yes, it’s all plain sailing now—and a great relief. Get the house painted—get a couple of really good men on the garden—you can get them at a price. Restock the rose garden completely. And—where was I—”

  “Detailing your future plans.”

  “Yes, yes—but I mustn’t bother you with all that. What did hurt me—and hurt me cruelly—were the terms of Richard’s will.”

  “Indeed?” Mr. Entwhistle looked inquiring. “They were not—as you expected?”

  “I should say they weren’t! Naturally, after Mortimer’s death, I assumed that Richard would leave everything to me.”

  “Ah—did he—ever—indicate that to you?”

  “He never said so—not in so many words. Reticent sort of chap, Richard. But he asked himself here—not long after Mortimer’s death. Wanted to talk over family affairs generally. We discussed young George—and the girls and their husbands. Wanted to know my views—not that I could tell him much. I’m an invalid and I don’t get about, and Maudie and I live out of the world. Rotten silly marriages both of those girls made, if you ask me. Well, I ask you, Entwhistle, naturally I thought he was consulting me as the head of the family after he was gone and naturally I thought the control of the money would be mine. Richard could surely trust me to do the right thing by the younger generation. And to look after poor old Cora. Dash it all, Entwhistle, I’m an Abernethie—the last Abernethie. Full control should have been left in my hands.”

  In his excitement Timothy had kicked aside his rug and had sat up in his chair. There were no signs of weakness or fragility about him. He looked, Mr. Entwhistle thought, a perfectly healthy man, even if a slightly excitable one. Moreover the old lawyer realized very clearly that Timothy Abernethie had probably always been secretly jealous of his brother Richard. They had been sufficiently alike for Timothy to resent his brother’s strength of character and firm grasp of affairs. When Richard had died, Timothy had exulted in the prospect of succeeding at this late date to the power to control the destinies of others.

  Richard Abernethie had not given him that power. Had he thought of doing so and then decided against it?

  A sudden squalling of cats in the garden brought Timothy up out of his chair. Rushing to the window he threw up the sash, bawled out, “Stop it, you!” and picking up a large book hurled it out at the marauders.

  “Beastly cats,” he grumbled, returning to his visitor. “Ruin the flower beds and I can’t stand that damned yowling.”

  He sat down again and asked:

  “Have a drink, Entwhistle?”

  “Not quite so soon. Maude has just given me an excellent tea.”

  Timothy grunted.

  “Capable woman. Maude. But she does too much. Even has to muck about with the inside of that old car of ours—she’s quite a mechanic in her way, you know.”

  “I hear she had a breakdown coming back from the funeral?”

  “Yes. Car conked out. She had the sense to telephone through about it, in case I should be anxious, but that ass of a daily woman of ours wrote down the message in a way that didn’t make sense. I was out getting a bit of fresh air—I’m advised by the doctor to take what exercise I can if I feel like it—I got back from my walk to find scrawled on a bit of paper: ‘Madame’s sorry car gone wrong got to stay night.’ Naturally I thought she was still at Enderby. Put a call through and found Maude had left that morning. Might have had the breakdown anywhere! Pretty kettle of fish! Fool of a daily woman only left me a lumpy macaroni cheese for supper. I had to go down to the kitchen and warm it up myself—and make myself a cup of tea—to say nothing of stoking the boiler. I might have had a heart attack—but does that class of woman care? Not she! With any decent feelings she’d have come back that evening and looked after me properly. No loyalty any more in the lower classes—”

  He brooded sadly.

  “I don’t know how much Maude told you about the funeral and the relatives,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “Cora produced rather an awkward moment. Said brightly that Richard had been murdered, hadn’t he? Perhaps Maude told you.”

  Timothy chuckled easily.

  “Oh yes, I heard about that. Everybody looked down their noses and pretended to be shocked. Just the sort of thing Cora would say! You know how she always managed to put her foot in it when she was a girl, Entwhistle? Said something at our wedding that upset Maude, I remember. Maude never cared for her very much. Yes, Maude rang me up that evening after the funeral to know if I was all right and if Mrs. Jones had come in to give me my evening meal and then she told me it had all gone off very well, and I said ‘What about the will?’ and she tried to hedge a bit, but of course I had the truth out of her. I couldn’t believe it, and I said she must have made a mistake, but she stuck to it. It hurt me, Entwhistle—it really wounded me, if you know what I mean. If you ask me, it was just spite on Richard’s part. I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but, upon my word—”

  Timothy continued on this theme for some time.

  Then Maude came back into the room and said firmly:

  “I think, dear, Mr. Entwhistle has been with you quite long enough. You really must rest. If you have settled everything—”

  “Oh, we’ve settled things. I leave it all to you, Entwhistle. Let me know when they catch the fellow—if they ever do. I’ve no faith in the police nowadays—the Chief Constables aren’t the right type. You’ll see to the—er—interment—won’t you? We shan’t be able to come, I’m afraid. But order an expensive wreath—and there must be a proper stone put up in due course—she’ll be buried locally, I suppose? No point in bringing her North and I’ve no idea where Lansquenet is buried, somewhere in France I believe. I don’t know what one puts on a stone when it’s murder… Can’t very well say ‘entered into rest’ or anything like that. One will have to choose a text—something appropriate. R.I.P.? No, that’s only for Catholics.”

  “O Lord, thou has seen my wrong. Judge thou my case,” murmured Mr. Entwhistle.r />
  The startled glance Timothy bent on him made Mr. Entwhistle smile faintly.

  “From Lamentations,” he said. “It seems appropriate if somewhat melodramatic. However, it will be some time before the question of the Memorial stone comes up. The—er—ground has to settle, you know. Now don’t worry about anything. We will deal with things and keep you fully informed.”

  Mr. Entwhistle left for London by the breakfast train on the following morning.

  When he got home, after a little hesitation, he rang up a friend of his.

  Seven

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your invitation.”

  Mr. Entwhistle pressed his host’s hand warmly.

  Hercule Poirot gestured hospitably to a chair by the fire.

  Mr. Entwhistle sighed as he sat down.

  On one side of the room a table was laid for two.

  “I returned from the country this morning,” he said.

  “And you have a matter on which you wish to consult me?”

  “Yes. It’s a long rambling story, I’m afraid.”

  “Then we will not have it until after we have dined. Georges?”

  The efficient Georges materialized with some pâté de foie gras accompanied by hot toast in a napkin.

  “We will have our pâté by the fire,” said Poirot. “Afterwards we will move to the table.”

  It was an hour and a half later that Mr. Entwhistle stretched himself comfortably out in his chair and sighed a contented sigh.

  “You certainly know how to do yourself well, Poirot. Trust a Frenchman.”

  “I am a Belgian. But the rest of your remark applies. At my age the chief pleasure, almost the only pleasure that still remains, is the pleasure of the table. Mercifully I have an excellent stomach.”

  “Ah,” murmured Mr. Entwhistle.

  They had dined off sole veronique, followed by escalope de veau milanaise, proceeding to poire flambée with ice cream.

  They had drunk a Pouilly Fuissé followed by a Corton, and a very good port now reposed at Mr. Entwhistle’s elbow. Poirot, who did not care for port, was sipping Crème de Cacao.

  “I don’t know,” murmured Mr. Entwhistle reminiscently, “how you manage to get hold of an escalope like that! It melted in the mouth!”

  “I have a friend who is a Continental butcher. For him I solve a small domestic problem. He is appreciative—and ever since then he is most sympathetic to me in the matters of the stomach.”

  “A domestic problem,” Mr. Entwhistle sighed. “I wish you had not reminded me… This is such a perfect moment….”

  “Prolong it, my friend. We will have presently the demitasse and the fine brandy, and then, when digestion is peacefully under way, then you shall tell why you need my advice.”

  The clock struck the half hour after nine before Mr. Entwhistle stirred in his chair. The psychological moment had come. He no longer felt reluctant to bring forth his perplexities—he was eager to do so.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “whether I’m making the most colossal fool of myself. In any case I don’t see that there’s anything that can possibly be done. But I’d like to put the facts before you, and I’d like to know what you think.”

  He paused for a moment or two, then in his dry meticulous way, he told his story. His trained legal brain enabled him to put the facts clearly, to leave nothing out, and to add nothing extraneous. It was a clear succinct account, and as such appreciated by the little elderly man with the egg-shaped head who sat listening to him.

  When he had finished there was a pause. Mr. Entwhistle was prepared to answer questions, but for some few moments no question came. Hercule Poirot was reviewing the evidence.

  He said at last:

  “It seems very clear. You have in your mind the suspicion that your friend, Richard Abernethie, may have been murdered? That suspicion, or assumption, rests on the basis of one thing only—the words spoken by Cora Lansquenet at Richard Abernethie’s funeral. Take those away—and there is nothing left. The fact that she herself was murdered the day afterwards may be the purest coincidence. It is true that Richard Abernethie died suddenly, but he was attended by a reputable doctor who knew him well, and that doctor had no suspicions and gave a death certificate. Was Richard buried or cremated?”

  “Cremated—according to his own request.”

  “Yes, that is the law. And it means that a second doctor signed the certificate—but there would be no difficulty about that. So we come back to the essential point, what Cora Lansquenet said. You were there and you heard her. She said: ‘But he was murdered, wasn’t he?’”

  “Yes.”

  “And the real point is—that you believe she was speaking the truth.”

  The lawyer hesitated for a moment, then he said:

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Entwhistle repeated the word, slightly puzzled.

  “But yes, why? Is it because, already, deep down, you had an uneasiness about the manner of Richard’s death?”

  The lawyer shook his head. “No, no, not in the least.”

  “Then it is because of her—of Cora herself. You knew her well?”

  “I had not seen her for—oh—over twenty years.”

  “Would you have known her if you had met her in the street?”

  Mr. Entwhistle reflected.

  “I might have passed her by in the street without recognizing her. She was a thin slip of a girl when I saw her last and she had turned into a stout, shabby, middle-aged woman. But I think that the moment I spoke to her face to face I should have recognized her. She wore her hair in the same way, a bang cut straight across the forehead, and she had a trick of peering up at you through her fringe like a rather shy animal, and she had a very characteristic, abrupt way of talking, and a way of putting her head on one side and then coming out with something quite outrageous. She had character, you see, and character is always highly individual.”

  “She was, in fact, the same Cora you had known years ago. And she still said outrageous things! The things, the outrageous things, she had said in the past—were they usually—justified?”

  “That was always the awkward thing about Cora. When truth would have been better left unspoken, she spoke it.”

  “And that characteristic remained unchanged. Richard Abernethie was murdered—so Cora at once mentioned the fact.”

  Mr. Entwhistle stirred.

  “You think he was murdered?”

  “Oh, no, no, my friend, we cannot go so fast. We agree on this—Cora thought he had been murdered. She was quite sure he had been murdered. It was, to her, more a certainty than a surmise. And so, we come to this, she must have had some reason for the belief. We agree, by your knowledge of her, that it was not just a bit of mischief making. Now tell me—when she said what she did, there was, at once, a kind of chorus of protest—that is right?”

  “Quite right.”

  “And she then became confused, abashed, and retreated from the position—saying—as far as you can remember, something like ‘But I thought—from what he told me—’”

  The lawyer nodded.

  “I wish I could remember more clearly. But I am fairly sure of that. She used the words ‘he told me’ or ‘he said—’”

  “And the matter was then smoothed over and everyone spoke of something else. You can remember, looking back, no special expression on anyone’s face? Anything that remains in your memory as—shall we say—unusual?”

  “No.”

  “And the very next day, Cora is killed—and you ask yourself: ‘Can it be cause and effect?’”

  The lawyer stirred.

  “I suppose that seems to you quite fantastic?”

  “Not at all,” said Poirot. “Given that the original assumption is correct, it is logical. The perfect murder, the murder of Richard Abernethie, has been committed, all has gone off smoothly—and suddenly it appears that there is one person who has a knowledge of the truth! Clearly that person m
ust be silenced as quickly as possible.”

  “Then you do think that—it was murder?”

  Poirot said gravely:

  “I think, mon cher, exactly as you thought—that there is a case for investigation. Have you taken any steps? You have spoken of these matters to the police?”

  “No.” Mr. Entwhistle shook his head. “It did not seem to me that any good purpose could be achieved. My position is that I represent the family. If Richard Abernethie was murdered, there seems only one method by which it could be done.”

  “By poison?”

  “Exactly. And the body has been cremated. There is now no evidence available. But I decided that I, myself, must be satisfied on the point. That is why, Poirot, I have come to you.”

  “Who was in the house at the time of his death?”

  “An old butler who has been with him for years, a cook and a housemaid. It would seem, perhaps, as though it must necessarily be one of them—”

  “Ah! do not try to pull the wool upon my eyes. This Cora, she knows Richard Abernethie was killed, yet she acquiesces in the hushing up. She says, ‘I think you are all quite right.’ Therefore it must be one of the family who is concerned, someone whom the victim himself might prefer not to have openly accused. Otherwise, since Cora was fond of her brother, she would not agree to let the sleeping murderer lie. You agree to that, yes?”

  “It was the way I reasoned—yes,” confessed Mr. Entwhistle. “Though how any of the family could possibly—”

  Poirot cut him short.

  “Where poison is concerned there are all sorts of possibilities. It must, presumably, have been a narcotic of some sort if he died in his sleep and if there were no suspicious appearances. Possibly he was already having some narcotic administered to him.”

  “In any case,” said Mr. Entwhistle, “the how hardly matters. We shall never be able to prove anything.”

  “In the case of Richard Abernethie, no. But the murder of Cora Lansquenet is different. Once we know ‘who’ then evidence ought to be possible to get.” He added with a sharp glance, “You have, perhaps, already done something.”