After the Funeral hp-29

by Agatha Christie

  "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 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 to 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 be shortly coming to look over it.

  "Private buyers?"

  "I'm afraid not. The YWCA 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 to 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 right? 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."

  Chapter 9

  Miss Gilchrist pulled her black felt 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 Teashop. Miss Gilchrist looked at it lovingly and sighed.

  She was disturbed from her reverie by the sound of the door bell 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 hall-stand – 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 though I believe the Little Sisters of the Poor do 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 wry 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 are a lot of 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 sea coast 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 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."

  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, I am afraid," 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 Rubinstein? 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 apologised.

  "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 non-committal 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 realise 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: