"Oh, of course."
"I don't know whether I ought to ask it." Miss Gilchrist's hands began to shake and she tried to steady her voice. "But would it be possible not to – to mention the circumstances – or even the name?"
Susan stared.
"I don't understand."
"That's because you haven't thought, Mrs Banks. It's murder. A murder that's been in the papers and that everybody has read about. Don't you see? People might think. 'Two women living together, and one of them is killed – and perhaps the companion did it.' Don't you see, Mrs Banks? I'm sure that if I was looking for someone, I'd – well, I'd think twice before engaging myself – if you understand what I mean. Because one never knows! It's been worrying me dreadfully, Mrs Banks; I've been lying awake at night thinking that perhaps I'll never get another job – not of this kind. And what else is there that I can do?"
The question came out with unconscious pathos. Susan felt suddenly stricken. She realised the desperation of this pleasant-spoken commonplace woman who was dependent for existence on the fears and whims of employers. And there was a lot of truth in what Miss Gilchrist had said. You wouldn't, if you could help it, engage a woman to share domestic intimacy who had figured, however innocently, in a murder case.
Susan said: "But if they find the man who did it -"
"Oh then, of course, it will be quite all right. But will they find him? I don't think, myself, the police have the least idea. And if he's not caught – well, that leaves me as – as not quite the most likely person, but as a person who could have done it."
Susan nodded thoughtfully. It was true that Miss Gilchrist did not benefit from Cora Lansquenet's death but who was to know that? And besides, there were so many tales – ugly tales – of animosity arising between women who lived together – strange pathological motives for sudden violence. Someone who had not known them might imagine that Cora Lansquenet and Miss Gilchrist had lived on those terms…
Susan spoke with her usual decision.
"Don't worry, Miss Gilchrist," she said, speaking briskly and cheerfully. "I'm sure I can find you a post amongst my friends. There won't be the least difficulty."
"I'm afraid, said Miss Gilchrist, regaining some of her customary manner, "that I couldn't undertake any really rough work. Just a little plain cooking and housework -"
The telephone rang and Miss Gilchrist jumped.
"Dear me, I wonder who that can be."
"I expect it's my husband," said Susan, jumping up. "He said he'd ring me tonight."
She went to the telephone.
"Yes? – yes, this is Mrs Banks speaking personally…"
There was a pause and then her voice changed. It became soft and warm. "Hallo, darling – yes, it's me… Oh, quite well… Murder by someone unknown… the usual thing… Only Mr Entwhistle… What?… it's difficult to say, but I think so… Yes, just as we thought… Absolutely according to plan… I shall sell the stuff. There's nothing we'd want… Not for a day or two… Absolutely frightful… Don't fuss. I know what I'm doing… Greg, you didn't… You were careful to… No, it's nothing. Nothing at all. Good night, darling."
She rang off. The nearness of Miss Gilchrist had hampered her a little. Miss Gilchrist could probably hear from the kitchen, where she had tactfully retired, exactly what went on. There were things she had wanted to ask Greg, but she hadn't liked to.
She stood by the telephone, frowning abstractedly. Then suddenly an idea came to her.
"Of course," she murmured. "Just the thing."
Lifting the receiver she asked for Trunk Enquiry.
Some quarter of an hour later a weary voice from the exchange was saying:
"I'm afraid there's no reply."
"Please go on ringing them."
Susan spoke autocratically. She listened to the far off buzzing of a telephone bell. Then, suddenly it was interrupted and a man's voice, peevish and slightly indignant, said:
"Yes, yes, what is it?"
"Uncle Timothy?"
"What's that? I can't hear you."
"Uncle Timothy? I'm Susan Banks."
"Susan who?"
"Banks. Formerly Abernethie. Your niece Susan."
"Oh, you're Susan, are you? What's the matter? What are you ringing up for at this time of night?"
"It's quite early still."
"It isn't. I was in bed."
"You must go to bed very early. How's Aunt Maude?"
"Is that all you rang up to ask? Your aunt's in a good deal of pain and she can't do a thing. Not a thing. She's helpless. We're in a nice mess, I can tell you. That fool of a doctor says he can't even get a nurse. He wanted to cart Maude off to hospital. I stood out against that. He's trying to get hold of someone for us. I can't do anything – I daren't even try. There's a fool from the village staying in the house tonight but she's murmuring about getting back to her husband. Don't know what we're going to do."
"That's what I rang up about. Would you like Miss Gilchrist?"
"Who's she? Never heard of her."
"Aunt Cora's companion. She's very nice and capable."
"Can she cook?"
"Yes, she cooks very well, and she could look after Aunt Maude."
"That's all very well, but when could she come? Here I am, all on my own, with only these idiots of village women popping in and out at odd hours, and it's not good for me. My heart's playing me up."
"I'll arrange for her to get off to you as soon as possible. The day after tomorrow, perhaps?"
"Well, thanks very much," said the voice rather grudgingly. "You're a good girl, Susan – er – thank you."
Susan rang off and went into the kitchen.
"Would you be willing to go up to Yorkshire and look after my aunt? She fell and broke her ankle and my uncle is quite useless. He's a bit of a pest but Aunt Maude is a very good sort. They have help in from the village, but you could cook and look after Aunt Maude."
Miss Gilchrist dropped the coffee pot in her agitation.
"Oh, thank you, thank you – that really is kind. I think I can say of myself that I am really good in the sickroom, and I'm sure I can manage your uncle and cook him nice little meals. It's really very kind of you, Mrs Banks, and I do appreciate it."
Chapter 11
I
Susan lay in bed and waited for sleep to come. It had been a long day and she was tired. She had been quite sure that she would go to sleep at once. She never had any difficulty in going to sleep. And yet here she lay, hour after hour, wide awake, her mind racing.
She had said she did not, mind sleeping in this room, in this bed. This bed where Cora Abernethie -
No, no, she must put all that out of her mind. She had always prided herself on having no nerves. Why think of that afternoon less than a week ago? Think ahead the future. Her future and Greg's. Those premises in Cardigan Street – just what they wanted. The business on the ground floor and a charming flat upstairs. The room out at the back a laboratory for Greg. For purposes of income tax it would be an excellent set-up. Greg would get calm and well again. There would be no more of those alarming brainstorms. The times when he looked at her without seeming to know who she was. Once or twice she'd been quite frightened… And old Mr Cole – he'd hinted – threatened: "If this happens again…" And it might have happened again – it would have happened again. If Uncle Richard hadn't died just when he did…
Uncle Richard – but really why look at it like that? He'd nothing to live for. Old and tired and ill. His son dead. It was a mercy really. To die in his sleep quietly like that. Quietly… in his sleep… If only she could sleep. It was so stupid lying awake hour after hour… hearing the furniture creak, and the rustling of trees and bushes outside the window and the occasional queer melancholy hoot – an owl, she supposed. How sinister the country was, somehow. So different from the big noisy indifferent town. One felt so safe there – surrounded by people – never alone. Whereas here…
Houses where a murder had been committed were sometimes haunted.
Perhaps this cottage would come to be known as the haunted cottage. Haunted by the spirit of Cora Lansquenet… Aunt Cora. Odd, really, how ever since she had arrived she had felt as though Aunt Cora were quite close to her… within reach. All nerves and fancy. Cora Lansquenet was dead, tomorrow she would be buried. There was no one in the cottage except Susan herself and Miss Gilchrist. Then why did she feel that there was someone in this room, someone close beside her…
She had lain on this bed when the hatchet fell… Lying there trustingly asleep… Knowing nothing till the hatchet fell… And now she wouldn't let Susan sleep…
The furniture creaked again… was that a stealthy step? Susan switched on the light. Nothing. Nerves, nothing but nerves. Relax… close your eyes…
Surely that was a groan – a groan or a faint moan… Someone in pain – someone dying…
"I mustn't imagine things, I mustn't, I mustn't," Susan whispered to herself.
Death was the end – there was no existence after death. Under no circumstances could anyone come back. Or was she reliving a scene from the past – a dying woman groaning…
There it was again… stronger… someone groaning in acute pain…
But – this was real. Once again Susan switched on the light, sat up in bed and listened. The groans were real groans and she was hearing them through the wall. They came from the room next door.
Susan jumped out of bed, flung on a dressing-gown and crossed to the door. She went out on to the landing, tapped for a moment on Miss Gilchrist's door and then went in. Miss Gilchrist's light was on. She was sitting up in bed. She looked ghastly. Her face was distorted with pain.
"Miss Gilchrist, what's the matter. Are you ill?"
"Yes. I don't know what – I -" she tried to get out of bed, was seized with a fit of vomiting and then collapsed back on the pillows.
She murmured: "Please – ring up doctor. Must have eaten something…"
"I'll get you some bicarbonate. We can get the doctor in the morning if you're not better."
Miss Gilchrist shook her head.
"No, get doctor now. I – I feel dreadful."
"Do you know his number? Or shall I look in the book?"
Miss Gilchrist gave her the number. She was interrupted by another fit of retching.
Susan's call was answered by a sleepy male voice.
"Who? Gilchrist? In Mead's Lane. Yes, I know. I'll be right along."
He was as good as his word. Ten minutes later Susan heard his car draw up outside and she went to open the door to him.
She explained the case as she took him upstairs. "I think," she said, "she must have eaten something that disagreed with her. But she seems pretty bad."
The doctor had had the air of one keeping his temper in leash and who has had some experience of being called out unnecessarily on more than one occasion. But as soon as he examined the moaning woman his manner changed. He gave various curt orders to Susan and presently came down and telephoned. Then he joined Susan in the sitting-room.
"I've sent for an ambulance. Must get her into hospital."
"She's really bad then?"
"Yes. I've given her a shot of morphia to ease the pain. But it looks -" He broke off. "What's she eaten?"
"We had macaroni au gratin for supper and a custard pudding. Coffee afterwards."
"You have the same things?"
"Yes."
"And you're all right? No pain or discomfort?"
"No."
"She's taken nothing else? No tinned fish? Or sausages?"
"No. We had lunch at the King's Arms – after the inquest."
"Yes, of course. You're Mrs Lansquenet's niece?"
"Yes."
"That was a nasty business. Hope they catch the man who did it."
"Yes, indeed."
The ambulance came. Miss Gilchrist was taken away and the doctor went with her. He told Susan he would ring her up in the morning. When he had left she went upstairs to bed. This time she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
II
The funeral was well attended. Most of the village had turned out. Susan and Mr Entwhistle were the only mourners, but various wreaths had been sent by the other members of the family. Mr Entwhistle asked where Miss Gilchrist was, and Susan explained the circumstances in a hurried whisper. Mr Entwhistle raised his eyebrows.
"Rather an odd occurrence?"
"Oh, she's better this morning. They rang up from the hospital. People do get these bilious turns. Some make more fuss than others."
Mr Entwhistle said no more. He was returning to London immediately after the funeral.
Susan went back to the cottage. She found some eggs and made herself an omelette. Then she went up to Cora's room and started to sort through the dead woman's things.
She was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor.
The doctor was looking worried. He replied to Susan's inquiry by saying that Miss Gilchrist was much better.
"She'll be out and around in a couple of days," he said. "But it was lucky I got called in so promptly. Otherwise – it might have been a near thing."
Susan stared. "Was she really so bad?"
"Mrs Banks, will you tell me again exactly what Miss Gilchrist had to eat and drink yesterday. Everything."
Susan reflected and gave a meticulous account. The doctor shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
"There must have been something she had and you didn't?"
"I don't think so… Cakes, scones, jam, tea – and then supper. No, I can't remember anything."
The doctor rubbed his nose. He walked up and down the room.
"Was it definitely something she ate? Definitely food poisoning?"
The doctor threw her a sharp glance. Then he seemed to come to a decision.
"It was arsenic," he said.
"Arsenic?" Susan stared. "You mean somebody gave her arsenic?"
"That's what it looks like."
"Could she have taken it herself? Deliberately, I mean?"
"Suicide? She says not and she should know. Besides, if she wanted to commit suicide she wouldn't be likely to choose arsenic. There are sleeping pills in this house. She could have taken an overdose of them."
"Could the arsenic have got into something by accident?"
"That's what I'm wondering. It seems very unlikely, but such things have been known. But if you and she ate the same things -"
Susan nodded. She said, "It all seems impossible -" then she gave a sudden gasp. "Why, of course, the wedding cake!"
"What's that? Wedding cake?"
Susan explained. The doctor listened with close attention.
"Odd. And you say she wasn't sure who sent it? Any of it left? Or is the box it came in lying around?"
"I don't know. I'll look."
They searched together and finally found the white cardboard box with a few crumbs of cake still in it lying on the kitchen dresser. The doctor packed it away with some care.
"I'll take charge of this. Any idea where the wrapping paper it came in might be?"
Here they were not successful and Susan said that it had probably gone into the Ideal boiler.
"You won't be leaving here just yet, Mrs Banks?"
His tone was genial, but it made Susan feel a little uncomfortable.
"No, I have to go through my aunt's things. I shall be here for a few days."
"Good. You understand the police will probably want to ask some questions. You don't know of anyone who – well, might have had it in for Miss Gilchrist?"
Susan shook her head.
"I don't really know much about her. She was with my aunt for some years – that's all I know."
"Quite, quite. Always seemed a pleasant unassuming woman – quite ordinary. Not the kind, you'd say, to have enemies or anything melodramatic of that kind. Wedding cake through the post. Sounds like some jealous woman – but who'd be jealous of Miss Gilchrist? Doesn't seem to fit."
"No."
"Well, I must be on my way.
I don't know what's happening to us in quiet little Lytchett St Mary. First a brutal murder and now attempted poisoning through the post. Odd, the one following the other."
He went down the path to his car. The cottage felt stuffy and Susan left the door standing open as she went slowly upstairs to resume her task.
Cora Lansquenet had not been a tidy or methodical woman. Her drawers held a miscellaneous assortment of things. There were toilet accessories and letters and old handkerchiefs and paint brushes mixed up together in one drawer. There were a few old letters and bills thrust in amongst a bulging drawer of underclothes. In another drawer under some woollen jumpers was a cardboard box holding two false fringes. There was another drawer full of old photographs and sketching books. Susan lingered over a group taken evidently at some French place many years ago and which showed a younger, thinner Cora clinging to the arm of a tall lanky man with a straggling beard dressed in what seemed to be a velveteen coat and whom Susan took to be the late Pierre Lansquenet.
The photographs interested Susan, but she laid them aside, sorted all the papers she had found into a heap and began to go through them methodically. About a quarter way through she came on a letter. She read it through twice and was still staring at it when a voice speaking behind her caused her to give a cry of alarm.
"And what may you have got hold of there, Susan? Hallo, what's the matter?"
Susan reddened with annoyance. Her cry of alarm had been quite involuntary and she felt ashamed and anxious to explain.
"George? How you startled me!"
Her cousin smiled lazily.
"So it seems."
"How did you get here?"
"Well, the door downstairs was open, so I walked in. There seemed to be nobody about on the ground floor, so I came up here. If you mean how did I get to this part of the world, I started down this morning to come to the funeral."
"I didn't see you there?"
"The old bus played me up. The petrol feed seemed choked. I tinkered with it for some time and finally it seemed to clear itself. I was too late for the funeral by then, but I thought I might as well come on down. I knew you were here."
After the Funeral hp-29 Page 11