After the Funeral hp-29

by Agatha Christie

He looked again at Susan, calmly and radiantly triumphant.

  "You've got the true Abernethie touch," he said. "The only one of the family who has. Pity as far as old Richard was concerned that you're a woman. If you'd been a boy, I bet he'd have left you the whole caboodle."

  Susan said slowly: "Yes, I think he would."

  She paused and then went on:

  "He didn't like Greg, you know…"

  "Ah." George raised his eyebrows. "His mistake."

  "Yes."

  "Oh, well. Anyway, things are going well now – all going according to plan."

  As he said the words he was struck by the fact that they seemed particularly applicable to Susan.

  The idea made him, just for a moment, a shade uncomfortable.

  He didn't really like a woman who was so cold-bloodedly efficient.

  Changing the subject he said:

  "By the way, did you get a letter from Helen? About Enderby?"

  "Yes, I did. This morning. Did you?"

  "Yes. What are you going to do about it?"

  "Greg and I thought of going up the weekend after next – if that suits everyone else. Helen seemed to want us all together."

  George laughed shrewdly.

  "Or somebody might choose a more valuable piece of furniture than somebody else?"

  Susan laughed.

  "Oh, I suppose there is a proper valuation. But a valuation for probate will be much lower than the things would be in the open market. And besides, I'd quite like to have a few relics of the founder of the family fortunes. Then I think it would be amusing to have one or two really absurd and charming specimens of the Victorian age in this place. Make a kind of thing of them! That period's coming in now. There was a green malachite table in the drawing-room. You could build quite a colour scheme around it. And perhaps a case of stuffed humming birds – or one of those crowns made of waxed flowers. Something like that – just as a key-note – can be very effective."

  "I trust your judgment."

  "You'll be there, I suppose?"

  "Oh, I shall be there – to see fair play if nothing else."

  Susan laughed.

  "What do you bet there will be a grand family row?" she asked.

  "Rosamund will probably want your green malachite table for a stage set!"

  Susan did not laugh. Instead she frowned.

  "Have you seen Rosamund lately?"

  "I have not seen beautiful Cousin Rosamund since we all came back third-class from the funeral."

  "I've seen her once or twice… She – she seemed rather odd -"

  "What was the matter with her? Trying to think?"

  "No. She seemed – well – upset."

  "Upset about coming into a lot of money and being able to put on some perfectly frightful play in which Michael can make an ass of himself?"

  "Oh, that's going ahead and it does sound frightful – but all the same, it may be a success. Michael's good, you know. He can put himself across the footlights – or whatever the term is. He's not like Rosamund, who's just beautiful and ham."

  "Poor beautiful ham Rosamund."

  "All the same Rosamund is not quite so dumb as one might think. She says things that are quite shrewd, sometimes. Things that you wouldn't have imagined she'd even noticed. It's – it's quite disconcerting."

  "Quite like our Aunt Cora -"

  "Yes…"

  A momentary uneasiness descended on them both – conjured up it seemed, by the mention of Cora Lansquenet.

  Then George said with a rather elaborate air of unconcern:

  "Talking of Cora – what about that companion woman of hers? I rather think something ought to be done about her."

  "Done about her? What do you mean?"

  "Well, it's up to the family, so to speak. I mean I've been thinking Cora was our Aunt – and it occurred to me that this woman mayn't find it easy to get another post."

  "That occurred to you, did it?"

  "Yes. People are so careful of their skins. I don't say they'd actually think that this Gilchrist female would take a hatchet to them – but at the back of their minds they'd feel that it might be unlucky. People are superstitious."

  "How odd that you should have thought of all that, George? How would you know about things like that?"

  George said dryly:

  "You forget that I'm a lawyer. I see a lot of the queer, illogical side of people. What I'm getting at is, that I think we might do something about the woman, give her a small allowance or something, to tide her over, or find some office post for her if she's capable of that sort of thing. I feel rather as though we ought to keep in touch with her."

  "You needn't worry," said Susan. Her voice was dry and ironic. "I've seen to things. She's gone to Timothy and Maude."

  George looked startled.

  "I say, Susan – is that wise?"

  "It was the best thing I could think of – at the moment."

  George looked at her curiously.

  "You're very sure of yourself, aren't you, Susan? You know what you're doing and you don't have – regrets."

  Susan said lightly:

  "It's a waste of time – having regrets."

  Chapter 17

  Michael tossed the letter across the table to Rosamund.

  "What about it?"

  "Oh, we'll go. Don't you think so?"

  Michael said slowly:

  "It might be as well."

  "There might be some jewellery… Of course all the things in the house are quite hideous – stuffed birds and wax flowers – ugh!"

  "Yes. Bit of a mausoleum. As a matter of fact I'd like to make a sketch or two – particularly in that drawing-room. The mantelpiece, for instance, and that very odd shaped couch. They'd be just right for The Baronet's Progress – if we revive it."

  He got up and looked at his watch.

  "That reminds me. I must go round and see Rosenheim. Don't expect me until rather late this evening. I'm dining with Oscar and we're going into the question of taking up that option and how it fits in with the American offer."

  "Darling Oscar. He'll be pleased to see you after all this time. Give him my love."

  Michael looked at her sharply. He no longer smiled and his face had an alert predatory look.

  "What do you mean – after all this time? Anyone would think I hadn't seen him for months."

  "Well, you haven't, have you?" murmured Rosamund.

  "Yes, I have. We lunched together only a week ago."

  "How funny. He must have forgotten about it. He rang up yesterday and said he hadn't seen you since the first night of Tilly Looks West."

  "The old fool must be off his head."

  Michael laughed. Rosamund, her eyes wide and blue, looked at him without emotion.

  "You think I'm a fool, don't you, Mick?"

  Michael protested.

  "Darling, of course I don't."

  "Yes, you do. But I'm not an absolute nitwit. You didn't go near Oscar that day. I know where you did go."

  "Rosamund darling – what do you mean?"

  "I mean I know where you really were…"

  Michael, his attractive face uncertain, stared at his wife. She stared back at him, placid, unruffled.

  How very disconcerting, he suddenly thought, a really empty stare could be.

  He said rather unsuccessfully:

  "I don't know what you're driving at…"

  "I just meant it's rather silly, telling me a lot of lies."

  "Look here, Rosamund -"

  He had started to bluster – but he stopped, taken aback as his wife said softly:

  "We do want to take up this option and put this play on, don't we?"

  "Want to? It's the part I've always dreamed must exist somewhere."

  "Yes – that's what I mean."

  "Just what do you mean?"

  "Well – it's worth a good deal, isn't it? But one mustn't take too many risks."

  He stared at her and said slowly:

  "It's your money – I
know that. If you don't want to risk it -"

  "It's our money, darling." Rosamund stressed it. "I think that's rather important."

  "Listen, darling. The part of Eileen – it would bear writing up."

  Rosamund smiled.

  "I don't think – really – I want to play it."

  "My dear girl." Michael was aghast. "What's come over you?"

  "Nothing."

  "Yes, there is, you've been different lately – moody – nervous, what is it?"

  "Nothing. I only want you to be – careful, Mick."

  "Careful about what? I'm always careful."

  "No, I don't think you are. You always think you can get away with things and that everyone will believe whatever you want them to. You were stupid about Oscar that day."

  Michael flushed angrily.

  "And what about you? You said you were going shopping with Jane. You didn't. Jane's in America, has been for weeks."

  "Yes," said Rosamund. "That was stupid, too. I really just went for a walk in Regent's Park."

  Michael looked at her curiously.

  "Regent's Park? You never went for a walk in Regent's Park in your life. What's it all about? Have you got a boy friend? You may say what you like, Rosamund, you have been different lately. Why?"

  "I've been – thinking about things. About what to do…"

  Michael came round the table to her in a satisfying spontaneous rush. His voice held fervour as he cried:

  "Darling – you know I love you madly!"

  She responded satisfactorily to the embrace, but as they drew apart he was struck again disagreeably by the odd calculation in those beautiful eyes.

  "Whatever I'd done, you'd always forgive me, wouldn't you?" he demanded.

  "I suppose so," said Rosamund vaguely. "That's not the point. You see, it's all different now. We've got to think and plan."

  "Think and plan what?"

  Rosamund, frowning, said:

  "Things aren't over when you've done them. It's really a sort of beginning and then one's got to arrange what to do next, and what's important and what is not."

  "Rosamund…"

  She sat, her face perplexed, her wide gaze on a middle distance in which Michael, apparently, did not feature.

  At the third repetition of her name, she started slightly and came out of her reverie.

  "What did you say?"

  "I asked you what you were thinking about…"

  "Oh? Oh yes, I was wondering if I'd go down to – what is it? – Lytchett St Mary, and see that Miss Somebody – the one who was with Aunt Cora."

  "But why?"

  "Well, she'll be going away soon, won't she? To relatives or someone. I don't think we ought to let her go away until we've asked her."

  "Asked her what?"

  "Asked her who killed Aunt Cora."

  Michael stared.

  "You mean – you think she knows?"

  Rosamund said rather absently:

  "Oh yes, I expect so… She lived there, you see."

  "But she'd have told the police."

  "Oh, I don't mean she knows that way – I just mean that she's probably quite sure. Because of what Uncle Richard said when he went down there. He did go down there, you know, Susan told me so."

  "But she wouldn't have heard what he said."

  "Oh yes, she would, darling." Rosamund sounded like someone arguing with an unreasonable child.

  "Nonsense, I can hardly see old Richard Abernethie discussing his suspicions of his family before an outsider."

  "Well, of course. She'd have heard it through the door."

  "Eavesdropping, you mean?"

  "I expect so – in fact I'm sure. It must be so deadly dull shut up, two women in a cottage and nothing ever happening except washing up and the sink and putting the cat out and things like that. Of course she listened and read letters – anyone would."

  Michael looked at her with something faintly approaching dismay.

  "Would you?" he demanded bluntly.

  "I wouldn't go and be a companion in the country." Rosamund shuddered. "I'd rather die."

  "I meant – would you read letters and – and all that?"

  Rosamund said calmly:

  "If I wanted to know, yes. Everybody does, don't you think so?"

  The limpid gaze met his.

  "One just wants to know," said Rosamund. "One doesn't want to do anything about it. I expect that's how she feels – Miss Gilchrist, I mean. But I'm certain she knows."

  Michael said in a stifled voice:

  "Rosamund, who do you think killed Cora? And old Richard?"

  Once again that limpid blue gaze met his.

  "Darling – don't be absurd… You know as well as I do. But it's much, much better never to mention it. So we won't."

  Chapter 18

  From his seat by the fireplace in the library, Hercule Poirot looked at the assembled company.

  His eyes passed thoughtfully over Susan, sitting upright, looking vivid and animated, over her husband, sitting near her, his expression rather vacant and his fingers twisting a loop of string; they went on to George Crossfield, debonair and distinctly pleased with himself, talking about card sharpers on atlantic cruises to Rosamund, who said mechanically, "How extraordinary, darling. But why?" in a completely uninterested voice; went on to Michael with his very individual type of haggard good looks and his very apparent charm; to Helen, poised and slightly remote; to Timothy, comfortably settled in the best armchair with an extra cushion at his back; and Maude, sturdy and thick-set, in devoted attendance, and finally to the figure sitting with a tinge of apology just beyond the range of the family circle – the figure of Miss Gilchrist wearing a rather peculiar "dressy" blouse. Presently, he judged, she would get up, murmur an excuse and leave the family gathering and go up to her room. Miss Gilchrist, he thought, knew her place. She had learned it the hard way.

  Hercule Poirot sipped his after-dinner coffee and between half-closed lids made his appraisal.

  He had wanted them there – all together, and he had got them. And what, he thought to himself, was he going to do with them now? He felt a sudden weary distaste for going on with the business. Why was that, he wondered? Was it the influence of Helen Abernethie? There was a quality of passive resistance about her that seemed unexpectedly strong. Had she, while apparently graceful and unconcerned, managed to impress her own reluctance upon him? She was averse to this raking up of the details of old Richard's death, he knew that. She wanted it left alone, left to die out into oblivion. Poirot was not surprised by that. What did surprise him was his own disposition to agree with her.

  Mr Entwhistle's account of the family had, he realised, been admirable. He had described all these people shrewdly and well. With the old lawyer's knowledge and appraisal to guide him, Poirot had wanted to see for himself. He had fancied that, meeting these people intimately, he would have a very shrewd idea – not of how and when – (those were questions with which he did not propose to concern himself. Murder had been possible – that was all he needed to know!) but of who. For Hercule Poirot had a lifetime of experience behind him, and as a man who deals with pictures can recognise the artist, so Poirot believed he could recognise a likely type of the amateur criminal who will – if his own particular need arises be prepared to kill.

  But it was not to be so easy.

  Because he could visualise almost all of those people as a possible – though not a probable – murderer. George might kill – as the cornered rat kills. Susan calmly – efficiently – to further a plan. Gregory because he had that queer morbid streak which discounts and invites, almost craves, punishment. Michael because he was ambitious and had a murderer's cocksure vanity. Rosamund because she was frighteningly simple in outlook. Timothy because he had hated and resented his brother and had craved the power his brother's money would give. Maude because Timothy was her child and where her child was concerned she would be ruthless. Even Miss Gilchrist, he thought, might have contemplated murder if it could
have restored to her the Willow Tree in its ladylike glory!

  And Helen? He could not see Helen as committing murder. She was too civilised – too removed from violence. And she and her husband had surely loved Richard Abernethie.

  Poirot sighed to himself. There were to be no short cuts to the truth, Instead he would have to adopt a longer, but a reasonably sure method. There would have to be conversation. Much conversation. For in the long run, either through a lie, or through truth, people were bound to give themselves away…

  He had been introduced by Helen to the gathering, and had set to work to overcome the almost universal annoyance caused by his presence – a foreign stranger! – in this family gathering. He had used his eyes and his ears. He had watched and listened – openly and behind doors! He had noticed affinities, antagonisms, the unguarded words that arose as always when property was to be divided. He had engineered adroitly tête-à-têtes, walks upon the terrace, and had made his deductions and observations. He had talked with Miss Gilchrist about the vanished glories of her tea-shop and about the correct composition of brioches and chocolate éclairs and had visited the kitchen garden with her to discuss the proper use of herbs in cooking. He had spent some long half-hours listening to Timothy talking about his own health and about the effect upon it of paint.

  Paint? Poirot frowned. Somebody else had said some thing about paint – Mr Entwhistle?

  There had also been discussion of a different kind of painting. Pierre Lansquenet as a painter. Cora Lansquenet's paintings, rapturised over by Miss Gilchrist, dismissed scornfully by Susan. "Just like picture postcards," she had said. "She did them from postcards, too."

  Miss Gilchrist had been quite upset by that and had said sharply that dear Mrs Lansquenet always painted from Nature.

  "But I bet she cheated," said Susan to Poirot when Miss Gilchrist had gone out of the room. "In fact I know she did, though I won't upset the old pussy by saying so."

  "And how do you know?"

  Poirot watched the strong confident line of Susan's chin.

  "She will always be sure, this one," he thought. "And perhaps sometime, she will be too sure…"

  Susan was going on.

  "I'll tell you, but don't pass it on to the Gilchrist. One picture is of Polflexan, the cove and the lighthouse and the pier – the usual aspect that all amateur artists sit down and sketch. But the pier was blown up in the war, and since Aunt Cora's sketch was done a couple of years ago, it can't very well be from Nature, can it? But the postcards they sell there still show the pier as it used to be. There was one in her bedroom drawer. So Aunt Cora started her 'rough sketch' down there, I expect, and then finished it surreptitiously later at home from a postcard! It's funny, isn't it, the way people get caught out?"