After the Funeral hp-29

by Agatha Christie

  "Timothy!" Maude stood up, solid, calm, a tower of forcefulness. "You have had a very trying evening. You must consider your health. I can't have you getting ill again. Come up with me. You must take a sedative and go straight to bed. Timothy and I, Helen, will take the Spode dessert service and the Boule Cabinet as momentoes of Richard. There is no objection to that, I hope?"

  Her glance swept round the company. Nobody spoke, and she marched out of the room supporting Timothy with a hand under his elbow, waving aside Miss Gilchrist who was hovering half-heartedly by the door.

  George broke the silence after they had departed.

  "Femme formidable!" he said. "That describes Aunt Maude exactly. I should hate ever to impede her triumphal progress."

  Miss Gilchrist sat down again rather uncomfortably and murmured:

  "Mrs Abernethie is always so kind."

  The remark fell rather flat.

  Michael Shane laughed suddenly and said: "You know, I'm enjoying all this! 'The Voysey Inheritance' to the life. By the way, Rosamund and I want that malachite table in the drawing-room."

  "Oh, no," cried Susan. "I want that."

  "Here we go again," said George, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

  "Well, we needn't get angry about it," said Susan. "The reason I want it is for my new Beauty shop. Just a note of colour – and I shall put a great bouquet of wax flowers on it. It would look wonderful. I can find wax flowers easily enough, but a green malachite table isn't so common."

  "But, darling," said Rosamund, "that's just why we want it. For the new set. As you say, a note of colour – and so absolutely period. And either wax flowers or stuffed humming birds. It will be absolutely right."

  "I see what you mean, Rosamund," said Susan. "But I don't think you've got as good a case as I have. You could easily have a painted malachite table for the stage – it would look just the same. But for my salon I've got to have the genuine thing."

  "Now, ladies," said George. "What about a sporting decision? Why not toss for it? Or cut the cards? All quite in keeping with the period of the table."

  Susan smiled pleasantly.

  "Rosamund and I will talk about it tomorrow," she said.

  She seemed, as usual, quite sure of herself. George looked with some interest from her face to that of Rosamund. Rosamund's face had a vague, rather far-away expression.

  "Which one will you back, Aunt Helen?" he asked. "An even money chance, I'd say. Susan has determination, but Rosamund is so wonderfully single-minded."

  "Or perhaps not humming birds," said Rosamund. "One of those big Chinese vases would make a lovely lamp, with a gold shade."

  Miss Gilchrist hurried into placating speech.

  "This house is full of so many beautiful things," she said. "That green table would look wonderful in your new establishment, I'm sure, Mrs Banks. I've never seen one like it. It must be worth a lot of money."

  "It will be deducted from my share of the estate, of course," said Susan.

  "I'm so sorry – I didn't mean -" Miss Gilchrist was covered with confusion.

  "It may be deducted from our share of the estate," Michael pointed out. "With the wax flowers thrown in."

  "They look so right on that table," Miss Gilchrist murmured. "Really artistic. Sweetly pretty."

  But nobody was paying any attention to Miss Gilchrist's well-meant trivialities.

  Greg said, speaking again in that high nervous voice:

  "Susan wants that table."

  There was a momentary stir of unease, as though, by his words, Greg had set a different musical key.

  Helen said quickly:

  "And what do you really want, George? Leaving out the Spode service."

  George grinned and the tension relaxed.

  "Rather a shame to bait old Timothy," he said. "But he really is quite unbelievable. He's had his own way in everything so long that he's become quite pathological about it."

  "You have to humour an invalid, Mr Crossfield," said Miss Gilchrist.

  "Ruddy old hypochondriac, that's what he is," said George.

  "Of course he is," Susan agreed. "I don't believe there's anything whatever the matter with him, do you, Rosamund?"

  "What?"

  "Anything the matter with Uncle Timothy."

  "No – no, I shouldn't think so." Rosamund was vague. She apologised. "I'm sorry. I was thinking about what lighting would be right for the table."

  "You see?" said George. "A woman of one idea. Your wife's a dangerous woman, Michael. I hope you realise it."

  "I realise it," said Michael rather grimly.

  George went on with every appearance of enjoyment.

  "The Battle of the Table! To be fought tomorrow – politely – but with grim determination: We ought all to take sides. I back Rosamund who looks so sweet and yielding and isn't. Husbands, presumably back their own wives. Miss Gilchrist? On Susan's side, obviously."

  "Oh, really, Mr Crossfield, I wouldn't venture to -"

  "Aunt Helen?" George paid no attention to Miss Gilchrist's flutterings. "You have the casting vote. Oh, er – I forgot. M. Pontarlier?"

  "Pardon?" Hercule Poirot looked blank.

  George considered explanations, but decided against it. The poor old boy hadn't understood a word of what was going on. He said: "Just a family joke."

  "Yes, yes, I comprehend." Poirot smiled amiably.

  "So yours is the casting vote, Aunt Helen. Whose side are you on?"

  Helen smiled.

  "Perhaps I want it myself, George."

  She changed the subject deliberately, turning to her foreign guest.

  "I'm afraid this is all very dull for you, M. Pontarlier?"

  "Not at all, Madame. I consider myself privileged to be admitted to your family life -" he bowed. "I would like to say – I cannot quite express my meaning – my regret that this house had to pass out of your hands into the hands of strangers. It is without doubt – a great sorrow."

  "No, indeed, we don't regret at all," Susan assured him.

  "You are very amiable, Madame. It will be, let me tell you, perfection here for my elderly sufferers of persecution. What a haven! What peace! I beg you to remember that, when the harsh feelings come to you as assuredly they must. I hear that there was also the question of a school coming here – not a regular school, a convent – run by religieuses – by 'nuns,' I think you say? You would have preferred that, perhaps?"

  "Not at all," said George.

  "The Sacred Heart of Mary," continued Poirot. "Fortunately, owing to the kindness of an unknown benefactor we were able to make a slightly higher offer." He addressed Miss Gilchrist directly. "You do not like nuns, I think?"

  Miss Gilchrist flushed and looked embarrassed.

  "Oh, really, Mr Pontarlier, you mustn't – I mean, it's nothing personal. But I never do see that it's right to shut yourself up from the world in that way – not necessary, I mean, and really almost selfish, though not teaching ones, of course, or the ones that go about amongst the poor – because I'm sure they're thoroughly unselfish women and do a lot of good."

  "I simply can't imagine wanting to be a nun," said Susan.

  "It's very becoming," said Rosamund. "You remember – when they revived The Miracle last year. Sonia Wells looked absolutely too glamorous for words."

  "What beats me," said George, "is why it should be pleasing to the Almighty to dress oneself up in medieval dress. For after all, that's all a nun's dress is. Thoroughly cumbersome, unhygienic and impractical."

  "And it makes them look so alike, doesn't it?" said Miss Gilchrist. "It's silly, you know, but I got quite a turn when I was at Mrs Abernethie's and a nun came to the door, collecting. I got it into my head she was the same as a nun who came to the door on the day of the inquest on poor Mrs Lansquenet at Lychett St Mary. I felt, you know, almost as though she had been following me round!"

  "I thought nuns always collected in couples," said George. "Surely a detective story hinged on that point once?"

  "Th
ere was only one this time," said Miss Gilchrist. "Perhaps they've got to economise," she added vaguely. "And anyway it couldn't have been the same nun, for the other one was collecting for an organ for St – Barnabas, I think – and this one was for something quite different – some thing to do with children."

  "But they both had the same type of features?" Hercule Poirot asked. He sounded interested. Miss Gilchrist turned to him.

  "I suppose that must be it. The upper lip – almost as though she had a moustache. I think you know, that that is really what alarmed me – being in a rather nervous state at the time, and remembering those stories during the war of nuns who were really men and in the Fifth Column and landed by parachute. Of course it was very foolish of me. I knew that afterwards."

  "A nun would be a good disguise," said Susan thoughtfully. "It hides your feet."

  "The truth is," said George, "that one very seldom looks properly at anyone. That's why one gets such wildly differing accounts of a person from different witnesses in court. You'd be surprised. A man is often described as tall – short; thin – stout; fair – dark; dressed in a dark – light – suit; and so on. There's usually one reliable observer, but one has to make up one's mind who that is."

  "Another queer thing," said Susan, "is that you sometimes catch sight of yourself in a mirror unexpectedly and don't know who it is. It just looks vaguely familiar. And you say to yourself, 'That s somebody I know quite well', and then suddenly realise it's yourself!"

  George said: "It would be more difficult still if you could really see yourself – and not a mirror image."

  "Why?" asked Rosamund, looking puzzled.

  "Because, don't you see, nobody ever sees themselves – as they appear to other people. They always see themselves in a glass – that is – as a reversed image."

  "But does that look any different?"

  "Oh, yes," said Susan quickly. "It must. Because people's faces aren’t the same both sides. Their eyebrows are different, and their mouths go up one side, and their noses aren't really straight. You can see with a pencil – who's got a pencil?"

  Somebody produced a pencil, and they experimented, holding a pencil each side of the nose and laughing to see the ridiculous variation in angle.

  The atmosphere now had lightened a good deal. Everybody was in a good humour. They were no longer the heirs of Richard Abernethie gathered together for a division of property. They were a cheerful and normal set of people gathered together for a weekend in the country.

  Only Helen Abernethie remained silent and abstracted.

  With a sigh, Hercule Poirot rose to his feet and bade his hostess a polite good night.

  "And perhaps, Madame, I had better say good-bye. My train departs itself at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. That is very early. So I will thank you now for all your kindness and hospitality. The date of possession – that will be arranged with the good Mr Entwhistle. To suit your convenience, of course."

  "It can be any time you please, M. Pontarlier. I – I have finished all that I came here to do."

  "You will return now to your villa at Cyprus?"

  "Yes." A little smile curved Helen Abernethie's lips.

  Poirot said:

  "You are glad, yes. You have no regrets?"

  "At leaving England? Or leaving here, do you mean?"

  "I meant – leaving here?"

  "No – no. It's no good, is it, to cling on to the past? One must leave that behind one."

  "If one can." Blinking his eyes innocently Poirot smiled apologetically round on the group of polite faces that surrounded him.

  "Sometimes, is it not, the Past will not be left, will not suffer itself to pass into oblivion? It stands at one's elbow – it says 'I am not done with yet.'"

  Susan gave a rather doubtful laugh. Poirot said:

  "But I am serious – yes."

  "You mean," said Michael, "that your refugees when they come here will not be able to put their past sufferings completely behind them?"

  "I did not mean my Refugees."

  "He meant us, darling," said Rosamund. "He means Uncle Richard and Aunt Cora and the hatchet, and all that."

  She turned to Poirot.

  "Didn't you?"

  Poirot looked at her with a blank face. Then he said:

  "Why do you think that, Madame?"

  "Because you're a detective, aren't you? That's why you're here. NARCO, or whatever you call it, is just nonsense, isn't it?"

  Chapter 20

  I

  There was a moment of extraordinary tenseness. Poirot felt it, though he himself did not remove his eyes from Rosamund's lovely placid face.

  He said with a little bow, "You have great perspicacity, Madame."

  "Not really," said Rosamund. "You were pointed out to me once in a restaurant. I remembered."

  "But you have not mentioned it – until now?"

  "I thought it would be more fun not to," said Rosamund

  Michael said in an imperfectly controlled voice:

  "My – dear girl."

  Poirot shifted his gaze then to look at him.

  Michael was angry. Angry and something else – apprehensive?

  Poirot's eyes went slowly round all the faces. Susan's, angry and watchful; Gregory's dead and shut in; Miss Gilchrist's, foolish, her mouth wide open; George, wary; Helen, dismayed and nervous…

  All those expressions were normal ones under the circumstances. He wished he could have seen their faces a split second earlier, when the words "a detective" fell from Rosamund's lips. For now, inevitably, it could not be quite the same…

  He squared his shoulders and bowed to them. His language and his accent became less foreign.

  "Yes," he said. "I am a detective."

  George Crossfield said, the white dints showing once more each side of his nose, "Who sent you here?"

  "I was commissioned to inquire into the circumstances of Richard Abernethie's death."

  "By whom?"

  "For the moment, that does not concern you. But it would be an advantage, would it not, if you could be assured beyond any possible doubt that Richard Abernethie died a natural death?"

  "Of course he died a natural death. Who says anything else?"

  "Cora Lansquenet said so. And Cora Lansquenet is dead herself."

  A little wave of uneasiness seemed to sigh through the room like an evil breeze.

  "She said it here – in this room," said Susan. "But I didn't really think -"

  "Didn't you, Susan?" George Crossfield turned his sardonic glance upon her. "Why pretend any more? You won't take M. Pontarlier in?"

  "We all thought so really," said Rosamund.

  "And his name isn't Pontarlier it's Hercules something."

  "Hercule Poirot – at your service."

  Poirot bowed.

  There were no gasps of astonishment or of apprehension. His name seemed to mean nothing at all to them.

  They were less alarmed by it than they had been by the single word "detective."

  "May I ask what conclusions you have come to?" asked George.

  "He won't tell you, darling," said Rosamund. "Or if he does tell you, what he says won't be true."

  Alone of the company she appeared to be amused.

  Hercule Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.

  II

  Hercule Poirot did not sleep well that night. He was perturbed, and he was not quite sure why he was perturbed. Elusive snatches of conversation, various glances, odd movements – all seemed fraught with a tantalising significance in the loneliness of the night. He was on the threshold of sleep, but sleep would not come. Just as he was about to drop off, something flashed into his mind and woke him up again. Paint – Timothy and paint. Oil paint – the smell of oil paint – connected somehow with Mr Entwhistle. Paint and Cora. Cora's paintings – picture postcards… Cora was deceitful about her painting… No, back to Mr Entwhistle – something Mr Entwhistle had said – or was it Lanscombe? A nun who came to the house on the day that Richard A
bernethie died. A nun with a moustache. A nun at Stansfield Grange – and at Lytchett St Mary. Altogether too many nuns! Rosamund looking glamorous as a nun on the stage. Rosamund – saying that he was a detective – and everyone staring at her when she said it. That was the way that they must all have stared at Cora that day when she said "But he was murdered, wasn't he?" What was it Helen Abernethie had felt to be "wrong" on that occasion? Helen Abernethie – leaving the past behind – going to Cyprus… Helen dropping the wax flowers with a crash when he had said – what was it he had said? He couldn't quite remember…

  He slept then, and as he slept he dreamed…

  He dreamed of the green malachite table. On it was the glass-covered stand of wax flowers – only the whole thing had been painted over with thick crimson oil paint. Paint the colour of blood. He could smell the paint, and Timothy was groaning, was saying "I'm dying – dying… this is the end." And Maude, standing by, tall and stern, with a large knife in her hand was echoing him, saying "Yes, it's the end…" The end – a deathbed, with candles and a nun praying. If he could just see the nun's face, he would know…

  Hercule Poirot woke up – and he did know!

  Yes, it was the end…

  Though there was still a long way to go.

  He sorted out the various bits of the mosaic.

  Mr Entwhistle, the smell of paint, Timothy's house and something that must be in it – or might be in it… the wax flowers… Helen… Broken glass…

  III

  Helen Abernethie, in her room, took some time in going to bed. She was thinking.

  Sitting in front of her dressing-table, she stared at herself unseeingly in the glass.

  She had been forced into having Hercule Poirot in the house. She had not wanted it. But Mr Entwhistle had made it hard for her to refuse. And now the whole thing had come out into the open. No question any more of letting Richard Abernethie lie quiet in his grave. All started by those few words of Cora's…

  That day after the funeral… How had they all looked, she wondered? How had they looked to Cora? How had she herself looked?