After the Funeral hp-29

by Agatha Christie

  "Yes, yes – you will give him the earth – because you love him. Love him too much for safety or for happiness. But you cannot give to people what they are incapable of receiving. At the end of it all, he will still be something that he does not want to be…"

  "What's that?"

  "Susan's husband."

  "How cruel you are! And what nonsense you talk!"

  "Where Gregory Banks is concerned you are unscrupulous. You wanted your uncle's money – not for yourself – but for your husband. How badly did you want it?"

  Angrily, Susan turned and dashed away.

  V

  "I thought," said Michael Shane lightly, "that I'd just come along and say good-bye."

  He smiled, and his smile had a singularly intoxicating quality.

  Poirot was aware of the man's vital charm.

  He studied Michael Shane for some moments in silence. He felt as though he knew this man least well of all the house party, for Michael Shane only showed the side he wanted to show.

  "Your wife," said Poirot conversationally, "is a very unusual woman."

  Michael raised his eyebrows.

  "Do you think so? She's a lovely, I agree. But not, or so I've found, conspicuous for brains."

  "She will never try to be too clever," Poirot agreed. "But she knows what she wants." He sighed. "So few people do."

  "Ah!" Michael's smile broke out again. "Thinking of the malachite table?"

  "Perhaps." Poirot paused and added: "And of what was on it."

  "The wax flowers, you mean?"

  "The wax flowers."

  Michael frowned.

  "I don't always quite understand you, M. Poirot." However, the smile was switched on again, "I'm more thankful than I can say that we're all out of the wood. It's unpleasant to say the least of it, to go around with the suspicion that somehow or other one of us murdered poor old Uncle Richard."

  "That is how he seemed to you when you met him?" Poirot inquired. "Poor old Uncle Richard?"

  "Of course he was very well preserved and all that -"

  "And in full possession of his faculties -"

  "Oh yes."

  "And, in fact, quite shrewd?"

  "I dare say."

  "A shrewd judge of character."

  The smile remained unaltered.

  "You can't expect me to agree with that, M. Poirot. He didn't approve of me."

  "He thought you, perhaps, the unfaithful type?" Poirot suggested.

  Michael laughed.

  "What an old-fashioned idea!"

  "But it is true, isn't it?"

  "Now I wonder what you mean by that?"

  Poirot placed the tips of his fingers together.

  "There have been inquiries made, you know," he murmured.

  "By you?"

  "Not only by me."

  Michael Shane gave him a quick searching glance. His reactions, Poirot noted, were quick. Michael Shane was no fool.

  "You mean – the police are interested?"

  "They have never been quite satisfied, you know, to regard the murder of Cora Lansquenet as a casual crime."

  "And they've been making inquiries about me?"

  Poirot said primly:

  "They are interested in the movements of Mrs Lansquenet's relations on the day that she was killed."

  "That's extremely awkward." Michael spoke with a charming confidential rueful air.

  "Is it, Mr Shane?"

  "More so than you can imagine! I told Rosamund, you see, that I was lunching with a certain Oscar Lewis on that day."

  "When, in actual fact, you were not?"

  "No. Actually I motored down to see a woman called Sorrel Dainton – quite a well-known actress. I was with her in her last show. Rather awkward, you see for though it's quite satisfactory as far as the police are concerned, it won't go down very well with Rosamund."

  "Ah!" Poirot looked discreet. "There has been a little trouble over this friendship of yours?"

  "Yes… In fact – Rosamund made me promise I wouldn't see her any more."

  "Yes, I can see that may be awkward… Entre nous, you had an affair with the lady?"

  "Oh, just one of those things! It's not as though I cared for the woman at all."

  "But she cares for you?"

  "Well, she's been rather tiresome… Women do cling so. However, as you say, the police at any rate will be satisfied."

  "You think so?"

  "Well, I could hardly be taking a hatchet to Cora if I was dallying with Sorrel miles and miles away. She's got a cottage in Kent."

  "I see – I see – and this Miss Dainton, she will testify for you?"

  "She won't like it – but as it's murder, I suppose she'll have to do it."

  "She will do it, perhaps, even if you were not dallying with her."

  "What do you mean?" Michael looked suddenly black as thunder.

  "The lady is fond of you. When they are fond, women will swear to what is true – and also to what is untrue."

  "Do you mean to say that you don't believe me?"

  "It does not matter if I believe you or not. It is not I you have to satisfy."

  "Who then?"

  Poirot smiled.

  "Inspector Morton – who has just come out on the terrace through the side door."

  Michael Shane wheeled round sharply.

  Chapter 23

  I

  "I heard you were here, M. Poirot," said Inspector Morton.

  The two men were pacing the terrace together.

  "I came over with Superintendent Parwell from Matchfield. Dr Larraby rang him up about Mrs Leo Abernethie and he's come over here to make a few inquiries. The doctor wasn't satisfied."

  "And you, my friend," inquired Poirot, "where do you come in? You are a long way from your native Berkshire."

  "I wanted to ask a few questions – and the people I wanted to ask them of seemed very conveniently assembled here." He paused before adding, "Your doing?"

  "Yes, my doing."

  "And as a result Mrs Leo Abernethie gets knocked out."

  "You must not blame me for that. If she had come to me… But she did not. Instead she rang up her lawyer in London."

  "And was in process of spilling the beans to him when – Wonk!"

  "When – as you say – Wonk!"

  "And what had she managed to tell him?"

  "Very little. She had only got as far as telling him that she was looking at herself in the glass."

  "Ah! well," said Inspector Morton philosophically. "Women will do it." He looked sharply at Poirot. "That suggests something to you?"

  "Yes, I think I know what it was she was going to tell him."

  "Wonderful guesser, aren't you? You always were. Well, what was it?"

  "Excuse me, are you inquiring into the death of Richard Abernethie?"

  "Officially, no. Actually, of course, if it has a bearing on the murder of Mrs Lansquenet -"

  "It has a bearing on that, yes. But I will ask you, my friend, to give me a few more hours. I shall know by then if what I have imagined – imagined only, you comprehend – is correct. If it is -"

  "Well, if it is?"

  "Then I may be able to place in your hands a piece of concrete evidence."

  "We could certainly do with it," said Inspector Morton with feeling. He looked askance at Poirot. "What have you been holding back?"

  "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Since the piece of evidence I have imagined may not in fact exist. I have only deduced its existence from various scraps of conversation. I may," said Poirot in a completely unconvinced tone, "be wrong."

  Morton smiled.

  "But that doesn't often happen to you?"

  "No. Though I will admit – yes, I am forced to admit – that it has happened to me."

  "I must say I'm glad to hear it! To be always right must be sometimes monotonous."

  "I do not find it so," Poirot assured him.

  Inspector Morton laughed.

  "And you're asking me to hold off with my qu
estioning?"

  "No, no, not at all. Proceed as you had planned to do. I suppose you were not actually contemplating an arrest?"

  Morton shook his head.

  "Much too flimsy for that. We'd have to get a decision from the Public Prosecutor first – and we're a long way from that. No, just statements from certain parties of their movements on the day in question – in one case with a caution, perhaps."

  "I see. Mrs Banks?"

  "Smart, aren't you? Yes. She was there that day. Her car was parked in that quarry."

  "She was not seen actually driving the car?"

  "No."

  The Inspector added, "It's bad, you know, that she's never said a word about being down there that day. She's got to explain that satisfactorily."

  "She is quite skillful at explanations," said Poirot dryly. "Yes. Clever young lady. Perhaps a thought too clever."

  "It is never wise to be too clever. That is how murderers get caught. Has anything more come up about George Crossfield?"

  "Nothing definite. He's a very ordinary type. There are a lot of young men like him going about the country in trains and buses or on bicycles. People find it hard to remember when a week or so has gone by if it was Wednesday or Thursday when they were at a certain place or noticed a certain person."

  He paused and went on: "We've had one piece of rather curious information – from the Mother Superior of some convent or other. Two of her nuns had been out collecting from door to door. It seems that they went to Mrs Lansquenet's cottage on the day before she was murdered, but couldn't make anyone hear when they knocked and rang. That's natural enough – she was up North at the Abernethie funeral and Gilchrist had been given the day off and had gone on an excursion to Bournemouth. The point is that they say there was someone in the cottage. They say they heard sighs and groans. I've queried whether it wasn't a day later but the Mother Superior is quite definite that that couldn't be so. It's all entered up in some book. Was there someone searching for something in the cottage that day, who seized the opportunity of both the women being away? And did that somebody not find what he or she was looking for and come back the next day? I don't set much store on the sighs and still less on the groans. Even nuns are suggestible and a cottage where murder has occurred positively asks for groans. The point is, was there someone in the cottage who shouldn't have been there? And if so, who was it? All the Abernethie crowd were at the funeral."

  Poirot asked a seemingly irrelevant question:

  "These nuns who were collecting in that district, did they return at all at a later date to try again?"

  "As a matter of fact they did come again – about a week later. Actually on the day of the inquest, I believe."

  "That fits," said Hercule Poirot. "That fits very well."

  Inspector Morton looked at him. "Why this interest in nuns?"

  "They have been forced on my attention whether I will or no. It will not have escaped your attention, Inspector, that the visit of the nuns was the same day that poisoned wedding cake found its way into that cottage."

  "You don't think – Surely that's a ridiculous idea?"

  "My ideas are never ridiculous," said Hercule Poirot severely. "And now, mon cher, I must leave you to your questions and to the inquiries into the attack on Mrs Abernethie. I myself must go in search of the late Richard Abernethie's niece."

  "Now be careful what you go saying to Mrs Banks."

  "I do not mean Mrs Banks. I mean Richard Abernethie's other niece."

  II

  Poirot found Rosamund sitting on a bench overlooking a little stream that cascaded down in a waterfall and then flowed through rhododendron thickets. She was staring into the water.

  "I do not, I trust, disturb an Ophelia," said Poirot as he took his seat beside her. "You are, perhaps, studying the rôle?"

  "I've never played in Shakespeare," said Rosamund. "Except once in Rep. I was Jessica in The Merchant. A lousy part."

  "Yet not without pathos. 'I am never merry when I hear sweet music.' What a load she carried, poor Jessica, the daughter of the hated and despised Jew. What doubts of herself she must have had when she brought with her her father's ducats when she ran away to her lover. Jessica with gold was one thing – Jessica without gold might have been another."

  Rosamund turned her head to look at him.

  "I thought you'd gone," she said with a touch of reproach. She glanced down at her wrist-watch. "It's past twelve o'clock."

  "I have missed my train," said Poirot.

  "Why?"

  "You think I missed it for a reason?"

  "I suppose so. You're rather precise, aren't you? If you wanted to catch a train, I should think you'd catch it."

  "Your judgment is admirable. Do you know, Madame, I have been sitting in the little summer-house hoping that you would, perhaps, pay me a visit there?"

  Rosamund stared at him.

  "Why should I? You more or less said good-bye to us all in the library."

  "Quite so. And there was nothing – you wanted to say to me?"

  "No." Rosamund shook her head. "I had a lot I wanted to think about. Important things."

  "I see."

  "I don't often do much thinking," said Rosamund. "It seems a waste of time. But this is important. I think one ought to plan one's life just as one wants it to be."

  "And that is what you are doing?"

  "Well, yes… I was trying to make a decision about something."

  "About your husband?"

  "In a way."

  Poirot waited a moment, then he said:

  "Inspector Morton has just arrived here." He anticipated Rosamund's question by going on: "He is the police officer in charge of the inquiries about Mrs Lansquenet's death. He has come here to get statements from you all about what you were doing on the day she was murdered."

  "I see. Alibis," said Rosamund cheerfully.

  Her beautiful face relaxed into an impish glee.

  "That will be hell for Michael," she said. "He thinks I don't really know he went off to be with that woman that day."

  "How did you know?"

  "It was obvious from the way he said he was going to lunch with Oscar. So frightfully casually, you know, and his nose twitching just a tiny bit like it always does when he tells lies."

  "How devoutly thankful I am I am not married to you, Madame!"

  "And then, of course, I made sure by ringing up Oscar," continued Rosamund. "Men always tell such silly lies."

  "He is not, I fear, a very faithful husband?" Poirot hazarded.

  Rosamund, however, did not reject the statement.

  "But you do not mind?"

  "Well, it's rather fun in a way," said Rosamund. "I mean, having a husband that all the other women want to snatch away from you. I should hate to be married to a man that nobody wanted – like poor Susan. Really Greg is so completely wet!"

  Poirot was studying her.

  "And suppose someone did succeed – in snatching your husband away from you?"

  "They won't," said Rosamund. "Not now," she added.

  "You mean -"

  "Not now that there's Uncle Richard's money. Michael falls for these creatures in a way – that Sorrel Dainton woman nearly got her hooks into him – wanted him for keeps – but with Michael the show will always come first. He can launch out now in a big way – put his own shows on. Do some production as well as acting. He's ambitious, you know, and he really is good. Not like me, I adore acting – but I'm ham, though I look nice. No, I'm not worried about Michael any more. Because it's my money, you see."

  Her eyes met Poirot's calmly. He thought how strange it was that both Richard Abernethie's nieces should have fallen deeply in love with men who were incapable of returning that love. And yet Rosamund was unusually beautiful and Susan was attractive and full of sex appeal. Susan needed and clung to the illusion that Gregory loved her. Rosamund, clear-sighted, had no illusions at all, but knew what she wanted.

  "The point is," said Rosamund, "that I've got
to make a big decision – about the future. Michael doesn't know yet."

  Her face curved into a smile. "He found out that I wasn't shopping that day and he's madly suspicious about Regent's Park."

  "What is this about Regent's Park?" Poirot looked puzzled.

  "I went there, you see, after Harley Street. Just to walk about and think. Naturally Michael thinks that if I went there at all, I went to meet some man!"

  Rosamund smiled beatifically and added:

  "He didn't like that at all!"

  "But why should you not go to Regent's Park?" asked Poirot.

  "Just to walk there, you mean?"

  "Yes. Have you never done it before?"

  "Never. Why should I? What is there to go to Regent's Park for?"

  Poirot looked at her and said:

  "For you – nothing."

  He added:

  "I think, Madame, that you must cede the green malachite table to your cousin Susan."

  Rosamund's eyes opened very wide.

  "Why should I? I want it."

  "I know. I know. But you – you will keep your husband. And the poor Susan, she will lose hers."

  "Lose him? Do you mean Greg's going off with someone? I wouldn't have believed it of him. He looks so wet."

  "Infidelity is not the only way of losing a husband, Madame."

  "You don't mean?" Rosamund stared at him. "You're not thinking that Greg poisoned Uncle Richard and killed Aunt Cora and conked Aunt Helen on the head? That's ridiculous. Even I know better than that."

  "Who did, then?"

  "George, of course. George is a wrong un, you know, he's mixed up in some sort of currency swindle – I heard about it from some friends of mine who were in Monte. I expect Uncle Richard got to know about it and was just going to cut him out of his will."

  Rosamund added complacently:

  "I've always known it was George."