Chapter 24
I
The telegram came about six o'clock that evening.
As specially requested it was delivered by hand, not telephoned, and Hercule Poirot, who had been hovering for some time in the neighbourhood of the front door, was at hand to receive it from Lanscombe as the latter took it from the telegraph boy.
He tore it open with somewhat less than his usual precision. It consisted of three words and a signature.
Poirot gave vent to an enormous sigh of relief.
Then he took a pound note from his pocket and handed it to the dumbfounded boy.
"There are moments," he said to Lanscombe, "when economy should be abandoned."
"Very possibly, sir," said Lanscombe politely.
"Where is Inspector Morton?" asked Poirot.
"One of the police gentlemen," Lanscombe spoke with distaste – and indicated subtly that such things as names for police officers were impossible to remember – "has left. The other is, I believe, in the study."
"Splendid," said Poirot. "I join him immediately."
He once more clapped Lanscombe on the shoulder and said:
"Courage, we are on the point of arriving!"
Lanscombe looked slightly bewildered since departures, and not arrivals, had been in his mind.
He said:
"You do not, then, propose to leave by the nine-thirty train after all, sir?"
"Do not lose hope," Poirot told him.
Poirot moved away, then wheeling round, he asked:
"I wonder, can you remember what were the first words Mrs Lansquenet said to you when she arrived here on the day of your master's funeral?"
"I remember very well, sir," said Lanscombe, his face lighting up. "Miss Cora – I beg pardon, Mrs Lansquenet – I always think of her as Miss Cora, somehow -"
"Very naturally."
"She said to me: 'Hallo, Lanscombe. It's a long time since you used to bring us out meringues to the huts.' All the children used to have a hut of their own – down by the fence in the Park. In summer, when there was going to be a dinner party, I used to take the young ladies and gentlemen – the younger ones, you understand, sir – some meringues. Miss Cora, sir, was always very fond of her food."
Poirot nodded.
"Yes," he said, "that was as I thought. Yes, it was very typical, that."
He went into the study to find Inspector Morton and without a word handed him the telegram.
Morton read it blankly.
"I don't understand a word of this."
"The time has come to tell you all."
Inspector Morton grinned.
"You sound like a young lady in a Victorian melodrama. But it's about time you came across with something. I can't hold out on this set-up much longer. That Banks fellow is still insisting that he poisoned Richard Abernethie and boasting that we can't find out how. What beats me is why there's always somebody who comes forward when there's a murder and yells out that they did it! What do they think there is in it for them? I've never been able to fathom that."
"In this case, probably shelter from the difficulties of being responsible for oneself – in other words – Forsdyke Sanatorium."
"More likely to be Broadmoor."
"That might be equally satisfactory."
"Did he do it, Poirot? The Gilchrist woman came out with the story she'd already told you and it would fit with what Richard Abernethie said about his niece. If her husband did it, it would involve her. Somehow, you know, I can't visualise that girl committing a lot of crimes. But there's nothing she wouldn't do to try and cover him."
"I will tell you all -"
"Yes, yes, tell me all! And for the Lord's sake hurry up and do it!"
II
This time it was in the big drawing-room that Hercule Poirot assembled his audience.
There was amusement rather than tension in the faces that were turned towards him. Menace had materialised in the shape of Inspector Morton and Superintendent Parwell. With the police in charge, questioning, asking for statements, Hercule Poirot, private detective, had receded into something closely resembling a joke.
Timothy was not far from voicing the general feeling when he remarked in an audible sotto voce to his wife:
"Damned little mountebank! Entwhistle must be gaga! – that's all I can say."
It looked as though Hercule Poirot would have to work hard to make his proper effect.
He began in a slightly pompous manner.
"For the second time, I announce my departure! This morning I announced it for the twelve o'clock train. This evening I announce it for the nine-thirty – immediately, that is, after dinner. I go because there is nothing more here for me to do."
"Could have told him that all along." Timothy's commentary was still in evidence. "Never was anything for him to do. The cheek of these fellows!"
"I came here originally to solve a riddle. The riddle is solved. Let me, first, go over the various points which were brought to my attention by the excellent Mr Entwhistle.
"First, Mr Richard Abernethie dies suddenly. Secondly, after his funeral, his sister Cora Lansquenet says, 'He was murdered, wasn't he?' Thirdly Mrs Lansquenet is killed. The question is, are those three things part of a sequence? Let us observe what happens next! Miss Gilchrist, the dead woman's companion, is taken ill after eating a piece of wedding cake which contains arsenic. That, then, is the next step in the sequence.
"Now, as I told you this morning, in the course of my inquiries I have come across nothing – nothing at all, to substantiate the belief that Mr Abernethie was poisoned. Equally, I may say, I have found nothing to prove conclusively that he was not poisoned. But as we proceed, things become easier. Cora Lansquenet undoubtedly asked that sensational question at the funeral. Everyone agrees upon that. And undoubtedly, on the following day, Mrs Lansquenet was murdered – a hatchet being the instrument employed. Now let us examine the fourth happening. The local post van driver is strongly of the belief – though he will not definitely swear to it – that he did not deliver that parcel of wedding cake in the usual way. And if that is so, then the parcel was left by hand and though we cannot exclude a 'person unknown' – we must take particular notice of those people who were actually on the spot and in a position to put the parcel where it was subsequently found. Those were: Miss Gilchrist herself, of course; Susan Banks who came down that day for the inquest; Mr Entwhistle (but yes, we must consider Mr Entwhistle; he was present, remember, when Cora made her disquieting remark!) And there were two other people. An old gentleman who represented himself to be a Mr Guthrie, an art critic, and a nun or nuns who called early that morning to collect a subscription.
"Now I decided that I would start on the assumption that the postal van driver's recollection was correct. Therefore the little group of people under suspicion must be very carefully studied. Miss Gilchrist did not benefit in any way by Richard Abernethie's death and in only a very minute degree by Mrs Lansquenet's – in actual fact the death of the latter put her out of employment and left her with the possibility of finding it difficult to get new employment. Also Miss Gilchrist was taken to hospital definitely suffering from arsenical poisoning.
"Susan Banks did benefit from Richard Abernethie's death, and in a small degree from Mrs Lansquenet's – though here her motive must almost certainly have been security. She might have very good reason to believe that Miss Gilchrist had overheard a conversation between Cora Lansquenet and her brother which referred to her, and she might therefore decide that Miss Gilchrist must be eliminated. She herself, remember, refused to partake of the wedding cake and also suggested not calling in a doctor until the morning, when Miss Gilchrist was taken ill in the night.
"Mr Entwhistle did not benefit by either of the deaths – but he had had considerable control over Mr Abernethie's affairs, and the trust funds, and there might well be some reason why Richard Abernethie should not live too long. But – you will say – if it is Mr Entwhistle who was concerned, why should he come to me?
<
br /> "And to that I will answer – it is not the first time that a murderer has been too sure of himself.
"We now come to what I may call the two outsiders. Mr Guthrie and a nun. If Mr Guthrie is really Mr Guthrie, the art critic, then that clears him. The same applies to the nun, if she is really a nun. The question is, are these people themselves, or are they somebody else?
"And I may say that there seems to be a curious – motif – one might call it – of a nun running through this business. A nun comes to the door of Mr Timothy Abernethie's house and Miss Gilchrist believes it is the same nun she has seen at Lychett St Mary. Also a nun, or nuns, called here the day before Mr Abernethie died…"
George Crossfield murmured, "Three to one, the nun."
Poirot went on:
"So he we have certain pieces of our pattern – the death of Mr Abernethie, the murder of Cora Lansquenet, the poisoned wedding cake, the 'motif' of the 'nun.'
"I will add some other features of the case that engaged my attention:
"The visit of an art critic, a smell of oil paint, a picture postcard of Polflexan harbour, and finally a bouquet of wax flowers standing on that malachite table where a Chinese vase stands now.
"It was reflecting on these things that led me to the truth – and I am now about to tell you the truth.
"The first part of it I told you this morning. Richard Abernethie died suddenly – but there would have been no reason at all to suspect foul play had it not been for the words uttered by his sister Cora at his funeral. The whole case for the murder of Richard Abernethie rests upon those words. As a result of them, you all believed that murder had taken place, and you believed it, not really because of the words themselves but because of the character of Cora Lansquenet herself. For Cora Lansquenet had always been famous for speaking the truth at awkward moments. So the case for Richard's murder rested not only upon what Cora had said but upon Cora herself.
"And now I come to the question that I suddenly asked myself:
"How well did you all know Cora Lansquenet?"
He was silent for a moment, and Susan asked sharply, "What do you mean?"
Poirot went on:
"Not well at all – that is the answer! The younger generation had never seen her at all, or if so, only when they were very young children. There were actually only three people present that day who actually knew Cora. Lanscombe, the butler, who is old and very blind; Mrs Timothy Abernethie who had only seen her a few times round about the date of her own wedding, and Mrs Leo Abernethie who had known her quite well, but who had not seen her for over twenty years.
"So I said to myself: 'Supposing it was not Cora Lansquenet who came to the funeral that day?'"
"Do you mean that Aunt Cora – wasn't Aunt Cora?" Susan demanded incredulously. "Do you mean that it wasn't Aunt Cora who was murdered, but someone else?"
"No, no, it was Cora Lansquenet who was murdered. But it was not Cora Lansquenet who came the day before to her brother's funeral. The woman who came that day came for one purpose only – to exploit, one may say, the fact that Richard died suddenly. And to create in the minds of his relations the belief that he had been murdered. Which she managed to do most successfully!"
"Nonsense! Why? What was the point of it?" Maude spoke bluffly.
"Why? To draw attention away from the other murder. From the murder of Cora Lansquenet herself. For if Cora says that Richard has been murdered and the next day she herself is killed, the two deaths are bound to be at least considered as possible cause and effect. But if Cora is murdered and her cottage is broken into, and if the apparent robbery does not convince the police, then they will look – where? Close at home, will they not? Suspicion will tend to fall on the woman who shares the house with her."
Miss Gilchrist protested in a tone that was almost bright:
"Oh come – really – Mr Pontarlier – you don't suggest I'd commit a murder for an amethyst brooch and a few worthless sketches?"
"No," said Poirot. "For a little more than that. There was one of those sketches, Miss Gilchrist, that represented Polflexan harbour and which, as Mrs Banks was clever enough to realise, had been copied from a picture postcard which showed the old pier still in position. But Mrs Lansquenet painted always from life. I remembered then that Mr Entwhistle had mentioned there being a smell of oil paint in the cottage when he first got there. You can paint, can't you, Miss Gilchrist? Your father was an artist and you know a good deal about pictures. Supposing that one of the pictures that Cora picked up cheaply at a sale was a valuable picture. Supposing that she herself did not recognise it for what it was, but that you did. You knew she was expecting, very shortly, a visit from an old friend of hers who was a well-known art critic. Then her brother dies suddenly – and a plan leaps into your head. Easy to administer a sedative to her in her early cup of tea that will keep her unconscious for the whole of the day of the funeral whilst you yourself are playing her part at Enderby. You know Enderby well from listening to her talk about it. She has talked, as people do when they get on in life, a great deal about her childhood days. Easy for you to start off by a remark to old Lanscombe about meringues and huts which will make him quite sure of your identity in case he was inclined to doubt. Yes, you used your knowledge of Enderby well that day, with allusions to this and that, and recalling memories. None of them suspected you were not Cora. You were wearing her clothes, slightly padded, and since she wore a false front of hair, it was easy for you to assume that. Nobody had seen Cora for twenty years – and in twenty years people change so much that one often hears the remark: 'I would never have known her!' But mannerisms are remembered, and Cora had certain very definite mannerisms, all of which you had practised carefully before the glass.
"And it was there, strangely enough, that you made your first mistake. You forgot that a mirror image is reversed. When you saw in the glass the perfect reproduction of Cora's bird-like sidewise tilt of the head, you didn't realise that it was actually the wrong way round. You saw, let us say, Cora inclining her head to the right – but you forgot that actually your own head was inclined to the left to produce that effect in the glass.
"That was what puzzled and worried Helen Abernethie at the moment when you made your famous insinuation. Something seemed to her 'wrong.' I realised myself the other night when Rosamund Shane made an unexpected remark what happens on such an occasion. Everybody inevitably looks at the speaker. Therefore, when Mrs Leo felt something was 'wrong,' it must be that something was wrong with Cora Lansquenet. The other evening, after talk about mirror images and 'seeing oneself' I think Mrs Leo experimented before a looking-glass. Her own face is not particularly asymmetrical. She probably thought of Cora, remembered how Cora used to incline her head to the right, did so, and looked in the glass when, of course, the image seemed to her 'wrong' and she realised, in a flash, just what had been wrong on the day of the funeral. She puzzled it out – either Cora had taken to inclining her head in the opposite direction – most unlikely – or else Cora had not ben Cora. Neither way seemed to her to make sense. But she determined to tell Mr Entwhistle of her discovery at once. Someone who was used to getting up early was already about, and followed her down, and fearful of what revelations she might be about to make struck her down with a heavy doorstop."
Poirot paused and added:
"I may as well tell you now, Miss Gilchrist, that Mrs Abernethie's concussion is not serious. She will soon be able to tell us her own story."
"I never did anything of the sort," said Miss Gilchrist. "The whole thing is a wicked lie."
"It was you that day," said Michael Shane suddenly. He had been studying Miss Gilchrist's face. "I ought to have seen it sooner – I felt in a vague kind of way I had seen you before somewhere – but of course one never looks much at -" he stopped.
"No, one doesn't bother to look at a mere companion-help," said Miss Gilchrist. Her voice shook a little. "A drudge, a domestic drudge! Almost a servant! But go on, M. Poirot. Go on with this fantastic piec
e of nonsense!"
"The suggestion of murder thrown out at the funeral was only the first step, of course," said Poirot. "You had more in reserve. At any moment you were prepared to admit to having listened to a conversation between Richard and his sister. What he actually told her, no doubt, was the fact that he had not long to live, and that explains a cryptic phrase in the letter he wrote her after getting home. The 'nun' was another of your suggestions. The nun – or rather nuns – who called at the cottage on the day of the inquest suggested to you a mention of a nun who was 'following you round,' and you used that when you were anxious to hear what Mrs Timothy was saying to her sister-in-law at Enderby. And also because you wished to accompany her there and find out for yourself just how suspicions were going. Actually to poison yourself, badly but not fatally, with arsenic, is a very old device – and I may say that it served to awaken Inspector Morton's suspicions of you."
"But the picture?" said Rosamund. "What kind of a picture was it?"
Poirot slowly unfolded a telegram.
"This morning I rang up Mr Entwhistle, a responsible person, to go to Stansfield Grange and, acting on authority from Mr Abernethie himself -" (here Poirot gave a hard stare at Timothy) "to look amongst the pictures in Miss Gilchrist's room and select the one of Polflexan Harbour on pretext of having it reframed as a surprise for Miss Gilchrist. He was to take it back to London and call upon Mr Guthrie whom I had warned by telegram. The hastily painted sketch of Polflexan Harbour was removed and the original picture exposed."
He held up the telegram and read:
"Definitely a Vermeer. Guthrie."
Suddenly, with electrifying effect, Miss Gilchrist burst into speech.
"I knew it was a Vermeer. I knew it! She didn't know! Talking about Rembrandts and Italian Primitives and unable to recognise a Vermeer when it was under her nose! Always prating about Art – and really knowing nothing about it! She was a thoroughly stupid woman. Always maundering on about this place – about Enderby, and what they did there as children, and about Richard and Timothy and Laura and all the rest of them. Rolling in money always! Always the best of everything those children had. You don't know how boring it is listening to somebody going on about the same things, hour after hour and day after day. And saying, 'Oh yes, Mrs Lansquenet' and 'Really, Mrs Lansquenet?' Pretending to be interested. And really bored – bored – bored… And nothing to look forward to… And then – a Vermeer! I saw in the papers that a Vermeer sold the other day for over five thousand pounds!"
After the Funeral hp-29 Page 22