Agatha Christie

After the Funeral

A Hercule Poirot Mystery

For James in memory of happy days at Abney

One

I

Old Lanscombe moved totteringly from room to room, pulling up the blinds. Now and then he peered with screwed-up rheumy eyes through the windows.

Soon they would be coming back from the funeral. He shuffled along a little faster. There were so many windows.

Enderby Hall was a vast Victorian house built in the Gothic style. In every room the curtains were of rich faded brocade or velvet. Some of the walls were still hung with faded silk. In the green drawing room, the old butler glanced up at the portrait above the mantelpiece of old Cornelius Abernethie for whom Enderby Hall had been built. Cornelius Abernethieâs brown beard stuck forward aggressively, his hand rested on a terrestrial globe, whether by desire of the sitter, or as a symbolic conceit on the part of the artist, no one could tell.

A very forceful-looking gentleman, so old Lanscombe had always thought, and was glad that he himself had never known him personally. Mr. Richard had been his gentleman. A good master, Mr. Richard. And taken very sudden, heâd been, though of course the doctor had been attending him for some little time. Ah, but the master had never recovered from the shock of young Mr. Mortimerâs death. The old man shook his head as he hurried through a connecting door into the White Boudoir. Terrible, that had been, a real catastrophe. Such a fine upstanding young gentleman, so strong and healthy. Youâd never have thought such a thing likely to happen to him. Pitiful, it had been, quite pitiful. And Mr. Gordon killed in the war. One thing on top of another. That was the way things went nowadays. Too much for the master, it had been. And yet heâd seemed almost himself a week ago.

The third blind in the White Boudoir refused to go up as it should. It went up a little way and stuck. The springs were weakâthatâs what it wasâvery old, these blinds were, like everything else in the house. And you couldnât get these old things mended nowadays. Too old-fashioned, thatâs what theyâd say, shaking their heads in that silly superior wayâas if the old things werenât a great deal better than the new ones! He could tell them that! Gimcrack, half the new stuff wasâcame to pieces in your hands. The material wasnât good, or the craftsmanship either. Oh yes, he could tell them.

Couldnât do anything about this blind unless he got the steps. He didnât like climbing up the steps much, these days, made him come over giddy. Anyway, heâd leave the blind for now. It didnât matter, since the White Boudoir didnât face the front of the house where it would be seen as the cars came back from the funeralâand it wasnât as though the room was ever used nowadays. It was a ladyâs room, this, and there hadnât been a lady at Enderby for a long time now. A pity Mr. Mortimer hadnât married. Always going off to Norway for fishing and to Scotland for shooting and to Switzerland for those winter sports, instead of marrying some nice young lady and settling down at home with children running about the house. It was a long time since there had been any children in the house.

And Lanscombeâs mind went ranging back to a time that stood out clearly and distinctlyâmuch more distinctly than the last twenty years or so, which were all blurred and confused and he couldnât really remember who had come and gone or indeed what they looked like. But he could remember the old days well enough.

More like a father to those young brothers and sisters of his, Mr. Richard had been. Twenty-four when his father had died, and heâd pitched in right away to the business, going off every day as punctual as clockwork, and keeping the house running and everything as lavish as it could be. A very happy household with all those young ladies and gentlemen growing up. Fights and quarrels now and again, of course, and those governesses had had a bad time of it! Poor-spirited creatures, governesses, Lanscombe had always despised them. Very spirited the young ladies had been. Miss Geraldine in particular. Miss Cora, too, although she was so much younger. And now Mr. Leo was dead, and Miss Laura gone too. And Mr. Timothy such a sad invalid. And Miss Geraldine dying somewhere abroad. And Mr. Gordon killed in the war. Although he was the eldest, Mr. Richard himself turned out the strongest of the lot. Outlived them all, he hadâat least not quite because Mr. Timothy was still alive and little Miss Cora whoâd married that unpleasant artist chap. Twenty-five years since heâd seen her and sheâd been a pretty young girl when she went off with that chap, and now heâd hardly have known her, grown so stoutâand so arty-crafty in her dress! A Frenchman her husband had been, or nearly a Frenchmanâand no good ever came of marrying one of them! But Miss Cora had always been a bitâwell simple like youâd call it if sheâd lived in a village. Always one of them in a family.

Sheâd remembered him all right. âWhy, itâs Lanscombe!â sheâd said and seemed ever so pleased to see him. Ah, theyâd all been fond of him in the old days and when there was a dinner party theyâd crept down to the pantry and heâd given them jelly and Charlotte Russe when it came out of the dining room. Theyâd all known old Lanscombe, and now there was hardly anyone who remembered. Just the younger lot whom he could never keep clear in his mind and who just thought of him as a butler whoâd been there a long time. A lot of strangers, he had thought, when they all arrived for the funeralâand a seedy lot of strangers at that!

Not Mrs. Leoâshe was different. She and Mr. Leo had come here off and on ever since Mr. Leo married. She was a nice lady, Mrs. Leoâa real lady. Wore proper clothes and did her hair well and looked what she was. And the master had always been fond of her. A pity that she and Mr. Leo had never had any childrenâ¦.

Lanscombe roused himself; what was he doing standing here and dreaming about old days with so much to be done? The blinds were all attended to on the ground floor now, and heâd told Janet to go upstairs and do the bedrooms. He and Janet and the cook had gone to the funeral service in the church but instead of going on to the Crematorium theyâd driven back to the house to get the blinds up and the lunch ready. Cold lunch, of course, it had to be. Ham and chicken and tongue and salad. With cold lemon soufflÃ© and apple tart to follow. Hot soup firstâand heâd better go along and see that Marjorie had got it on ready to serve, for theyâd be back in a minute or two now for certain.

Lanscombe broke into a shuffling trot across the room. His gaze, abstracted and uncurious, just swept up to the picture over this mantelpieceâthe companion portrait to the one in the green drawing room. It was a nice painting of white satin and pearls. The human being round whom they were draped and clasped was not nearly so impressive. Meek features, a rosebud mouth, hair parted in the middle. A woman both modest and unassuming. The only thing really worthy of note about Mrs. Cornelius Abernethie had been her nameâ Coralie.

For over sixty years after their original appearance, Coral Cornplasters and the allied âCoralâ foot preparations still held their own. Whether there had ever been anything outstanding about Coral Cornplasters nobody could sayâbut they had appealed to the public fancy. On a foundation of Coral Cornplasters there had arisen this neo-Gothic palace, its acres of gardens, and the money that had paid out an income to seven sons and daughters and had allowed Richard Abernethie to die three days ago a very rich man.

II

Looking into the kitchen with a word of admonition, Lanscombe was snapped at by Marjorie, the cook. Marjorie was young, only twenty-seven, and was a constant irritation to Lanscombe as being so far removed from what his conception of a proper cook should be. She had no dignity and no proper appreciation of his, Lanscombeâs, position. She frequently called the house âa proper old mausoleumâ and complained of the immense area of the kitchen, scullery and larder, saying that it was a âdayâs walk to get round them all.â She had been at Enderby two years and only stayed because in the first place the money was good, and in the second because Mr. Abernethie had really appreciated her cooking. She cooked very well. Janet, who stood by the kitchen table, refreshing herself with a cup of tea, was an elderly housemaid who, although enjoying frequent acid disputes with Lanscombe, was nevertheless usually in alliance with him against the younger generation as represented by Marjorie. The fourth person in the kitchen was Mrs. Jacks, who âcame inâ to lend assistance where it was wanted and who had much enjoyed the funeral.

âBeautiful it was,â she said with a decorous sniff as she replenished her cup. âNineteen cars and the church quite full and the Canon read the service beautiful, I thought. A nice fine day for it, too. Ah, poor dear Mr. Abernethie, thereâs not many like him left in the world. Respected by all, he was.â

There was the note of a horn and the sound of a car coming up the drive, and Mrs. Jacks put down her cup and exclaimed: âHere they are.â

Marjorie turned up the gas under her large saucepan of creamy chicken soup. The large kitchen range of the days of Victorian grandeur stood cold and unused, like an altar to the past.

The cars drove up one after the other and the people issuing from them in their black clothes moved rather uncertainly across the hall and into the big green drawing room. In the big steel grate a fire was burning, tribute to the first chill of the autumn days and calculated to counteract the further chill of standing about at a funeral.

Lanscombe entered the room, offering glasses of sherry on a silver tray.

Mr. Entwhistle, senior partner of the old and respected firm of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard, stood with his back to the fireplace warming himself. He accepted a glass of sherry, and surveyed the company with his shrewd lawyerâs gaze. Not all of them were personally known to him, and he was under the necessity of sorting them out, so to speak. Introductions before the departure for the funeral had been hushed and perfunctory.

Appraising old Lanscombe first, Mr. Entwhistle thought to himself, âGetting very shaky, poor old chapâgoing on for ninety I shouldnât wonder. Well, heâll have that nice little annuity. Nothing for him to worry about. Faithful soul. No such thing as old-fashioned service nowadays. Household helps and babysitters, God help us all! A sad world. Just as well, perhaps, poor Richard didnât last his full time. He hadnât much to live for.â

To Mr. Entwhistle, who was seventy-two, Richard Abernethieâs death at sixty-eight was definitely that of a man dead before his time. Mr. Entwhistle had retired from active business two years ago, but as executor of Richard Abernethieâs will and in respect of one of his oldest clients who was also a personal friend, he had made the journey to the North.

Reflecting in his own mind on the provisions of the will, he mentally appraised the family.

Mrs. Leo, Helen, he knew well, of course. A very charming woman for whom he had both liking and respect. His eyes dwelt approvingly on her now as she stood near one of the windows. Black suited her. She had kept her figure well. He liked the clear cut features, the springing line of grey hair back from her temples and the eyes that had once been likened to cornflowers and which were still quite vividly blue.

How old was Helen now? About fifty-one or-two, he supposed. Strange that she had never married again after Leoâs death. An attractive woman. Ah, but they had been very devoted, those two.

His eyes went on to Mrs. Timothy. He had never known her very well. Black didnât suit herâcountry tweeds were her wear. A big sensible capable-looking woman. Sheâd always been a good devoted wife to Timothy. Looking after his health, fussing over himâfussing over him a bit too much, probably. Was there really anything the matter with Timothy? Just a hypochondriac, Mr. Entwhistle suspected. Richard Abernethie had suspected so, too. âWeak chest, of course, when he was a boy,â he had said. âBut blest if I think thereâs much wrong with him now.â Oh well, everybody had to have some hobby. Timothyâs hobby was the all absorbing one of his own health. Was Mrs. Tim taken in? Probably notâbut women never admitted that sort of thing. Timothy must be quite comfortably off. Heâd never been a spendthrift. However, the extra would not come amissânot in these days of taxation. Heâd probably had to retrench his scale of living a good deal since the war.

Mr. Entwhistle transferred his attention to George Crossfield, Lauraâs son. Dubious sort of fellow Laura had married. Nobody had ever known much about him. A stockbroker he had called himself. Young George was in a solicitorâs officeânot a very reputable firm. Good-looking young fellowâbut something a little shifty about him. He couldnât have too much to live on. Laura had been a complete fool over her investments. Sheâd left next to nothing when she died five years ago. A handsome romantic girl sheâd been, but no money sense.

Mr. Entwhistleâs eyes went on from George Crossfield. Which of the two girls was which? Ah yes, that was Rosamund, Geraldineâs daughter, looking at the wax flowers on the malachite table. Pretty girl, beautiful, in factârather a silly face. On the stage. Repertory companies or some nonsense like that. Had married an actor, too. Good-looking fellow. âAnd knows he is,â thought Mr. Entwhistle, who was prejudiced against the stage as a profession. âWonder what sort of a background he has and where he comes from.â

He looked disapprovingly at Michael Shane with his fair hair and his haggard charm.

Now Susan, Gordonâs daughter, would do much better on the stage than Rosamund. More personality. A little too much personality for everyday life, perhaps. She was quite near him and Mr. Entwhistle studied her covertly. Dark hair, hazelâalmost goldenâeyes, a sulky attractive mouth. Beside her was the husband she had just marriedâa chemistâs assistant, he understood. Really, a chemistâs assistant! In Mr. Entwhistleâs creed girls did not marry young men who served behind a counter. But now of course, they married anybody! The young man, who had a pale nondescript face and sandy hair, seemed very ill at ease. Mr. Entwhistle wondered why, but decided charitably that it was the strain of meeting so many of his wifeâs relations.

Last in his survey Mr. Entwhistle came to Cora Lansquenet. There was a certain justice in that, for Cora had decidedly been an afterthought in the family. Richardâs youngest sister, she had been born when her mother was just on fifty, and that meek woman had not survived her tenth pregnancy (three children had died in infancy). Poor little Cora! All her life, Cora had been rather an embarrassment, growing up tall and gawky, and given to blurting out remarks that had always better have remained unsaid. All her elder brothers and sisters had been very kind to Cora, atoning for her deficiencies and covering her social mistakes. It had never really occurred to anyone that Cora would marry. She had not been a very attractive girl, and her rather obvious advances to visiting young men had usually caused the latter to retreat in some alarm. And then, Mr. Entwhistle mused, there had come the Lansquenet businessâPierre Lansquenet, half French, whom she had come across in an Art school where she had been having very correct lessons in painting flowers in watercolours. But somehow she had got into the Life class and there she had met Pierre Lansquenet and had come home and announced her intention of marrying him. Richard Abernethie had put his foot downâhe hadnât liked what he saw of Pierre Lansquenet and suspected that the young man was really in search of a rich wife. But whilst he was making a few researches into Lansquenetâs antecedents, Cora had bolted with the fellow and married him out of hand. They had spent most of their married life in Brittany and Cornwall and other paintersâ conventional haunts. Lansquenet had been a very bad painter and not, by all accounts, a very nice man, but Cora had remained devoted to him and had never forgiven her family for their attitude to him. Richard had generously made his young sister an allowance and on that they had, so Mr. Entwhistle believed, lived. He doubted if Lansquenet had ever earned any money at all. He must have been dead now twelve years or more, thought Mr. Entwhistle. And now here was his widow, rather cushion-like in shape and dressed in wispy artistic black with festoons of jet beads, back in the home of her girlhood, moving about and touching things and exclaiming with pleasure when she recalled some childish memory. She made very little pretence of grief at her brotherâs death. But then, Mr. Entwhistle reflected, Cora had never pretended.

Reentering the room Lanscombe murmured in muted tones suitable to the occasion:

âLuncheon is served.â

Two

After the delicious chicken soup, and plenty of cold viands accompanied by an excellent Chablis, the funeral atmosphere lightened. Nobody had really felt any deep grief for Richard Abernethieâs death since none of them had had any close ties with him. Their behaviour had been suitably decorous and subdued (with the exception of the uninhibited Cora who was clearly enjoying herself) but it was now felt that the decencies had been observed and that normal conversation could be resumed. Mr. Entwhistle encouraged this attitude. He was experienced in funerals and knew exactly how to set correct funeral timing.

After the meal was over, Lanscombe indicated the library for coffee. This was his feeling for niceties. The time had come when businessâin other words, The Willâwould be discussed. The library had the proper atmosphere for that, with its bookshelves and its heavy red velvet curtains. He served coffee to them there and then withdrew, closing the door.

After a few desultory remarks, everyone began to look tentatively at Mr. Entwhistle. He responded promptly after glancing at his watch.

âI have to catch the 3:30 train,â he began.

Others, it seemed, also had to catch that train.

âAs you know,â said Mr. Entwhistle, âI am the executor of Richard Abernethieâs willââ

He was interrupted.

âI didnât know,â said Cora Lansquenet brightly. âAre you? Did he leave me anything?â

Not for the first time, Mr. Entwhistle felt that Cora was too apt to speak out of turn.

Bending a repressive glance at her he continued:

âUp to a year ago, Richard Abernethieâs will was very simple. Subject to certain legacies he left everything to his son Mortimer.â

âPoor Mortimer,â said Cora. âI do think all this infantile paralysis is dreadful.â

âMortimerâs death, coming so suddenly and tragically, was a great blow to Richard. It took him some months to rally from it. I pointed out to him that it might be advisable for him to make new testamentary dispositions.â

Maude Abernethie asked in her deep voice:

âWhat would have happened if he hadnât made a new will? Would itâwould it all have gone to Timothyâas the next of kin, I mean?â

Mr. Entwhistle opened his mouth to give a disquisition on the subject of next of kin, thought better of it, and said crisply:

âOn my advice, Richard decided to make a new will. First of all, however, he decided to get better acquainted with the younger generation.â

âHe had us upon appro,â said Susan with a sudden rich laugh. âFirst George and then Greg and me, and then Rosamund and Michael.â

Gregory Banks said sharply, his thin face flushing:

âI donât think you ought to put it like that, Susan. On appro, indeed!â

âBut that was what it was, wasnât it, Mr. Entwhistle?â

âDid he leave me anything?â repeated Cora.

Mr. Entwhistle coughed and spoke rather coldly:

âI propose to send you all copies of the will. I can read it to you in full now if you like but its legal phraseology may seem to you rather obscure. Briefly it amounts to this: After certain small bequests and a substantial legacy to Lanscombe to purchase an annuity, the bulk of the estateâa very considerable oneâis to be divided into six equal portions. Four of these, after all duties are paid, are to go to Richardâs brother Timothy, his nephew George Crossfield, his niece Susan Banks, and his niece Rosamund Shane. The other two portions are to be held upon trust and the income from them paid to Mrs. Helen Abernethie, the widow of his brother Leo; and to his sister Mrs. Cora Lansquenet, during their lifetime. The capital after their death to be divided between the other four beneficiaries or their issue.â

âThatâs very nice!â said Cora Lansquenet with real appreciation. âAn income! How much?â

âIâerâcanât say exactly at present. Death duties, of course, will be heavy andââ

âCanât you give me any idea?â

Mr. Entwhistle realized that Cora must be appeased.

âPossibly somewhere in the neighbourhood of three to four thousand a year.â

âGoody!â said Cora. âI shall go to Capri.â

Helen Abernethie said softly:

âHow very kind and generous of Richard. I do appreciate his affection towards me.â

âHe was very fond of you,â said Mr. Entwhistle. âLeo was his favourite brother and your visits to him were always much appreciated after Leo died.â

Helen said regretfully:

âI wish I had realized how ill he wasâI came up to see him not long before he died, but although I knew he had been ill, I did not think it was serious.â

âIt was always serious,â said Mr. Entwhistle. âBut he did not want it talked about and I do not believe that anybody expected the end to come as soon as it did. The doctor was quite surprised, I know.â

ââSuddenly, at his residenceâ thatâs what it said in the paper,â said Cora, nodding her head. âI wondered then.â

âIt was a shock to all of us,â said Maude Abernethie. âIt upset poor Timothy dreadfully. So sudden, he kept saying. So sudden.â

âStill, itâs been hushed up very nicely, hasnât it?â said Cora.

Everybody stared at her and she seemed a little flustered.

âI think youâre all quite right,â she said hurriedly. âQuite right. I meanâit canât do any goodâmaking it public. Very unpleasant for everybody. It should be kept strictly in the family.â

The faces turned towards her looked even more blank.

Mr. Entwhistle leaned forward:

âReally, Cora, Iâm afraid I donât quite understand what you mean.â

Cora Lansquenet looked round at the family in wide-eyed surprise. She tilted her head on one side with a birdlike movement.

âBut he was murdered, wasnât he?â she said.

Three

I

Travelling to London in the corner of a first-class carriage Mr. Entwhistle gave himself up to somewhat uneasy thought over that extraordinary remark made by Cora Lansquenet. Of course Cora was a rather unbalanced and excessively stupid woman, and she had been noted, even as a girl, for the embarrassing manner in which she had blurted out unwelcome truths. At least, he didnât mean truthsâthat was quite the wrong word to use. Awkward statementsâthat was a much better term.

In his mind he went back over the immediate sequence to that unfortunate remark. The combined stare of many startled and disapproving eyes had roused Cora to a sense of the enormity of what she had said.

Maude had exclaimed, âReally, Cora!â George had said, âMy dear Aunt Cora.â Somebody else had said, âWhat do you mean?â

And at once Cora Lansquenet, abashed, and convicted of enormity, had burst into fluttering phrases.

âOh Iâm sorryâI didnât meanâoh, of course, it was very stupid of me, but I did think from what he saidâOh, of course I know itâs quite all right, but his death was so suddenâplease forget that I said anything at allâI didnât mean to be so stupidâI know Iâm always saying the wrong thing.â

And then the momentary upset had died down and there had been a practical discussion about the disposition of the late Richard Abernethieâs personal effects. The house and its contents, Mr. Entwhistle supplemented, would be put up for sale.

Coraâs unfortunate gaffe had been forgotten. After all, Cora had always been, if not subnormal, at any rate embarrassingly nÃ¤ive. She had never had any idea of what should or should not be said. At nineteen it had not mattered so much. The mannerisms of an enfant terrible can persist to then, but an enfant terrible of nearly fifty is decidedly disconcerting. To blurt out unwelcome truthsâ

Mr. Entwhistleâs train of thought came to an abrupt check. It was the second time that that disturbing word had occurred. Truths. And why was it so disturbing? Because, of course, that had always been at the bottom of the embarrassment that Coraâs outspoken comments had caused. It was because her nÃ¤ive statements had been either true or had contained some grain of truth that they had been so embarrassing!

Although in the plump woman of forty-nine, Mr. Entwhistle had been able to see little resemblance to the gawky girl of earlier days, certain of Coraâs mannerisms had persistedâthe slight birdlike twist of the head as she brought out a particularly outrageous remarkâa kind of air of pleased expectancy. In just such a way had Cora once commented on the figure of the kitchen maid. âMollie can hardly get near the kitchen table, her stomach sticks out so. Itâs only been like that the last month or two. I wonder why sheâs getting so fat?â

Cora had been quickly hushed. The Abernethie household was Victorian in tone. The kitchen maid had disappeared from the premises the next day, and after due inquiry the second gardener had been ordered to make an honest woman of her and had been presented with a cottage in which to do so.

Far-off memoriesâbut they had their pointâ¦.

Mr. Entwhistle examined his uneasiness more closely. What was there in Coraâs ridiculous remarks that had remained to tease his subconscious in this manner? Presently he isolated two phrases. âI did think from what he saidââ and âhis death was so suddenâ¦.â

Mr. Entwhistle examined that last remark first. Yes, Richardâs death could, in a fashion, be considered sudden. Mr. Entwhistle had discussed Richardâs health both with Richard himself and with his doctor. The latter had indicated plainly that a long life could not be expected. If Mr. Abernethie took reasonable care of himself he might live two or even three years. Perhaps longerâbut that was unlikely. In any case the doctor had anticipated no collapse in the near future.

Well, the doctor had been wrongâbut doctors, as they were the first to admit themselves, could never be sure about the individual reaction of a patient to disease. Cases given up, unexpectedly recovered. Patients on the way to recovery relapsed and died. So much depended on the vitality of the patient. On his own inner urge to live

And Richard Abernethie, though a strong and vigorous man, had had no great incentive to live.

For six months previously his only surviving son, Mortimer, had contracted infantile paralysis and had died within a week. His death had been a shock greatly augmented by the fact that he had been such a particularly strong and vital young man. A keen sportsman, he was also a good athlete and was one of those people of whom it was said that he had never had a dayâs illness in his life. He was on the point of becoming engaged to a very charming girl and his fatherâs hopes for the future were centred in this dearly loved and thoroughly satisfactory son of his.

Instead had come tragedy. And besides the sense of personal loss, the future had held little to stir Richard Abernethieâs interest. One son had died in infancy, the second without issue. He had no grandchildren. There was, in fact, no one of the Abernethie name to come after him, and he was the holder of a vast fortune with wide business interests which he himself still controlled to a certain extent. Who was to succeed to that fortune and to the control of those interests?

That this had worried Richard deeply, Entwhistle knew. His only surviving brother was very much of an invalid. There remained the younger generation. It had been in Richardâs mind, the lawyer thought, though his friend had not actually said so, to choose one definite successor, though minor legacies would probably have been made. Anyway, as Entwhistle knew, within the last six months Richard Abernethie had invited to stay with him, in succession, his nephew George, his niece Susan and her husband, his niece Rosamund and her husband, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Leo Abernethie. It was amongst the first three, so the lawyer thought, that Abernethie had looked for his successor. Helen Abernethie, he thought, had been asked out of personal affection and even possibly as someone to consult, for Richard had always held a high opinion of her good sense and practical judgement. Mr. Entwhistle also remembered that sometime during that six months period Richard had paid a short visit to his brother Timothy.

The net result had been the will which the lawyer now carried in his briefcase. An equable distribution of property. The only conclusion that could be drawn, therefore, was that he had been disappointed both in his nephew, and in his nieces or perhaps in his niecesâ husbands.

As far as Mr. Entwhistle knew, he had not invited his sister, Cora Lansquenet, to visit himâand that brought the lawyer back to that first disturbing phrase that Cora had let slip so incoherentlyâ âbut I did think from what he saidââ

What had Richard Abernethie said? And when had he said it? If Cora had not been to Enderby, then Richard Abernethie must have visited her at the artistic village in Berkshire where she had a cottage. Or was it something that Richard had said in a letter?

Mr. Entwhistle frowned. Cora, of course, was a very stupid woman. She could easily have misinterpreted a phrase, and twisted its meaning. But he did wonder what the phrase could have beenâ¦.

There was enough uneasiness in him to make him consider the possibility of approaching Mrs. Lansquenet on the subject. Not too soon. Better not make it seem of importance. But he would like to know just what it was that Richard Abernethie had said to her which had led her to pipe up so briskly with that outrageous question:

âBut he was murdered, wasnât he?â

II

In a third-class carriage, farther along the train, Gregory Banks said to his wife:

âThat aunt of yours must be completely bats!â

âAunt Cora?â Susan was vague. âOh, yes, I believe she was always a bit simple or something.â

George Crossfield, sitting opposite, said sharply:

âShe really ought to be stopped from going about saying things like that. It might put ideas into peopleâs heads.â

Rosamund Shane, intent on outlining the cupidâs bow of her mouth with lipstick, murmured vaguely:

âI donât suppose anyone would pay any attention to what a frump like that says. The most peculiar clothes and lashings and lashings of jetââ

âWell, I think it ought to be stopped,â said George.

âAll right, darling,â laughed Rosamund, putting away her lipstick and contemplating her image with satisfaction in the mirror. âYou stop it.â

Her husband said unexpectedly:

âI think George is right. Itâs so easy to set people talking.â

âWell, would it matter?â Rosamund contemplated the question. The cupidâs bow lifted at the corners in a smile. âIt might really be rather fun.â

âFun?â Four voices spoke.

âHaving a murder in the family,â said Rosamund. âThrilling, you know!â

It occurred to that nervous and unhappy young man Gregory Banks that Susanâs cousin, setting aside her attractive exterior, might have some faint points of resemblance to her Aunt Cora. Her next words rather confirmed his impression.

âIf he was murdered,â said Rosamund, âwho do you think did it?â

Her gaze travelled thoughtfully round the carriage.

âHis death has been awfully convenient for all of us,â she said thoughtfully. âMichael and I are absolutely on our beam ends. Mickâs had a really good part offered to him in the Sandbourne show if he can afford to wait for it. Now weâll be in clover. Weâll be able to back our own show if we want to. As a matter of fact thereâs a play with a simply wonderful partââ

Nobody listened to Rosamundâs ecstatic disquisition. Their attention had shifted to their own immediate future.

âTouch and go,â thought George to himself. âNow I can put that money back and nobody will ever knowâ¦ But itâs been a near shave.â

Gregory closed his eyes as he lay back against the seat. Escape from bondage.

Susan said in her clear rather hard voice, âIâm very sorry, of course, for poor old Uncle Richard. But then he was very old, and Mortimer had died, and heâd nothing to live for and it would have been awful for him to go on as an invalid year after year. Much better for him to pop off suddenly like this with no fuss.â

Her hard confident young eyes softened as they watched her husbandâs absorbed face. She adored Greg. She sensed vaguely that Greg cared for her less than she cared for himâbut that only strengthened her passion. Greg was hers, sheâd do anything for him. Anything at allâ¦.

III

Maude Abernethie, changing her dress for dinner at Enderby (for she was staying the night), wondered if she ought to have offered to stay longer to help Helen out with the sorting and clearing of the house. There would be all Richardâs personal thingsâ¦ There might be lettersâ¦ All important papers, she supposed, had already been taken possession of by Mr. Entwhistle. And it really was necessary for her to get back to Timothy as soon as possible. He fretted so when she was not there to look after him. She hoped he would be pleased about the will and not annoyed. He had expected, she knew, that most of Richardâs fortune would come to him. After all, he was the only surviving Abernethie. Richard could surely have trusted him to look after the younger generation. Yes, she was afraid Timothy would be annoyedâ¦ And that was so bad for his digestion. And really, when he was annoyed, Timothy could become quite unreasonable. There were times when he seemed to lose his sense of proportionâ¦ She wondered if she ought to speak to Dr. Barton about itâ¦ Those sleeping pillsâTimothy had been taking far too many of them latelyâhe got so angry when she wanted to keep the bottle for him. But they could be dangerousâDr. Barton had said soâyou could get drowsy and forget youâd taken themâand then take more. And then anything might happen! There certainly werenât as many left in the bottle as there ought to beâ¦ Timothy was really very naughty about medicines. He wouldnât listen to herâ¦ He was very difficult sometimes.

She sighedâthen brightened. Things were going to be much easier now. The garden, for instanceâ

IV

Helen Abernethie sat by the fire in the green drawing room waiting for Maude to come down to dinner.

She looked round her, remembering old days here with Leo and the others. It had been a happy house. But a house like this needed people. It needed children and servants and big meals and plenty of roaring fires in winter. It had been a sad house when it had been lived in by one old man who had lost his sonâ¦.

Who would buy it, she wondered? Would it be turned into an hotel, or an institute, or perhaps one of those hostels for young people? That was what happened to these vast houses nowadays. No one would buy them to live in. It would be pulled down, perhaps, and the whole estate built over. It made her sad to think of that, but she pushed the sadness aside resolutely. It did one no good to dwell on the past. This house, and happy days here, and Richard, and Leo, all that was good, but it was over. She had her own interestsâ¦ And now, with the income Richard had left her, she would be able to keep on the villa in Cyprus and do all the things she had planned to do.

How worried she had been lately over moneyâtaxationâall those investments going wrongâ¦ Now, thanks to Richardâs money, all that was overâ¦.

Poor Richard. To die in his sleep like that had been really a great mercyâ¦ Suddenly on the 22ndâshe supposed that that was what had put the idea into Coraâs head. Really Cora was outrageous! She always had been. Helen remembered meeting her once abroad, soon after her marriage to Pierre Lansquenet. She had been particularly foolish and fatuous that day, twisting her head sideways, and making dogmatic statements about painting, and particularly about her husbandâs painting, which must have been most uncomfortable for him. No man could like his wife appearing such a fool. And Cora was a fool! Oh, well, poor thing, she couldnât help it, and that husband of hers hadnât treated her too well.

Helenâs gaze rested absently on a bouquet of wax flowers that stood on a round malachite table. Cora had been sitting beside it when they had all been sitting round waiting to start for the church. She had been full of reminiscences and delighted recognitions of various things and was clearly so pleased at being back in her old home that she had completely lost sight of the reason for which they were assembled.

âBut perhaps,â thought Helen, âshe was just less of a hypocrite than the rest of usâ¦.â

Cora had never been one for observing the conventions. Look at the way she had plumped out that question: âBut he was murdered, wasnât he?â

The faces all round, startled, shocked, staring at her! Such a variety of expressions there must have been on those facesâ¦.

And suddenly, seeing the picture clearly in her mind, Helen frownedâ¦ There was something wrong with that pictureâ¦.

Somethingâ¦?

Somebodyâ¦?

Was it an expression on someoneâs face? Was that it? Something thatâhow could she put it?âought not to have been thereâ¦?

She didnât knowâ¦she couldnât place itâ¦but there had been somethingâsomewhereâwrong.

V

Meanwhile, in the buffet at Swindon, a lady in wispy mourning and festoons of jet was eating bath buns and drinking tea and looking forward to the future. She had no premonitions of disaster. She was happy.

These cross-country journeys were certainly tiring. It would have been easier to get back to Lytchett St. Mary via Londonâand not so very much more expensive. Ah, but expense didnât matter now. Still, she would have had to travel with the familyâprobably having to talk all the way. Too much of an effort.

No, better to go home cross-country. These bath buns were really excellent. Extraordinary how hungry a funeral made you feel. The soup at Enderby had been deliciousâand so was the cold soufflÃ©.

How smug people wereâand what hypocrites! All those facesâwhen sheâd said that about murder! The way theyâd all looked at her!

Well, it had been the right thing to say. She nodded her head in satisfied approval of herself. Yes, it had been the right thing to do.

She glanced up at the clock. Five minutes before her train went. She drank up her tea. Not very good tea. She made a grimace.

For a moment or two she sat dreaming. Dreaming of the future unfolding before herâ¦ She smiled like a happy child.

She was really going to enjoy herself at lastâ¦ She went out to the small branch line train busily making plans.

Four

I

Mr. Entwhistle passed a very restless night. He felt so tired and so unwell in the morning that he did not get up.

His sister, who kept house for him, brought up his breakfast on a tray and explained to him severely how wrong he had been to go gadding off to the North of England at his age and in his frail state of health.

Mr. Entwhistle contented himself with saying that Richard Abernethie had been a very old friend.

âFunerals!â said his sister with deep disapproval. âFunerals are absolutely fatal for a man of your age! Youâll be taken off as suddenly as your precious Mr. Abernethie was if you donât take more care of yourself.â

The word âsuddenlyâ made Mr. Entwhistle wince. It also silenced him. He did not argue.

He was well aware of what had made him flinch at the word suddenly.

Cora Lansquenet! What she had suggested was definitely quite impossible, but all the same he would like to find out exactly why she had suggested it. Yes, he would go down to Lytchett St. Mary and see her. He could pretend that it was business connected with probate, that he needed her signature. No need to let her guess that he had paid any attention to her silly remark. But he would go down and see herâand he would do it soon.

He finished his breakfast and lay back on his pillows and read The Times. He found The Times very soothing.

It was about a quarter to six that evening when his telephone rang.

He picked it up. The voice at the other end of the wire was that of Mr. James Parrott, the present second partner of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard.

âLook here, Entwhistle,â said Mr. Parrott, âIâve just been rung up by the police from a place called Lytchett St. Mary.â

âLytchett St. Mary?â

âYes. It seemsââ Mr. Parrott paused a moment. He seemed embarrassed. âItâs about a Mrs. Cora Lansquenet. Wasnât she one of the heirs of the Abernethie estate?â

âYes, of course. I saw her at the funeral yesterday.â

âOh? She was at the funeral, was she?â

âYes. What about her?â

âWell,â Mr. Parrott sounded apologetic. âSheâsâitâs really most extraordinaryâsheâs been wellâmurdered.â

Mr. Parrott said the last word with the uttermost deprecation. It was not the sort of word, he suggested, that ought to mean anything to the firm of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard.

âMurdered?â

âYesâyesâIâm afraid so. Well, I mean, thereâs no doubt about it.â

âHow did the police get on to us?â

âHer companion, or housekeeper, or whatever she isâa Miss Gilchrist. The police asked for the name of her nearest relative or her solicitors. And this Miss Gilchrist seemed rather doubtful about relatives and their addresses, but she knew about us. So they got through at once.â

âWhat makes them think she was murdered?â demanded Mr. Entwhistle.

Mr. Parrott sounded apologetic again.

âOh well, it seems there canât be any doubt about thatâ I mean it was a hatchet or something of that kindâa very violent sort of crime.â

âRobbery?â

âThatâs the idea. A window was smashed and there are some trinkets missing and drawers pulled out and all that, but the police seem to think there might be somethingâwellâphony about it.â

âWhat time did it happen?â

âSome time between two and four thirty this afternoon.â

âWhere was the housekeeper?â

âChanging library books in Reading. She got back about five oâclock and found Mrs. Lansquenet dead. The police want to know if weâve any idea of who could have been likely to attack her. I said,â Mr. Parrottâs voice sounded outraged, âthat I thought it was a most unlikely thing to happen.â

âYes, of course.â

âIt must be some half-witted local oafâwho thought there might be something to steal and then lost his head and attacked her. That must be itâeh, donât you think so, Entwhistle?â

âYes, yesâ¦â Mr. Entwhistle spoke absentmindedly.

Parrott was right, he told himself. That was what must have happenedâ¦.

But uncomfortably he heard Coraâs voice saying brightly:

âHe was murdered, wasnât he?â

Such a fool, Cora. Always had been. Rushing in where angels fear to treadâ¦ Blurting out unpleasant truthsâ¦.

Truths!

That blasted word againâ¦.

II

Mr. Entwhistle and Inspector Morton looked at each other appraisingly.

In his neat precise manner Mr. Entwhistle had placed at the Inspectorâs disposal all the relevant facts about Cora Lansquenet. Her upbringing, her marriage, her widowhood, her financial position, her relatives.

âMr. Timothy Abernethie is her only surviving brother and her next of kin, but he is a recluse and an invalid, and is quite unable to leave home. He has empowered me to act for him and to make all such arrangements as may be necessary.â

The Inspector nodded. It was a relief for him to have this shrewd elderly solicitor to deal with. Moreover he hoped that the lawyer might be able to give him some assistance in solving what was beginning to look like a rather puzzling problem.

He said:

âI understand from Miss Gilchrist that Mrs. Lansquenet had been North, to the funeral of an elder brother, on the day before her death?â

âThat is so, Inspector. I myself was there.â

âThere was nothing unusual in her mannerânothing strangeâor apprehensive?â

Mr. Entwhistle raised his eyebrows in well-simulated surprise.

âIs it customary for there to be something strange in the manner of a person who is shortly to be murdered?â he asked.

The Inspector smiled rather ruefully.

âIâm not thinking of her being âfeyâ or having a premonition. No, Iâm just hunting around for somethingâwell, something out of the ordinary.â

âI donât think I quite understand you, Inspector,â said Mr. Entwhistle.

âItâs not a very easy case to understand, Mr. Entwhistle. Say someone watched the Gilchrist woman come out of the house at about two oâclock and go along to the village and the bus stop. This someone then deliberately takes the hatchet that was lying by the woodshed, smashes the kitchen window with it, gets into the house, goes upstairs, attacks Mrs. Lansquenet with the hatchetâand attacks her savagely. Six or eight blows were struck.â Mr. Entwhistle flinchedââOh, yes, quite a brutal crime. Then the intruder pulls out a few drawers, scoops up a few trinketsâworth perhaps a tenner in all, and clears off.â

âShe was in bed?â

âYes. It seems she returned late from the North the night before, exhausted and very excited. Sheâd come into some legacy as I understand?â

âYes.â

âShe slept very badly and woke with a terrible headache. She had several cups of tea and took some dope for her head and then told Miss Gilchrist not to disturb her till lunchtime. She felt no better and decided to take two sleeping pills. She then sent Miss Gilchrist into Reading by the bus to change some library books. Sheâd have been drowsy, if not already asleep, when this man broke in. He could have taken what he wanted by means of threats, or he could easily have gagged her. A hatchet, deliberately taken up with him from outside, seems excessive.â

âHe may just have meant to threaten her with it,â Mr. Entwhistle suggested. âIf she showed fight thenââ

âAccording to the medical evidence there is no sign that she did. Everything seems to show that she was lying on her side sleeping peacefully when she was attacked.â

Mr. Entwhistle shifted uneasily in his chair.

âOne does hear of these brutal and rather senseless murders,â he pointed out.

âOh yes, yes, thatâs probably what it will turn out to be. Thereâs an alert out, of course, for any suspicious character. Nobody local is concerned, weâre pretty sure of that. The locals are all accounted for satisfactorily. Most people are at work at that time of day. Of course her cottage is up a lane outside the village proper. Anyone could get there easily without being seen. Thereâs a maze of lanes all round the village. It was a fine morning and there has been no rain for some days, so there arenât any distinctive car tracks to go byâin case anyone came by car.â

âYou think someone came by car?â Mr. Entwhistle asked sharply.

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. âI donât know. All Iâm saying is there are curious features about the case. These, for instanceââ He shoved across his desk a handful of thingsâa trefoil-shaped brooch with small pearls, a brooch set with amethysts, a small string of pearls, and a garnet bracelet.

âThose are the things that were taken from her jewel box. They were found just outside the house shoved into a bush.â

âYesâyes, that is rather curious. Perhaps if her assailant was frightened at what he had doneââ

âQuite. But he would probably then have left them upstairs in her roomâ¦ Of course a panic may have come over him between the bedroom and the front gate.â

Mr. Entwhistle said quietly:

âOr they may, as you are suggesting, have only been taken as a blind.â

âYes, several possibilitiesâ¦Of course this Gilchrist woman may have done it. Two women living alone togetherâyou never know what quarrels or resentments or passions may have been aroused. Oh yes, weâre taking that possibility into consideration as well. But it doesnât seem very likely. From all accounts they were on quite amicable terms.â He paused before going on. âAccording to you, nobody stands to gain by Mrs. Lansquenetâs death?â

The lawyer shifted uneasily.

âI didnât quite say that.â

Inspector Morton looked up sharply.

âI thought you said that Mrs. Lansquenetâs source of income was an allowance made to her by her brother and that as far as you knew she had no property or means of her own.â

âThat is so. Her husband died a bankrupt, and from what I knew of her as a girl and since, I should be surprised if she had ever saved or accumulated any money.

âThe cottage itself is rented, not her own, and the few sticks of furniture arenât anything to write home about, even in these days. Some spurious âcottage oakâ and some arty painted stuff. Whoever sheâs left them to wonât gain muchâif sheâs made a will, that is to say.â

Mr. Entwhistle shook his head.

âI know nothing about her will. I had not seen her for many years, you must understand.â

âThen, what exactly did you mean just now? You had something in mind, I think?â

âYes. Yes, I did. I wished to be strictly accurate.â

âWere you referring to the legacy you mentioned? The one that her brother left her? Had she the power to dispose of that by will?â

âNo, not in the sense you mean. She had no power to dispose of the capital. Now that she is dead, it will be divided amongst the five other beneficiaries of Richard Abernethieâs will. That is what I meant. All five of them will benefit automatically by her death.â

The Inspector looked disappointed.

âOh, I thought we were on to something. Well, there certainly seems no motive there for anyone to come and swipe her with a hatchet. Looks as though itâs some chap with a screw looseâone of these adolescent criminals, perhapsâa lot of them about. And then he lost his nerve and bushed the trinkets and ranâ¦ Yes, it must be that. Unless itâs the highly respectable Miss Gilchrist, and I must say that seems unlikely.â

âWhen did she find the body?â

âNot until just about five oâclock. She came back from Reading by the 4:50 bus. She arrived back at the cottage, let herself in by the front door, and went into the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. There was no sound from Mrs. Lansquenetâs room, but Miss Gilchrist assumed that she was still sleeping. Then Miss Gilchrist noticed the kitchen window; the glass was all over the floor. Even then, she thought at first it might have been done by a boy with a ball or a catapult. She went upstairs and peeped very gently into Mrs. Lansquenetâs room to see if she were asleep or if she was ready for some tea. Then of course, she let loose, shrieked, and rushed down the lane to the nearest neighbour. Her story seems perfectly consistent and there was no trace of blood in her room or in the bathroom, or on her clothes. No. I donât think Miss Gilchrist had anything to do with it. The doctor got there at half past five. He puts the time of death not later than four thirtyâand probably much nearer two oâclock, so it looks as though whoever it was, was hanging round waiting for Miss Gilchrist to leave the cottage.â

The lawyerâs face twitched slightly. Inspector Morton went on: âYouâll be going to see Miss Gilchrist, I suppose?â

âI thought of doing so.â

âI should be glad if you would. Sheâs told us, I think, everything that she can, but you never know. Sometimes, in conversation, some point or other may crop up. Sheâs a trifle old maidishâbut quite a sensible, practical womanâand sheâs really been most helpful and efficient.â

He paused and then said:

âThe bodyâs at the mortuary. If you would like to see itââ

Mr. Entwhistle assented, though with no enthusiasm.

Some few minutes later he stood looking down at the mortal remains of Cora Lansquenet. She had been savagely attacked and the henna dyed fringe was clotted and stiffened with blood. Mr. Entwhistleâs lips tightened and he looked away queasily.

Poor little Cora. How eager she had been the day before yesterday to know whether her brother had left her anything. What rosy anticipations she must have had of the future. What a lot of silly things she could have doneâand enjoyed doingâwith the money.

Poor Coraâ¦ How short a time those anticipations had lasted.

No one had gained by her deathânot even the brutal assailant who had thrust away those trinkets as he fled. Five people had a few thousands more of capitalâbut the capital they had already received was probably more than sufficient for them. No, there could be no motive there.

Funny that murder should have been running in Coraâs mind the very day before she herself was murdered.

âHe was murdered, wasnât he?â

Such a ridiculous thing to say. Ridiculous! Quite ridiculous! Much too ridiculous to mention to Inspector Morton.

Of course, after he had seen Miss Gilchristâ¦.

Supposing that Miss Gilchrist, although it was unlikely, could throw any light on what Richard had said to Cora.

âI thought from what he saidââ What had Richard said?

âI must see Miss Gilchrist at once,â said Mr. Entwhistle to himself.

III

Miss Gilchrist was a spare faded-looking woman with short, irongrey hair. She had one of those indeterminate faces that women around fifty so often acquire.

She greeted Mr. Entwhistle warmly.

âIâm so glad you have come, Mr. Entwhistle. I really know so little about Mrs. Lansquenetâs family, and of course Iâve never, never had anything to do with a murder before. Itâs too dreadful!â

Mr. Entwhistle felt quite sure that Miss Gilchrist had never before had anything to do with murder. Indeed, her reaction to it was very much that of his partner.

âOne reads about them, of course,â said Miss Gilchrist, relegating crimes to their proper sphere. âAnd even that Iâm not very fond of doing. So sordid, most of them.â

Following her into the sitting room Mr. Entwhistle was looking sharply about him. There was a strong smell of oil paint. The cottage was overcrowded, less by furniture, which was much as Inspector Morton had described it, than by pictures. The walls were covered with pictures, mostly very dark and dirty oil paintings. But there were watercolour sketches as well, and one or two still lifes. Smaller pictures were stacked on the window seat.

âMrs. Lansquenet used to buy them at sales,â Miss Gilchrist explained. âIt was a great interest to her, poor dear. She went to all the sales round about. Pictures go so cheap, nowadays, a mere song. She never paid more than a pound for any of them, sometimes only a few shillings, and there was a wonderful chance, she always said, of picking up something worthwhile. She used to say that this was an Italian Primitive that might be worth a lot of money.â

Mr. Entwhistle looked at the Italian Primitive pointed out to him dubiously. Cora, he reflected, had never really known anything about pictures. Heâd eat his hat if any of these daubs were worth a five pound note!

âOf course,â said Miss Gilchrist, noticing his expression, and quick to sense his reaction, âI donât know much myself, though my father was a painterânot a very successful one, Iâm afraid. But I used to do watercolours myself as a girl and I heard a lot of talk about painting and that made it nice for Mrs. Lansquenet to have someone she could talk to about painting and whoâd understand. Poor dear soul, she cared so much about artistic things.â

âYou were fond of her?â

A foolish question, he told himself. Could she possibly answer ânoâ? Cora, he thought, must have been a tiresome woman to live with.

âOh yes,â said Miss Gilchrist. âWe got on very well together. In some ways, you know, Mrs. Lansquenet was just like a child. She said anything that came into her head. I donât know that her judgement was always very goodââ

One does not say of the deadââShe was a thoroughly silly womanââMr. Entwhistle said, âShe was not in any sense an intellectual woman.â

âNoânoâperhaps not. But she was very shrewd, Mr. Entwhistle. Really very shrewd. It quite surprised me sometimesâhow she managed to hit the nail on the head.â

Mr. Entwhistle looked at Miss Gilchrist with more interest. He thought that she was no fool herself.

âYou were with Mrs. Lansquenet for some years, I think?â

âThree and a half.â

âYouâerâacted as companion and also did theâerâwellâlooked after the house?â

It was evident that he had touched on a delicate subject. Miss Gilchrist flushed a little.

âOh yes, indeed. I did most of the cookingâ I quite enjoy cookingâand did some dusting and light housework. None of the rough, of course.â Miss Gilchristâs tone expressed a firm principle. Mr. Entwhistle, who had no idea what âthe roughâ was, made a soothing murmur.

âMrs. Panter from the village came in for that. Twice a week regularly. You see, Mr. Entwhistle, I could not have contemplated being in any way a servant. When my little tea shop failedâsuch a disasterâit was the war, you know. A delightful place. I called it the Willow Tree and all the china was blue willow patternâsweetly prettyâand the cakes really goodâIâve always had a hand with cakes and scones. Yes, I was doing really well and then the war came and supplies were cut down and the whole thing went bankruptâa war casualty, that is what I always say, and I try to think of it like that. I lost the little money my father left me that I had invested in it, and of course I had to look round for something to do. Iâd never been trained for anything. So I went to one lady but it didnât answer at allâshe was so rude and overbearingâand then I did some office workâbut I didnât like that at all, and then I came to Mrs. Lansquenet and we suited each other from the startâher husband being an artist and everything.â Miss Gilchrist came to a breathless stop and added mournfully: âBut how I loved my dear, dear little tea shop. Such nice people used to come to it!â

Looking at Miss Gilchrist, Mr. Entwhistle felt a sudden stab of recognitionâa composite picture of hundreds of ladylike figures approaching him in numerous Bay Trees, Ginger Cats, Blue Parrots, Willow Trees and Cosy Corners, all chastely encased in blue or pink or orange overalls and taking orders for pots of china tea and cakes. Miss Gilchrist had a Spiritual Homeâa ladylike tea shop of Ye Olde Worlde variety with a suitable genteel clientÃ¨le. There must, he thought, be large numbers of Miss Gilchrists all over the country, all looking much alike with mild patient faces and obstinate upper lips and slightly wispy grey hair.

Miss Gilchrist went on:

âBut really I must not talk about myself. The police have been very kind and considerate. Very kind indeed. An Inspector Morton came over from headquarters and he was most understanding. He even arranged for me to go and spend the night at Mrs. Lakeâs down the lane but I said âNo.â I felt it my duty to stay here with all Mrs. Lansquenetâs nice things in the house. They took theâtheââ Miss Gilchrist gulped a littleââthe body away, of course, and locked up the room, and the Inspector told me there would be a constable on duty in the kitchen all nightâbecause of the broken windowâit has been reglazed this morning, I am glad to sayâwhere was I? Oh yes, so I said I should be quite all right in my own room, though I must confess I did pull the chest of drawers across the door and put a big jug of water on the windowsill. One never knowsâand if by any chance it was a maniacâone does hear of such thingsâ¦.â

Here Miss Gilchrist ran down. Mr. Entwhistle said quickly:

âI am in possession of all the main facts. Inspector Morton gave them to me. But if it would not distress you too much to give me your own accountâ?â

âOf course, Mr. Entwhistle. I know just what you feel. The police are so impersonal, are they not? Rightly so, of course.â

âMrs. Lansquenet got back from the funeral the night before last,â Mr. Entwhistle prompted.

âYes, her train didnât get in until quite late. I had ordered a taxi to meet it as she told me to. She was very tired, poor dearâas was only naturalâbut on the whole she was in quite good spirits.â

âYes, yes. Did she talk about the funeral at all?â

âJust a little. I gave her a cup of hot milkâshe didnât want anything elseâand she told me that the church had been quite full and lots and lots of flowersâoh! and she said that she was sorry not to have seen her other brotherâTimothyâwas it?â

âYes, Timothy.â

âShe said it was over twenty years since she had seen him and that she hoped he would have been there, but she quite realized he would have thought it better not to come under the circumstances, but that his wife was there and that sheâd never been able to stand Maudeâoh dear, I do beg your pardon, Mr. Entwhistleâit just slipped outâI never meantââ

âNot at all. Not at all,â said Mr. Entwhistle encouragingly. âI am no relation, you know. And I believe that Cora and her sister-in-law never hit it off very well.â

âWell, she almost said as much. âI always knew Maude would grow into one of those bossy interfering women,â is what she said. And then she was very tired and said sheâd go to bed at onceâ Iâd got her hot-water bottle in all readyâand she went up.â

âShe said nothing else that you can remember specially?â

âShe had no premonition, Mr. Entwhistle, if that is what you mean. Iâm sure of that. She was really, you know, in remarkably good spiritsâapart from tiredness and theâthe sad occasion. She asked me how Iâd like to go to Capri. To Capri! Of course I said it would be too wonderfulâitâs a thing Iâd never dreamed Iâd ever doâand she said, âWeâll go!â Just like that. I gatheredâof course it wasnât actually mentionedâthat her brother had left her an annuity or something of the kind.â

Mr. Entwhistle nodded.

âPoor dear. Well, Iâm glad she had the pleasure of planningâat all events.â Miss Gilchrist sighed and murmured wistfully, âI donât suppose I shall ever go to Capri nowâ¦.â

âAnd the next morning?â Mr. Entwhistle prompted, oblivious of Miss Gilchristâs disappointments.

âThe next morning Mrs. Lansquenet wasnât at all well. Really, she looked dreadful. Sheâd hardly slept at all, she told me. Nightmares. âItâs because you were overtired yesterday,â I told her, and she said maybe it was. She had her breakfast in bed, and she didnât get up all the morning, but at lunchtime she told me that she still hadnât been able to sleep. âI feel so restless,â she said. âI keep thinking of things and wondering.â And then she said sheâd take some sleeping tablets and try and get a good sleep in the afternoon. And she wanted me to go over by bus to Reading and change her two library books, because sheâd finished them both on the train journey and she hadnât got anything to read. Usually two books lasted her nearly a week. So I went off just after two and thatâand thatâwas the last timeââ Miss Gilchrist began to sniff. âShe must have been asleep, you know. She wouldnât have heard anything and the Inspector assures me that she didnât sufferâ¦ He thinks the first blow killed her. Oh dear, it makes me quite sick even to think of it!â

âPlease, please. Iâve no wish to take you any further over what happened. All I wanted was to hear what you could tell me about Mrs. Lansquenet before the tragedy.â

âVery natural, Iâm sure. Do tell her relations that apart from having such a bad night she was really very happy and looking forward to the future.â

Mr. Entwhistle paused before asking his next question. He wanted to be careful not to lead the witness.

âShe did not mention any of her relations in particular?â

âNo, no, I donât think so.â Miss Gilchrist considered. âExcept what she said about being sorry not to see her brother Timothy.â

âShe did not speak at all about her brotherâs decease? Theâerâcause of it? Anything like that?â

âNo.â

There was no sign of alertness in Miss Gilchristâs face. Mr. Entwhistle felt certain there would have been if Cora had plumped out her verdict of murder.

âHeâd been ill for some time, I think,â said Miss Gilchrist vaguely, âthough I must say I was surprised to hear it. He looked so very vigorous.â

Mr. Entwhistle said quickly:

âYou saw himâwhen?â

âWhen he came down here to see Mrs. Lansquenet. Let me seeâthat was about three weeks ago.â

âDid he stay here?â

âOhânoâjust came for luncheon. It was quite a surprise. Mrs. Lansquenet hadnât expected him. I gather there had been some family disagreement. She hadnât seen him for years, she told me.â

âYes, that is so.â

âIt quite upset herâseeing him againâand probably realizing how ill he wasââ

âShe knew he was ill?â

âOh yes, I remember quite well. Because I wonderedâonly in my own mind, you understandâif perhaps Mr. Abernethie might be suffering from softening of the brain. An aunt of mineââ

Mr. Entwhistle deftly sidetracked the aunt.

âSomething Mrs. Lansquenet said caused you to think of softening of the brain?â

âYes. Mrs. Lansquenet said something like âPoor Richard. Mortimerâs death must have aged him a lot. He sounds quite senile. All these fancies about persecution and that someone is poisoning him. Old people get like that.â And of course, as I knew, that is only too true. This aunt that I was telling you aboutâwas convinced the servants were trying to poison her in her food and at last would eat only boiled eggsâbecause, she said, you couldnât get inside a boiled egg to poison it. We humoured her, but if it had been nowadays I donât know what we should have done. With eggs so scarce and mostly foreign at that, so that boiling is always risky.â

Mr. Entwhistle listened to the saga of Miss Gilchristâs aunt with deaf ears. He was very much disturbed.

He said at last, when Miss Gilchrist had twittered into silence:

âI suppose Mrs. Lansquenet didnât take all this too seriously?â

âOh no, Mr. Entwhistle, she quite understood.â

Mr. Entwhistle found that remark disturbing too, though not quite in the sense in which Miss Gilchrist had used it.

Had Cora Lansquenet understood? Not then, perhaps, but later. Had she understood only too well?

Mr. Entwhistle knew that there had been no senility about Richard Abernethie. Richard had been in full possession of his faculties. He was not the man to have persecution mania in any form. He was, as he always had been, a hardheaded businessmanâand his illness made no difference in that respect.

It seemed extraordinary that he should have spoken to his sister in the terms that he had. But perhaps Cora, with her odd childlike shrewdness, had read between the lines, and had crossed the tâs and dotted the iâs of what Richard Abernethie had actually said.

In most ways, thought Mr. Entwhistle, Cora had been a complete fool. She had no judgement, no balance, and a crude childish point of view, but she had also the childâs uncanny knack of sometimes hitting the nail on the head in a way that seemed quite startling.

Mr. Entwhistle left it at that. Miss Gilchrist, he thought, knew no more than she had told him. He asked whether she knew if Cora Lansquenet had left a will. Miss Gilchrist replied promptly that Mrs. Lansquenetâs will was at the Bank.

With that and after making certain further arrangements he took his leave. He insisted on Miss Gilchristâs accepting a small sum in cash to defray present expenses and told her he would communicate with her again, and in the meantime he would be grateful if she would stay on at the cottage while she was looking about for a new post. That would be, Miss Gilchrist said, a great convenience and really she was not at all nervous.

He was unable to escape without being shown round the cottage by Miss Gilchrist, and introduced to various pictures by the late Pierre Lansquenet which were crowded into the small dining room and which made Mr. Entwhistle flinchâthey were mostly nudes executed with a singular lack of draughtsmanship but with much fidelity to detail. He was also made to admire various small oil sketches of picturesque fishing ports done by Cora herself.

âPolperro,â said Miss Gilchrist proudly. âWe were there last year and Mrs. Lansquenet was delighted with its picturesqueness.â

Mr. Entwhistle, viewing Polperro from the southwest, from the northwest, and presumably from the several other points of the compass, agreed that Mrs. Lansquenet had certainly been enthusiastic.

âMrs. Lansquenet promised to leave me her sketches,â said Miss Gilchrist wistfully. âI admired them so much. One can really see the waves breaking in this one, canât one? Even if she forgot, I might perhaps have just one as a souvenir, do you think?â

âIâm sure that could be arranged,â said Mr. Entwhistle graciously.

He made a few further arrangements and then left to interview the Bank Manager and to have a further consultation with Inspector Morton.

Five

I

âWorn out, thatâs what you are,â said Miss Entwhistle in the indignant and bullying tones adopted by devoted sisters towards brothers for whom they keep house. âYou shouldnât do it, at your age. Whatâs it all got to do with you, Iâd like to know? Youâve retired, havenât you?â

Mr. Entwhistle said mildly that Richard Abernethie had been one of his oldest friends.

âI dare say. But Richard Abernethieâs dead, isnât he? So I see no reason for you to go mixing yourself up in things that are no concern of yours and catching your death of cold in these nasty draughty railway trains. And murder, too! I canât see why they sent for you at all.â

âThey communicated with me because there was a letter in the cottage signed by me, telling Cora the arrangements for the funeral.â

âFunerals! One funeral after another, and that reminds me. Another of these precious Abernethies has been ringing you upâ Timothy, I think he said. From somewhere in Yorkshireâand thatâs about a funeral, too! Said heâd ring again later.â

A personal call for Mr. Entwhistle came through that evening. Taking it, he heard Maude Abernethieâs voice at the other end.

âThank goodness Iâve got hold of you at last! Timothy has been in the most terrible state. This news about Cora has upset him dreadfully.â

âQuite understandable,â said Mr. Entwhistle.

âWhat did you say?â

âI said it was quite understandable.â

âI suppose so.â Maude sounded more than doubtful. âDo you mean to say it was really murder?â

(âIt was murder, wasnât it?â Cora had said. But this time there was no hesitation about the answer.)

âYes, it was murder,â said Mr. Entwhistle.

âAnd with a hatchet, so the papers say?â

âYes.â

âIt seems quite incredible to me,â said Maude, âthat Timothyâs sisterâhis own sisterâcan have been murdered with a hatchet!â

It seemed no less incredible to Mr. Entwhistle. Timothyâs life was so remote from violence that even his relations, one felt, ought to be equally exempt.

âIâm afraid one has to face the fact,â said Mr. Entwhistle mildly.

âI am really very worried about Timothy. Itâs so bad for him, all this! Iâve got him to bed now but he insists on my persuading you to come up and see him. He wants to know a hundred thingsâwhether there will be an inquest, and who ought to attend, and how soon after that the funeral can take place, and where, and what funds there are, and if Cora expressed any wishes about being cremated or what, and if she left a willââ

Mr. Entwhistle interrupted before the catalogue got too long.

âThere is a will, yes. She left Timothy her executor.â

âOh dear, Iâm afraid Timothy canât undertake anythingââ

âThe firm will attend to all the necessary business. The willâs very simple. She left her own sketches and an amethyst brooch to her companion, Miss Gilchrist, and everything else to Susan.â

âTo Susan? Now I wonder why Susan? I donât believe she ever saw Susanânot since she was a baby anyway.â

âI imagine that it was because Susan was reported to have made a marriage not wholly pleasing to the family.â

Maude snorted.

âEven Gregory is a great deal better than Pierre Lansquenet ever was! Of course marrying a man who serves in a shop would have been unheard of in my dayâbut a chemistâs shop is much better than a haberdasherâsâand at least Gregory seems quite respectable.â She paused and added: âDoes this mean that Susan gets the income Richard left to Cora?â

âOh no. The capital of that will be divided according to the instructions of Richardâs will. No, poor Cora had only a few hundred pounds and the furniture of her cottage to leave. When outstanding debts are paid and the furniture sold I doubt if the whole thing will amount to more than at most five hundred pounds.â He went on: âThere will have to be an inquest, of course. That is fixed for next Thursday. If Timothy is agreeable, weâll send down young Lloyd to watch the proceedings on behalf of the family.â He added apologetically: âIâm afraid it may attract some notoriety owing to theâerâcircumstances.â

âHow very unpleasant! Have they caught the wretch who did it?â

âNot yet.â

âOne of these dreadful half-baked young men who go about the country roving and murdering, I suppose. The police are so incompetent.â

âNo, no,â said Mr. Entwhistle. âThe police are by no means incompetent. Donât imagine that, for a moment.â

âWell, it all seems to me quite extraordinary. And so bad for Timothy. I suppose you couldnât possibly come down here, Mr. Entwhistle? I should be most grateful if you could. I think Timothyâs mind might be set at rest if you were here to reassure him.â

Mr. Entwhistle was silent for a moment. The invitation was not unwelcome.

âThere is something in what you say,â he admitted. âAnd I shall need Timothyâs signature as executor to certain documents. Yes, I think it might be quite a good thing.â

âThat is splendid. I am so relieved. Tomorrow? And youâll stay the night? The best train is the 11:20 from St. Pancras.â

âIt will have to be an afternoon train, Iâm afraid. I have,â said Mr. Entwhistle, âother business in the morningâ¦.â

II

George Crossfield greeted Mr. Entwhistle heartily but with, perhaps, just a shade of surprise.

Mr. Entwhistle said, in an explanatory way, although it really explained nothing:

âIâve just come up from Lytchett St. Mary.â

âThen it really was Aunt Cora? I read about it in the papers and I just couldnât believe it. I thought it must be someone of the same name.â

âLansquenet is not a common name.â

âNo, of course it isnât. I suppose there is a natural aversion to believing that anyone of oneâs own family can be murdered. Sounds to me rather like that case last month on Dartmoor.â

âDoes it?â

âYes. Same circumstances. Cottage in a lonely position. Two elderly women living together. Amount of cash taken really quite pitifully inadequate one would think.â

âThe value of money is always relative,â said Mr. Entwhistle. âIt is the need that counts.â

âYesâyes, I suppose youâre right.â

âIf you need ten pounds desperatelyâthen fifteen is more than adequate. And inversely so. If your need is for a hundred pounds, forty-five would be worse than useless. And if itâs thousands you need, then hundreds are not enough.â

George said with a sudden flicker of the eyes: âIâd say any money came in useful these days. Everyoneâs hard up.â

âBut not desperate,â Mr. Entwhistle pointed out. âItâs the desperation that counts.â

âAre you thinking of something in particular?â

âOh no, not at all.â He paused then went on: âIt will be a little time before the estate is settled; would it be convenient for you to have an advance?â

âAs a matter of fact, I was going to raise the subject. However, I saw the Bank this morning and referred them to you and they were quite obliging about an overdraft.â

Again there came that flicker in Georgeâs eyes, and Mr. Entwhistle, from the depths of his experience, recognized it. George, he felt certain, had been, if not desperate, then in very sore straits for money. He knew at that moment, what he had felt subconsciously all along, that in money matters he would not trust George. He wondered if old Richard Abernethie, who also had had great experience in judging men, had felt that. Mr. Entwhistle was also sure that after Mortimerâs death, Abernethie had formed the intention of making George his heir. George was not an Abernethie, but he was the only male of the younger generation. He was the natural successor to Mortimer. Richard Abernethie had sent for George, had had him staying in the house for some days. It seemed probable that at the end of the visit the older man had not found George satisfactory. Had he felt instinctively, as Mr. Entwhistle felt, that George was not straight? Georgeâs father, so the family had thought, had been a poor choice on Lauraâs part. A stockbroker who had had other rather mysterious activities. George took after his father rather than after the Abernethies.

Perhaps misinterpreting the old lawyerâs silence, George said with an uneasy laugh:

âTruth is, Iâve not been very lucky with my investments lately. I took a bit of a risk and it didnât come off. More or less cleaned me out. But Iâll be able to recoup myself now. All one needs is a bit of capital. Ardens Consolidated are pretty good, donât you think?â

Mr. Entwhistle neither agreed nor dissented. He was wondering if by any chance George had been speculating with money that belonged to clients and not with his own? If George had been in danger of criminal prosecutionâ

Mr. Entwhistle said precisely:

âI tried to reach you the day after the funeral, but I suppose you werenât in the office.â

âDid you? They never told me. As a matter of fact, I thought I was entitled to a day off after the good news!â

âThe good news?â

George reddened.

âOh look here, I didnât mean Uncle Richardâs death. But knowing youâve come into money does give one a bit of a kick. One feels one must celebrate. As a matter of fact I went to Hurst Park. Backed two winners. It never rains but it pours! If your luckâs in, itâs in! Only a matter of fifty quid, but it all helps.â

âOh yes,â said Mr. Entwhistle. âIt all helps. And there will now be an additional sum coming to you as a result of your Aunt Coraâs death.â

George looked concerned.

âPoor old girl,â he said. âIt does seem rotten luck, doesnât it? Probably just when she was all set to enjoy herself.â

âLet us hope the police will find the person responsible for her death,â said Mr. Entwhistle.

âI expect theyâll get him all right. Theyâre good, our police. They round up all the undesirables in the neighbourhood and go through âem with a tooth combâmake them account for their actions at the time it happened.â

âNot so easy if a little time has elapsed,â said Mr. Entwhistle. He gave a wintry little smile that indicated he was about to make a joke. âI myself was in Hatchardâs bookshop at 3:30 on the day in question. Should I remember that if I were questioned by the police in ten daysâ time? I very much doubt it. And you, George, you were at Hurst Park. Would you remember which day you went to the races inâsayâa monthâs time?â

âOh I could fix it by the funeralâthe day after.â

âTrueâtrue. And then you backed a couple of winners. Another aid to memory. One seldom forgets the names of a horse on which one has won money. Which were they, by the way?â

âLet me see. Gaymarck and Frogg II. Yes, I shanât forget them in a hurry.â

Mr. Entwhistle gave his dry little cackle of laughter and took his leave.

III

âItâs lovely to see you, of course,â said Rosamund without any marked enthusiasm. âBut itâs frightfully early in the morning.â

She yawned heavily.

âItâs eleven oâclock,â said Mr. Entwhistle.

Rosamund yawned again. She said apologetically:

âWe had the hell of a party last night. Far too much to drink. Michaelâs got a terrible hangover still.â

Michael appeared at this moment, also yawning. He had a cup of black coffee in his hand and was wearing a very smart dressing gown. He looked haggard and attractiveâand his smile had the usual charm. Rosamund was wearing a black skirt, a rather dirty yellow pullover, and nothing else as far as Mr. Entwhistle could judge.

The precise and fastidious lawyer did not approve at all of the young Shanesâ way of living. The rather ramshackle flat on the first floor of a Chelsea houseâthe bottles and glasses and cigarette ends that lay about in profusionâthe stale air, and the general air of dust and dishevelment.

In the midst of this discouraging setting Rosamund and Michael bloomed with their wonderful good looks. They were certainly a very handsome couple and they seemed, Mr. Entwhistle thought, very fond of each other. Rosamund was certainly adoringly fond of Michael.

âDarling,â she said. âDo you think just a teeny sip of champagne? Just to pull us together and toast the future. Oh, Mr. Entwhistle, it really is the most marvellous luck Uncle Richard leaving us all that lovely money just nowââ

Mr. Entwhistle noted the quick, almost scowling, frown that Michael gave, but Rosamund went on serenely:

âBecause thereâs the most wonderful chance of a play. Michaelâs got an option on it. Itâs a most wonderful part for him and even a small part for me, too. Itâs about one of these young criminals, you know, they are really saintsâitâs absolutely full of the latest modern ideas.â

âSo it would seem,â said Mr. Entwhistle stiffly.

âHe robs, you know, and he kills, and heâs hounded by the police and by societyâand then in the end, he does a miracle.â

Mr. Entwhistle sat in outraged silence. Pernicious nonsense these young fools talked! And wrote.

Not that Michael Shane was talking much. There was still a faint scowl on his face.

âMr. Entwhistle doesnât want to hear all our rhapsodies, Rosamund,â he said. âShut up for a bit and let him tell us why heâs come to see us.â

âThere are just one or two little matters to straighten out,â said Mr. Entwhistle. âI have just come back from Lytchett St. Mary.â

âThen it was Aunt Cora who was murdered? We saw it in the paper. And I said it must be because itâs a very uncommon name. Poor old Aunt Cora. I was looking at her at the funeral that day and thinking what a frump she was and that really one might as well be dead if one looked like thatâand now she is dead. They absolutely wouldnât believe it last night when I told them that that murder with the hatchet in the paper was actually my aunt! They just laughed, didnât they, Michael?â

Michael Shane did not reply and Rosamund with every appearance of enjoyment said:

âTwo murders one after another. Itâs almost too much, isnât it?â

âDonât be a fool, Rosamund, your Uncle Richard wasnât murdered.â

âWell, Cora thought he was.â

Mr. Entwhistle intervened to ask:

âYou came back to London after the funeral, didnât you?â

âYes, we came by the same train as you did.â

âOf courseâ¦ Of course. I ask because I tried to get hold of you,â he shot a quick glance at the telephoneââon the following dayâseveral times in fact, and couldnât get an answer.â

âOh dearâIâm so sorry. What were we doing that day? The day before yesterday. We were here until about twelve, werenât we? And then you went round to try and get hold of Rosenheim and you went on to lunch with Oscar and I went out to see if I could get some nylons and round the shops. I was to meet Janet but we missed each other. Yes, I had a lovely afternoon shoppingâand then we dined at the Castile. We got back here about ten oâclock, I suppose.â

âAbout that,â said Michael. He was looking thoughtfully at Mr. Entwhistle. âWhat did you want to get hold of us for, sir?â

âOh! Just some points that had arisen about Richard Abernethieâs estateâpapers to signâall that.â

Rosamund asked: âDo we get the money now, or not for ages?â

âIâm afraid,â said Mr. Entwhistle, âthat the law is prone to delays.â

âBut we can get an advance, canât we?â Rosamund looked alarmed. âMichael said we could. Actually itâs terribly important. Because of the play.â

Michael said pleasantly:

âOh, thereâs no real hurry. Itâs just a question of deciding whether or not to take up the option.â

âIt will be quite easy to advance you some money,â said Mr. Entwhistle. âAs much as you need.â

âThen thatâs all right.â Rosamund gave a sigh of relief. She added as an afterthought: âDid Aunt Cora leave any money?â

âA little. She left it to your Cousin Susan.â

âWhy Susan, I should like to know! Is it much?â

âA few hundred pounds and some furniture.â

âNice furniture?â

âNo,â said Mr. Entwhistle.

Rosamund lost interest. âItâs all very odd, isnât it?â she said. âThere was Cora, after the funeral, suddenly coming out with âHe was murdered!â and then, the very next day, she goes and gets herself murdered? I mean, it is odd, isnât it?â

There was a momentâs rather uncomfortable silence before Mr. Entwhistle said quietly:

âYes, it is indeed very oddâ¦.â

IV

Mr. Entwhistle studied Susan Banks as she leant forward across the table talking in her animated manner.

None of the loveliness of Rosamund here. But it was an attractive face and its attraction lay, Mr. Entwhistle decided, in its vitality. The curves of the mouth were rich and full. It was a womanâs mouth and her body was very decidedly a womanâsâemphatically so. Yet in many ways Susan reminded him of her uncle, Richard Abernethie. The shape of her head, the line of her jaw, the deep-set reflective eyes. She had the same kind of dominant personality that Richard had had, the same driving energy, the same foresightedness and forthright judgement. Of the three members of the younger generation she alone seemed to be made of the metal that had raised up the vast Abernethie fortunes. Had Richard recognized in this niece a kindred spirit to his own? Mr. Entwhistle thought he must have done. Richard had always had a keen appreciation of character. Here, surely, were exactly the qualities of which he was in search. And yet, in his will, Richard Abernethie had made no distinction in her favour. Distrustful, as Mr. Entwhistle believed, of George, passing over that lovely dimwit, Rosamundâcould he not have found in Susan what he was seekingâan heir of his own mettle?

If not, the cause must beâyes, it followed logicallyâthe husbandâ¦.

Mr. Entwhistleâs eyes slid gently over Susanâs shoulder to where Gregory Banks stood absently whittling at a pencil.

A thin, pale, nondescript young man with reddish sandy hair. So overshadowed by Susanâs colourful personality that it was difficult to realize what he himself was really like. Nothing to take hold of in the fellowâquite pleasant, ready to be agreeableâa âyesâ man, as the modern term went. And yet that did not seem to describe him satisfactorily. There was something vaguely disquieting about the unobtrusiveness of Gregory Banks. He had been an unsuitable matchâyet Susan had insisted on marrying himâhad overborne all oppositionâwhy? What had she seen in him?

And now, six months after the marriageââSheâs crazy about the fellow,â Mr. Entwhistle said to himself. He knew the signs. A large number of wives with matrimonial troubles had passed through the office of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard. Wives madly devoted to unsatisfactory and often what appeared quite unprepossessing husbands, wives contemptuous of, and bored by, apparently attractive and impeccable husbands. What any woman saw in some particular man was beyond the comprehension of the average intelligent male. It just was so. A woman who could be intelligent about everything else in the world could be a complete fool when it came to some particular man. Susan, thought Mr. Entwhistle, was one of those women. For her the world revolved around Greg. And that had its dangers in more ways than one.

Susan was talking with emphasis and indignation.

ââbecause it is disgraceful. You remember that woman who was murdered in Yorkshire last year? Nobody was ever arrested. And the old woman in the sweet shop who was killed with a crowbar. They detained some man, and then they let him go!â

âThere has to be evidence, my dear,â said Mr. Entwhistle.

Susan paid no attention.

âAnd that other caseâa retired nurseâthat was a hatchet or an axeâjust like Aunt Cora.â

âDear me, you appear to have made quite a study of these crimes, Susan,â said Mr. Entwhistle mildly.

âNaturally one remembers these thingsâand when someone in oneâs own family is killedâand in very much the same wayâwell, it shows that there must be a lot of these sorts of people going round the countryside, breaking into places and attacking lonely womenâand that the police just donât bother!â

Mr. Entwhistle shook his head.

âDonât belittle the police, Susan. They are a very shrewd and patient body of menâpersistent, too.

Just because it isnât still mentioned in the newspapers doesnât mean that a case is closed. Far from it.â

âAnd yet there are hundreds of unsolved crimes every year.â

âHundreds?â Mr. Entwhistle looked dubious. âA certain number, yes. But there are many occasions when the police know who has committed a crime but where the evidence is insufficient for a prosecution.â

âI donât believe it,â said Susan. âI believe if you knew definitely who committed a crime you could always get the evidence.â

âI wonder now.â Mr. Entwhistle sounded thoughtful. âI very much wonderâ¦.â

âHave they any idea at allâin Aunt Coraâs caseâof who it might be?â

âThat I couldnât say. Not as far as I know. But they would hardly confide in meâand itâs early days yetâthe murder took place only the day before yesterday, remember.â

âItâs definitely got to be a certain kind of person,â Susan mused. âA brutal, perhaps slightly half-witted typeâa discharged soldier or a gaol bird. I mean, using a hatchet like that.â

Looking slightly quizzical, Mr. Entwhistle raised his eyebrows and murmured:

âLizzie Borden with an axe

Gave her father fifty whacks.

When she saw what she had done

She gave her mother fifty-one.â

âOh,â Susan flushed angrily, âCora hadnât got any relations living with herâunless you mean the companion. And anyway Lizzie Borden was acquitted. Nobody knows for certain she killed her father and stepmother.â

âThe rhyme is quite definitely libellous,â Mr. Entwhistle agreed.

âYou mean the companion did do it? Did Cora leave her anything?â

âAn amethyst brooch of no great value and some sketches of fishing villages of sentimental value only.â

âOne has to have a motive for murderâunless one is half-witted.â

Mr. Entwhistle gave a little chuckle.

âAs far as one can see, the only person who had a motive is you, my dear Susan.â

âWhatâs that?â Greg moved forward suddenly. He was like a sleeper coming awake. An ugly light showed in his eyes. He was suddenly no longer a negligible feature in the background. âWhatâs Sue got to do with it? What do you meanâsaying things like that?â

Susan said sharply:

âShut up, Greg. Mr. Entwhistle doesnât mean anythingââ

âJust my little joke,â said Mr. Entwhistle apologetically. âNot in the best taste, Iâm afraid. Cora left her estate, such as it was, to you, Susan. But to a young lady who has just inherited several hundred thousand pounds, an estate, amounting at the most to a few hundreds, can hardly be said to represent a motive for murder.â

âShe left her money to me?â Susan sounded surprised. âHow extraordinary. She didnât even know me! Why did she do it, do you think?â

âI think she had heard rumours that there had been a little difficultyâerâover your marriage.â Greg, back again at sharpening his pencil, scowled. âThere had been a certain amount of trouble over her own marriageâand I think she experienced a fellow feeling.â

Susan asked with a certain amount of interest:

âShe married an artist, didnât she, whom none of the family liked? Was he a good artist?â

Mr. Entwhistle shook his head very decidedly.

âAre there any of his paintings in the cottage?â

âYes.â

Then I shall judge for myself,â said Susan.

Mr. Entwhistle smiled at the resolute tilt of Susanâs chin.

âSo be it. Doubtless I am an old fogey and hopelessly old-fashioned in matters of art, but I really donât think you will dispute my verdict.â

âI suppose I ought to go down there, anyway? And look over what there is. Is there anybody there now?â

âI have arranged with Miss Gilchrist to remain there until further notice.â

Greg said: âShe must have a pretty good nerveâto stay in a cottage where a murderâs been committed.â

âMiss Gilchrist is quite a sensible woman, I should say. Besides,â added the lawyer drily, âI donât think she has anywhere else to go until she gets another situation.â

âSo Aunt Coraâs death left her high and dry? Did sheâwere she and Aunt Coraâon intimate termsâ?â

Mr. Entwhistle looked at her rather curiously, wondering just what exactly was in her mind.

âModerately so, I imagine,â he said. âShe never treated Miss Gilchrist as a servant.â

âTreated her a damned sight worse, I dare say,â said Susan. âThese wretched so called âladiesâ are the ones who get it taken out of them nowadays. Iâll try and find her a decent post somewhere. It wonât be difficult. Anyone whoâs willing to do a bit of housework and cook is worth their weight in goldâshe does cook, doesnât she?â

âOh yes. I gather it is something she called, er âthe roughâ that she objected to. Iâm afraid I donât quite know what âthe roughâ is.â

Susan appeared to be a good deal amused.

Mr. Entwhistle, glancing at his watch, said:

âYour aunt left Timothy her executor.â

âTimothy,â said Susan with scorn. âUncle Timothy is practically a myth. Nobody ever sees him.â

âQuite.â Mr. Entwhistle glanced at his watch. âI am travelling up to see him this afternoon. I will acquaint him with your decision to go down to the cottage.â

âIt will only take me a day or two, I imagine. I donât want to be long away from London. Iâve got various schemes in hand. Iâm going into business.â

Mr. Entwhistle looked round him at the cramped sitting room of the tiny flat. Greg and Susan were evidently hard up. Her father, he knew, had run through most of his money. He had left his daughter badly off.

âWhat are your plans for the future, if I may ask?â

âIâve got my eye on some premises in Cardigan Street. I suppose, if necessary, you can advance me some money? I may have to pay a deposit.â

âThat can be managed,â said Mr. Entwhistle. âI rang you up the day after the funeral several timesâbut could get no answer. I thought perhaps you might care for an advance. I wondered whether you might perhaps have gone out of Town.â

âOh no,â said Susan quickly. âWe were in all day. Both of us. We didnât go out at all.â

Greg said gently: âYou know Susan, I think our telephone must have been out of order that day. You remember how I couldnât get through to Hard and Co. in the afternoon. I meant to report it, but it was all right the next morning.â

âTelephones,â said Mr. Entwhistle, âcan be very unreliable sometimes.â

Susan said suddenly:

âHow did Aunt Cora know about our marriage? It was at a Registry Office and we didnât tell anyone until afterwards!â

âI fancy Richard may have told her about it. She remade her will about three weeks ago (it was formerly in favour of the Theosophical Society)âjust about the time he had been down to see her.â

Susan looked startled.

âDid Uncle Richard go down to see her? Iâd no idea of that?â

âI hadnât any idea of it myself,â said Mr. Entwhistle.

âSo that was whenââ

âWhen what?â

âNothing,â said Susan.

Six

I

âVery good of you to come along,â said Maude gruffly, as she greeted Mr. Entwhistle on the platform of Bayham Compton station. âI can assure you that both Timothy and I much appreciate it. Of course the truth is that Richardâs death was the worst thing possible for Timothy.â

Mr. Entwhistle had not yet considered his friendâs death from this particular angle. But it was, he saw, the only angle from which Mrs. Timothy Abernethie was likely to regard it.

As they proceeded towards the exit, Maude developed the theme.

âTo begin with, it was a shockâTimothy was really very attached to Richard. And then unfortunately it put the idea of death into Timothyâs head. Being such an invalid has made him rather nervous about himself. He realized that he was the only one of the brothers left aliveâand he started saying that heâd be the next to goâand that it wouldnât be long nowâall very morbid talk, as I told him.â

They emerged from the station and Maude led the way to a dilapidated car of almost fabulous antiquity.

âSorry about our old rattletrap,â she said. âWeâve wanted a new car for years, but really we couldnât afford it. This has had a new engine twiceâand these old cars really stand up to a lot of hard work.

âI hope it will start,â she added. âSometimes one has to wind it.â

She pressed the starter several times but only a meaningless whirr resulted. Mr. Entwhistle, who had never wound a car in his life, felt rather apprehensive, but Maude herself descended, inserted the starting handle and with a vigorous couple of turns woke the motor to life. It was fortunate, Mr. Entwhistle reflected, that Maude was such a powerfully built woman.

âThatâs that,â she said. âThe old bruteâs been playing me up lately. Did it when I was coming back after the funeral. Had to walk a couple of miles to the nearest garage and they werenât good for muchâjust a village affair. I had to put up at the local inn while they tinkered at it. Of course that upset Timothy, too. I had to phone through to him and tell him I couldnât be back till the next day. Fussed him terribly. One tries to keep things from him as much as possibleâbut some things one canât do anything aboutâCoraâs murder, for instance. I had to send for Dr. Barton to give him a sedative. Things like murder are too much for a man in Timothyâs state of health. I gather Cora was always a fool.â

Mr. Entwhistle digested this remark in silence. The inference was not quite clear to him.

âI donât think Iâd seen Cora since our marriage,â said Maude. âI didnât like to say to Timothy at the time: âYour youngest sisterâs batty,â not just like that. But itâs what I thought. There she was saying the most extraordinary things! One didnât know whether to resent them or whether to laugh. I suppose the truth is she lived in a kind of imaginary world of her ownâfull of melodrama and fantastic ideas about other people. Well, poor soul, sheâs paid for it now. She didnât have any protÃ©gÃ©s, did she?â

âProtÃ©gÃ©s? What do you mean?â

âI just wondered. Some young cadging artist, or musicianâor something of that kind. Someone she might have let in that day, and who killed her for her loose cash. Perhaps an adolescentâtheyâre so queer at that age sometimesâespecially if theyâre the neurotic arty type. I mean, it seems so odd to break in and murder her in the middle of the afternoon. If you break into a house surely youâd do it at night.â

âThere would have been two women there then.â

âOh yes, the companion. But really I canât believe that anyone would deliberately wait until she was out of the way and then break in and attack Cora. What for? He canât have expected sheâd have any cash or stuff to speak of, and there must have been times when both the women were out and the house was empty. That would have been much safer. It seems so stupid to go and commit a murder unless itâs absolutely necessary.â

âAnd Coraâs murder, you feel, was unnecessary?â

âIt all seems so stupid.â

Should murder make sense? Mr. Entwhistle wondered. Academically the answer was yes. But many pointless crimes were on record. It depended, Mr. Entwhistle reflected, on the mentality of the murderer.

What did he really know about murderers and their mental processes? Very little. His firm had never had a criminal practice. He was no student of criminology himself. Murderers, as far as he could judge, seemed to be of all sorts and kinds. Some had had overweening vanity, some had had a lust for power, some, like Seddon, had been mean and avaricious, others, like Smith and Rowse, had had an incredible fascination for women; some, like Armstrong, had been pleasant fellows to meet. Edith Thompson had lived in a world of violent unreality, Nurse Waddington had put her elderly patients out of the way with businesslike cheerfulness.

Maudeâs voice broke into his meditations.

âIf I could only keep the newspapers from Timothy! But he will insist on reading themâand then, of course, it upsets him. You do understand, donât you, Mr. Entwhistle, that there can be no question of Timothyâs attending the inquest? If necessary, Dr. Barton can write out a certificate or whatever it is.â

âYou can set your mind at rest about that.â

âThank goodness!â

They turned in through the gates of Stansfield Grange, and up a neglected drive. It had been an attractive small property onceâbut had now a doleful and neglected appearance. Maude sighed as she said:

âWe had to let this go to seed during the war. Both gardeners called up. And now weâve only got one old manâand heâs not much good. Wages have gone up so terribly. I must say itâs a blessing to realize that weâll be able to spend a little money on the place now. Weâre both so fond of it. I was really afraid that we might have to sell itâ¦ Not that I suggested anything of the kind to Timothy. It would have upset himâdreadfully.â

They drew up before the portico of a very old Georgian house which badly needed a coat of paint.

âNo servants,â said Maude bitterly, as she led the way in. âJust a couple of women who come in. We had a resident maid until a month agoâslightly hunchbacked and terribly adenoidal and in many ways not too bright, but she was there which was such a comfortâand quite good at plain cooking. And would you believe it, she gave notice and went to a fool of a woman who keeps six Pekinese dogs (itâs a larger house than this and more work) because she was âso fond of little doggies,â she said. Dogs, indeed! Being sick and making messes all the time Iâve no doubt! Really, these girls are mental! So there we are, and if I have to go out any afternoon, Timothy is left quite alone in the house and if anything should happen, how could he get help? Though I do leave the telephone close by his chair so that if he felt faint he could dial Dr. Barton immediately.â

Maude led the way into the drawing room where tea was laid ready by the fireplace, and establishing Mr. Entwhistle there, disappeared, presumably to the back regions. She returned in a few minutesâ time with a teapot and silver kettle, and proceeded to minister to Mr. Entwhistleâs needs. It was a good tea with homemade cake and fresh buns. Mr. Entwhistle murmured:

âWhat about Timothy?â and Maude explained briskly that she had taken Timothy his tray before she set out for the station.

âAnd now,â said Maude, âhe will have had his little nap and it will be the best time for him to see you. Do try and not let him excite himself too much.â

Mr. Entwhistle assured her that he would exercise every precaution.

Studying her in the flickering firelight, he was seized by a feeling of compassion. This big, stalwart matter-of-fact woman, so healthy, so vigorous, so full of common sense, and yet so strangely, almost pitifully, vulnerable in one spot. Her love for her husband was maternal love, Mr. Entwhistle decided. Maude Abernethie had borne no child and she was a woman built for motherhood. Her invalid husband had become her child, to be shielded, guarded, watched over. And perhaps, being the stronger character of the two, she had unconsciously imposed on him a state of invalidism greater than might otherwise have been the case.

âPoor Mrs. Tim,â thought Mr. Entwhistle to himself.

II

âGood of you to come, Entwhistle.â

Timothy raised himself up in his chair as he held out a hand. He was a big man with a marked resemblance to his brother Richard. But what was strength in Richard, in Timothy was weakness. The mouth was irresolute, the chin very slightly receding, the eyes less deep-set. Lines of peevish irritability showed on his forehead.

His invalid status was emphasized by the rug across his knees and a positive pharmacopoeia of little bottles and boxes, on a table at his right hand.

âI mustnât exert myself,â he said warningly. âDoctorâs forbidden it. Keeps telling me not to worry! Worry! If heâd had a murder in his family heâd do a bit of worrying, I bet! Itâs too much for a manâfirst Richardâs deathâthen hearing all about his funeral and his willâwhat a will!âand on top of that poor little Cora killed with a hatchet. Hatchet! ugh! This countryâs full of gangsters nowadaysâthugsâleft over from the war! Going about killing defenceless women. Nobodyâs got the guts to put these things downâto take a strong hand. Whatâs the country coming to, Iâd like to know? Whatâs the damned country coming to?â

Mr. Entwhistle was familiar with this gambit. It was a question almost invariably asked sooner or later by his clients for the last twenty years and he had his routine for answering it. The noncommittal words he uttered could have been classified under the heading of soothing noises.

âIt all began with that damned Labour Government,â said Timothy. âSending the whole country to blazes. And the Government weâve got now is no better. Mealy-mouthed, milk-and-water socialists! Look at the state weâre in! Canât get a decent gardener, canât get servantsâpoor Maude here has to work herself to a shadow messing about in the kitchen (by the way, I think a custard pudding would go well with the sole tonight, my dearâand perhaps a little clear soup first?). Iâve got to keep my strength upâ Doctor Barton said soâlet me see, where was I? Oh yes, Cora. Itâs a shock, I can tell you, to a man when he hears his sisterâhis own sisterâhas been murdered! Why, I had palpitations for twenty minutes! Youâll have to attend to everything for me, Entwhistle. I canât go to the inquest or be bothered by business of any kind connected with Coraâs estate. I want to forget the whole thing. What happened, by the way, to Coraâs share of Richardâs money? Comes to me, I suppose?â

Murmuring something about clearing away tea, Maude left the room.

Timothy lay back in his chair and said:

âGood thing to get rid of the women. Now we can talk business without any silly interruptions.â

âThe sum left in trust for Cora,â said Mr. Entwhistle, âgoes equally to you and the nieces and nephew.â

âBut look here,â Timothyâs cheeks assumed a purplish hue of indignation. âSurely Iâm her next of kin? Only surviving brother.â

Mr. Entwhistle explained with some care the exact provisions of Richard Abernethieâs will, reminding Timothy gently that he had had a copy sent him.

âDonât expect me to understand all that legal jargon, do you?â said Timothy ungratefully. âYou lawyers! Matter of fact, I couldnât believe it when Maude came home and told me the gist of it. Thought sheâd got it wrong. Women are never clear headed. Best woman in the world, Maudeâbut women donât understand finance. I donât believe Maude even realizes that if Richard hadnât died when he did, we might have had to clear out of here. Fact!â

âSurely if you had applied to Richardââ

Timothy gave a short bark of harsh laughter.

âThatâs not my style. Our father left us all a perfectly reasonable share of his moneyâthat is, if we didnât want to go into the family concern. I didnât. Iâve a soul above cornplasters, Entwhistle! Richard took my attitude a bit hard. Well, what with taxes, depreciation of income, one thing and anotherâit hasnât been easy to keep things going. Iâve had to realize a good deal of capital. Best thing to do these days. I did hint once to Richard that this place was getting a bit hard to run. He took the attitude that weâd be much better off in a smaller place altogether. Easier for Maude, he said, more labour savingâlabour saving, what a term! Oh no, I wouldnât have asked Richard for help. But I can tell you, Entwhistle, that the worry affected my health most unfavourably. A man in my state of health oughtnât to have to worry. Then Richard died and though of course naturally I was cut up about itâmy brother and all thatâ I couldnât help feeling relieved about future prospects. Yes, itâs all plain sailing nowâand a great relief. Get the house paintedâget a couple of really good men on the gardenâyou can get them at a price. Restock the rose garden completely. Andâwhere was Iââ

âDetailing your future plans.â

âYes, yesâbut I mustnât bother you with all that. What did hurt meâand hurt me cruellyâwere the terms of Richardâs will.â

âIndeed?â Mr. Entwhistle looked inquiring. âThey were notâas you expected?â

âI should say they werenât! Naturally, after Mortimerâs death, I assumed that Richard would leave everything to me.â

âAhâdid heâeverâindicate that to you?â

âHe never said soânot in so many words. Reticent sort of chap, Richard. But he asked himself hereânot long after Mortimerâs death. Wanted to talk over family affairs generally. We discussed young Georgeâand the girls and their husbands. Wanted to know my viewsânot that I could tell him much. Iâm an invalid and I donât get about, and Maudie and I live out of the world. Rotten silly marriages both of those girls made, if you ask me. Well, I ask you, Entwhistle, naturally I thought he was consulting me as the head of the family after he was gone and naturally I thought the control of the money would be mine. Richard could surely trust me to do the right thing by the younger generation. And to look after poor old Cora. Dash it all, Entwhistle, Iâm an Abernethieâthe last Abernethie. Full control should have been left in my hands.â

In his excitement Timothy had kicked aside his rug and had sat up in his chair. There were no signs of weakness or fragility about him. He looked, Mr. Entwhistle thought, a perfectly healthy man, even if a slightly excitable one. Moreover the old lawyer realized very clearly that Timothy Abernethie had probably always been secretly jealous of his brother Richard. They had been sufficiently alike for Timothy to resent his brotherâs strength of character and firm grasp of affairs. When Richard had died, Timothy had exulted in the prospect of succeeding at this late date to the power to control the destinies of others.

Richard Abernethie had not given him that power. Had he thought of doing so and then decided against it?

A sudden squalling of cats in the garden brought Timothy up out of his chair. Rushing to the window he threw up the sash, bawled out, âStop it, you!â and picking up a large book hurled it out at the marauders.

âBeastly cats,â he grumbled, returning to his visitor. âRuin the flower beds and I canât stand that damned yowling.â

He sat down again and asked:

âHave a drink, Entwhistle?â

âNot quite so soon. Maude has just given me an excellent tea.â

Timothy grunted.

âCapable woman. Maude. But she does too much. Even has to muck about with the inside of that old car of oursâsheâs quite a mechanic in her way, you know.â

âI hear she had a breakdown coming back from the funeral?â

âYes. Car conked out. She had the sense to telephone through about it, in case I should be anxious, but that ass of a daily woman of ours wrote down the message in a way that didnât make sense. I was out getting a bit of fresh airâIâm advised by the doctor to take what exercise I can if I feel like itâI got back from my walk to find scrawled on a bit of paper: âMadameâs sorry car gone wrong got to stay night.â Naturally I thought she was still at Enderby. Put a call through and found Maude had left that morning. Might have had the breakdown anywhere! Pretty kettle of fish! Fool of a daily woman only left me a lumpy macaroni cheese for supper. I had to go down to the kitchen and warm it up myselfâand make myself a cup of teaâto say nothing of stoking the boiler. I might have had a heart attackâbut does that class of woman care? Not she! With any decent feelings sheâd have come back that evening and looked after me properly. No loyalty any more in the lower classesââ

He brooded sadly.

âI donât know how much Maude told you about the funeral and the relatives,â said Mr. Entwhistle. âCora produced rather an awkward moment. Said brightly that Richard had been murdered, hadnât he? Perhaps Maude told you.â

Timothy chuckled easily.

âOh yes, I heard about that. Everybody looked down their noses and pretended to be shocked. Just the sort of thing Cora would say! You know how she always managed to put her foot in it when she was a girl, Entwhistle? Said something at our wedding that upset Maude, I remember. Maude never cared for her very much. Yes, Maude rang me up that evening after the funeral to know if I was all right and if Mrs. Jones had come in to give me my evening meal and then she told me it had all gone off very well, and I said âWhat about the will?â and she tried to hedge a bit, but of course I had the truth out of her. I couldnât believe it, and I said she must have made a mistake, but she stuck to it. It hurt me, Entwhistleâit really wounded me, if you know what I mean. If you ask me, it was just spite on Richardâs part. I know one shouldnât speak ill of the dead, but, upon my wordââ

Timothy continued on this theme for some time.

Then Maude came back into the room and said firmly:

âI think, dear, Mr. Entwhistle has been with you quite long enough. You really must rest. If you have settled everythingââ

âOh, weâve settled things. I leave it all to you, Entwhistle. Let me know when they catch the fellowâif they ever do. Iâve no faith in the police nowadaysâthe Chief Constables arenât the right type. Youâll see to theâerâintermentâwonât you? We shanât be able to come, Iâm afraid. But order an expensive wreathâand there must be a proper stone put up in due courseâsheâll be buried locally, I suppose? No point in bringing her North and Iâve no idea where Lansquenet is buried, somewhere in France I believe. I donât know what one puts on a stone when itâs murderâ¦ Canât very well say âentered into restâ or anything like that. One will have to choose a textâsomething appropriate. R.I.P.? No, thatâs only for Catholics.â

âO Lord, thou has seen my wrong. Judge thou my case,â murmured Mr. Entwhistle.

The startled glance Timothy bent on him made Mr. Entwhistle smile faintly.

âFrom Lamentations,â he said. âIt seems appropriate if somewhat melodramatic. However, it will be some time before the question of the Memorial stone comes up. Theâerâground has to settle, you know. Now donât worry about anything. We will deal with things and keep you fully informed.â

Mr. Entwhistle left for London by the breakfast train on the following morning.

When he got home, after a little hesitation, he rang up a friend of his.

Seven

âI canât tell you how much I appreciate your invitation.â

Mr. Entwhistle pressed his hostâs hand warmly.

Hercule Poirot gestured hospitably to a chair by the fire.

Mr. Entwhistle sighed as he sat down.

On one side of the room a table was laid for two.

âI returned from the country this morning,â he said.

âAnd you have a matter on which you wish to consult me?â

âYes. Itâs a long rambling story, Iâm afraid.â

âThen we will not have it until after we have dined. Georges?â

The efficient Georges materialized with some pÃ¢tÃ© de foie gras accompanied by hot toast in a napkin.

âWe will have our pÃ¢tÃ© by the fire,â said Poirot. âAfterwards we will move to the table.â

It was an hour and a half later that Mr. Entwhistle stretched himself comfortably out in his chair and sighed a contented sigh.

âYou certainly know how to do yourself well, Poirot. Trust a Frenchman.â

âI am a Belgian. But the rest of your remark applies. At my age the chief pleasure, almost the only pleasure that still remains, is the pleasure of the table. Mercifully I have an excellent stomach.â

âAh,â murmured Mr. Entwhistle.

They had dined off sole veronique, followed by escalope de veau milanaise, proceeding to poire flambÃ©e with ice cream.

They had drunk a Pouilly FuissÃ© followed by a Corton, and a very good port now reposed at Mr. Entwhistleâs elbow. Poirot, who did not care for port, was sipping CrÃ¨me de Cacao.

âI donât know,â murmured Mr. Entwhistle reminiscently, âhow you manage to get hold of an escalope like that! It melted in the mouth!â

âI have a friend who is a Continental butcher. For him I solve a small domestic problem. He is appreciativeâand ever since then he is most sympathetic to me in the matters of the stomach.â

âA domestic problem,â Mr. Entwhistle sighed. âI wish you had not reminded meâ¦ This is such a perfect momentâ¦.â

âProlong it, my friend. We will have presently the demitasse and the fine brandy, and then, when digestion is peacefully under way, then you shall tell why you need my advice.â

The clock struck the half hour after nine before Mr. Entwhistle stirred in his chair. The psychological moment had come. He no longer felt reluctant to bring forth his perplexitiesâhe was eager to do so.

âI donât know,â he said, âwhether Iâm making the most colossal fool of myself. In any case I donât see that thereâs anything that can possibly be done. But Iâd like to put the facts before you, and Iâd like to know what you think.â

He paused for a moment or two, then in his dry meticulous way, he told his story. His trained legal brain enabled him to put the facts clearly, to leave nothing out, and to add nothing extraneous. It was a clear succinct account, and as such appreciated by the little elderly man with the egg-shaped head who sat listening to him.

When he had finished there was a pause. Mr. Entwhistle was prepared to answer questions, but for some few moments no question came. Hercule Poirot was reviewing the evidence.

He said at last:

âIt seems very clear. You have in your mind the suspicion that your friend, Richard Abernethie, may have been murdered? That suspicion, or assumption, rests on the basis of one thing onlyâthe words spoken by Cora Lansquenet at Richard Abernethieâs funeral. Take those awayâand there is nothing left. The fact that she herself was murdered the day afterwards may be the purest coincidence. It is true that Richard Abernethie died suddenly, but he was attended by a reputable doctor who knew him well, and that doctor had no suspicions and gave a death certificate. Was Richard buried or cremated?â

âCrematedâaccording to his own request.â

âYes, that is the law. And it means that a second doctor signed the certificateâbut there would be no difficulty about that. So we come back to the essential point, what Cora Lansquenet said. You were there and you heard her. She said: âBut he was murdered, wasnât he?ââ

âYes.â

âAnd the real point isâthat you believe she was speaking the truth.â

The lawyer hesitated for a moment, then he said:

âYes, I do.â

âWhy?â

âWhy?â Entwhistle repeated the word, slightly puzzled.

âBut yes, why? Is it because, already, deep down, you had an uneasiness about the manner of Richardâs death?â

The lawyer shook his head. âNo, no, not in the least.â

âThen it is because of herâof Cora herself. You knew her well?â

âI had not seen her forâohâover twenty years.â

âWould you have known her if you had met her in the street?â

Mr. Entwhistle reflected.

âI might have passed her by in the street without recognizing her. She was a thin slip of a girl when I saw her last and she had turned into a stout, shabby, middle-aged woman. But I think that the moment I spoke to her face to face I should have recognized her. She wore her hair in the same way, a bang cut straight across the forehead, and she had a trick of peering up at you through her fringe like a rather shy animal, and she had a very characteristic, abrupt way of talking, and a way of putting her head on one side and then coming out with something quite outrageous. She had character, you see, and character is always highly individual.â

âShe was, in fact, the same Cora you had known years ago. And she still said outrageous things! The things, the outrageous things, she had said in the pastâwere they usuallyâjustified?â

âThat was always the awkward thing about Cora. When truth would have been better left unspoken, she spoke it.â

âAnd that characteristic remained unchanged. Richard Abernethie was murderedâso Cora at once mentioned the fact.â

Mr. Entwhistle stirred.

âYou think he was murdered?â

âOh, no, no, my friend, we cannot go so fast. We agree on thisâCora thought he had been murdered. She was quite sure he had been murdered. It was, to her, more a certainty than a surmise. And so, we come to this, she must have had some reason for the belief. We agree, by your knowledge of her, that it was not just a bit of mischief making. Now tell meâwhen she said what she did, there was, at once, a kind of chorus of protestâthat is right?â

âQuite right.â

âAnd she then became confused, abashed, and retreated from the positionâsayingâas far as you can remember, something like âBut I thoughtâfrom what he told meâââ

The lawyer nodded.

âI wish I could remember more clearly. But I am fairly sure of that. She used the words âhe told meâ or âhe saidâââ

âAnd the matter was then smoothed over and everyone spoke of something else. You can remember, looking back, no special expression on anyoneâs face? Anything that remains in your memory asâshall we sayâunusual?â

âNo.â

âAnd the very next day, Cora is killedâand you ask yourself: âCan it be cause and effect?ââ

The lawyer stirred.

âI suppose that seems to you quite fantastic?â

âNot at all,â said Poirot. âGiven that the original assumption is correct, it is logical. The perfect murder, the murder of Richard Abernethie, has been committed, all has gone off smoothlyâand suddenly it appears that there is one person who has a knowledge of the truth! Clearly that person must be silenced as quickly as possible.â

âThen you do think thatâit was murder?â

Poirot said gravely:

âI think, mon cher, exactly as you thoughtâthat there is a case for investigation. Have you taken any steps? You have spoken of these matters to the police?â

âNo.â Mr. Entwhistle shook his head. âIt did not seem to me that any good purpose could be achieved. My position is that I represent the family. If Richard Abernethie was murdered, there seems only one method by which it could be done.â

âBy poison?â

âExactly. And the body has been cremated. There is now no evidence available. But I decided that I, myself, must be satisfied on the point. That is why, Poirot, I have come to you.â

âWho was in the house at the time of his death?â

âAn old butler who has been with him for years, a cook and a housemaid. It would seem, perhaps, as though it must necessarily be one of themââ

âAh! do not try to pull the wool upon my eyes. This Cora, she knows Richard Abernethie was killed, yet she acquiesces in the hushing up. She says, âI think you are all quite right.â Therefore it must be one of the family who is concerned, someone whom the victim himself might prefer not to have openly accused. Otherwise, since Cora was fond of her brother, she would not agree to let the sleeping murderer lie. You agree to that, yes?â

âIt was the way I reasonedâyes,â confessed Mr. Entwhistle. âThough how any of the family could possiblyââ

Poirot cut him short.

âWhere poison is concerned there are all sorts of possibilities. It must, presumably, have been a narcotic of some sort if he died in his sleep and if there were no suspicious appearances. Possibly he was already having some narcotic administered to him.â

âIn any case,â said Mr. Entwhistle, âthe how hardly matters. We shall never be able to prove anything.â

âIn the case of Richard Abernethie, no. But the murder of Cora Lansquenet is different. Once we know âwhoâ then evidence ought to be possible to get.â He added with a sharp glance, âYou have, perhaps, already done something.â

âVery little. My purpose was mainly, I think, elimination. It is distasteful to me to think that one of the Abernethie family is a murderer. I still canât quite believe it. I hoped that by a few apparently idle questions I could exonerate certain members of the family beyond question. Perhaps, who knows, all of them? In which case, Cora would have been wrong in her assumption and her own death could be ascribed to some casual prowler who broke in. After all, the issue is very simple. What were the members of the Abernethie family doing on the afternoon that Cora Lansquenet was killed?â

âEh bien,â said Poirot, âwhat were they doing?â

âGeorge Crossfield was at Hurst Park races. Rosamund Shane was out shopping in London. Her husbandâfor one must include husbandsââ

âAssuredly.â

âHer husband was fixing up a deal about an option on a play, Susan and Gregory Banks were at home all day, Timothy Abernethie, who is an invalid, was at his home in Yorkshire, and his wife was driving herself home from Enderby.â

He stopped.

Hercule Poirot looked at him and nodded comprehendingly.

âYes, that is what they say. And is it all true?â

âI simply donât know, Poirot. Some of the statements are capable of proof or disproofâbut it would be difficult to do so without showing oneâs hand pretty plainly. In fact to do so would be tantamount to an accusation. I will simply tell you certain conclusions of my own. George may have been at Hurst Park races, but I do not think he was. He was rash enough to boast that he had backed a couple of winners. It is my experience that so many offenders against the law ruin their own case by saying too much. I asked him the name of the winners, and he gave the names of two horses without any apparent hesitation. Both of them, I found, had been heavily tipped on the day in question and one had duly won. The other, though an odds on favourite, had unaccountably failed even to get a place.â

âInteresting. Had this George any urgent need for money at the time of his uncleâs death?â

âIt is my impression that his need was very urgent. I have no evidence for saying so, but I strongly suspect that he has been speculating with his clientsâ funds and that he was in danger of prosecution. It is only my impression but I have some experience in these matters. Defaulting solicitors, I regret to say, are not entirely uncommon. I can only tell you that I would not have cared to entrust my own funds to George, and I suspect that Richard Abernethie, a very shrewd judge of men, was dissatisfied with his nephew and placed no reliance on him.

âHis mother,â the lawyer continued, âwas a good-looking rather foolish girl and she married a man of what I should call dubious character.â He sighed. âThe Abernethie girls were not good choosers.â

He paused and then went on:

âAs for Rosamund, she is a lovely nitwit. I really cannot see her smashing Coraâs head in with a hatchet! Her husband, Michael Shane, is something of a dark horseâheâs a man with ambition and also a man of overweening vanity I should say. But really I know very little about him. I have no reason to suspect him of a brutal crime or of a carefully planned poisoning, but until I know that he really was doing what he says he was doing I cannot rule him out.â

âBut you have no doubts about the wife?â

âNoânoâthere is a certain rather startling callousnessâ¦but no, I really cannot envisage the hatchet. She is a fragile-looking creature.â

âAnd beautiful!â said Poirot with a faint cynical smile. âAnd the other niece?â

âSusan? She is a very different type from Rosamundâa girl of remarkable ability, I should say. She and her husband were at home together that day. I said (falsely) that I had tried to get them on the telephone on the afternoon in question. Greg said very quickly that the telephone had been out of order all day. He had tried to get someone and failed.â

âSo again it is not conclusiveâ¦ You cannot eliminate as you hoped to doâ¦ What is the husband like?â

âI find him hard to make out. He has a somewhat unpleasing personality though one cannot say exactly why he makes this impression. As for Susanââ

âYes?â

âSusan reminds me of her uncle. She has the vigour, the drive, the mental capacity of Richard Abernethie. It may be my fancy that she lacks some of the kindliness and the warmth of my old friend.â

âWomen are never kind,â remarked Poirot. âThough they can sometimes be tender. She loves her husband?â

âDevotedly, I should say. But really, Poirot, I canât believeâ I wonât believe for one moment that Susanââ

âYou prefer George?â said Poirot. âIt is natural! As for me, I am not so sentimental about beautiful young ladies. Now tell me about your visit to the older generation?â

Mr. Entwhistle described his visit to Timothy and Maude at some length. Poirot summarized the result.

âSo Mrs. Abernethie is a good mechanic. She knows all about the inside of a car. And Mr. Abernethie is not the invalid he likes to think himself. He goes out for walks and is, according to you, capable of vigorous action. He is also a bit of an egomaniac and he resented his brotherâs success and superior character.â

âHe spoke very affectionately of Cora.â

âAnd ridiculed her silly remark after the funeral. What of the sixth beneficiary?â

âHelen? Mrs. Leo? I do not suspect her for a moment. In any case, her innocence will be easy to prove. She was at Enderby. With three servants in the house.â

âEh bien, my friend,â said Poirot. âLet us be practical. What do you want me to do?â

âI want to know the truth, Poirot.â

âYes. Yes, I should feel the same in your place.â

âAnd youâre the man to find it out for me. I know you donât take cases anymore, but I ask you to take this one. This is a matter of business. I will be responsible for your fees. Come now, money is always useful.â

Poirot grinned.

âNot if it all goes in the taxes! But I will admit, your problem interests me! Because it is not easyâ¦ It is all so nebulousâ¦ One thing, my friend, had better be done by you. After that, I will occupy myself of everything. But I think it will be best if you yourself seek out the doctor who attended Mr. Richard Abernethie. You know him?â

âSlightly.â

âWhat is he like?â

âMiddle-aged G.P. Quite competent. On very friendly terms with Richard. A thoroughly good fellow.â

âThen seek him out. He will speak more freely to you than to me. Ask him about Mr. Abernethieâs illness. Find out what medicines Mr. Abernethie was taking at the time of his death and before. Find out if Richard Abernethie ever said anything to his doctor about fancying himself being poisoned. By the way, this Miss Gilchrist is sure that he used the term poisoned in talking to his sister?â

Mr. Entwhistle reflected.

âIt was the word she usedâbut she is the type of witness who often changes the actual words used, because she is convinced she is keeping to the sense of them. If Richard had said he was afraid someone wanted to kill him, Miss Gilchrist might have assumed poison because she connected his fears with those of an aunt of hers who thought her food was being tampered with. I can take up the point with her again some time.â

âYes. Or I will do so.â He paused and then said in a different voice: âHas it occurred to you, my friend, that your Miss Gilchrist may be in some danger herself?â

Mr. Entwhistle looked surprised.

âI canât say that it had.â

âBut, yes. Cora voiced her suspicions on the day of the funeral. The question in the murdererâs mind will be, did she voice them to anybody when she first heard of Richardâs death? And the most likely person for her to have spoken to about them will be Miss Gilchrist. I think, mon cher, that she had better not remain alone in that cottage.â

âI believe Susan is going down.â

âAh, so Mrs. Banks is going down?â

âShe wants to look through Coraâs things.â

âI seeâ¦ I seeâ¦ Well, my friend, do what I have asked of you. You might also prepare Mrs. AbernethieâMrs. Leo Abernethie, for the possibility that I may arrive in the house. We will see. From now on I occupy myself of everything.â

And Poirot twirled his moustaches with enormous energy.

Eight

I

Mr. Entwhistle looked at Dr. Larraby thoughtfully.

He had had a lifetime of experience in summing people up. There had been frequent occasions on which it had been necessary to tackle a difficult situation or a delicate subject. Mr. Entwhistle was an adept by now in the art of how exactly to make the proper approach. How would it be best to tackle Dr. Larraby on what was certainly a very difficult subject and one which the doctor might very well resent as reflecting upon his own professional skill?

Frankness, Mr. Entwhistle thoughtâor at least a modified frankness. To say that suspicions had arisen because of a haphazard suggestion thrown out by a silly woman would be ill-advised. Dr. Larraby had not known Cora.

Mr. Entwhistle cleared his throat and plunged bravely.

âI want to consult you on a very delicate matter,â he said. âYou may be offended, but I sincerely hope not. You are a sensible man and you will realize, Iâm sure, that aâerâpreposterous suggestion is best dealt with by finding a reasonable answer and not by condemning it out of hand. It concerns my client, the late Mr. Abernethie. Iâll ask you my question flat out. Are you certain, absolutely certain, that he died what is termed a natural death?â

Dr. Larrabyâs good-humoured, rubicund middle-aged face turned in astonishment on his questioner.

âWhat on earthâOf course he did. I gave a certificate, didnât I? If I hadnât been satisfiedââ

Mr. Entwhistle cut in adroitly:

âNaturally, naturally. I assure you that I am not assuming anything to the contrary. But I would be glad to have your positive assuranceâin face of theâerârumours that are flying around.â

âRumours? What rumours?â

âOne doesnât know quite how these things start,â said Mr. Entwhistle mendaciously. âBut my feeling is that they should be stoppedâauthoritatively, if possible.â

âAbernethie was a sick man. He was suffering from a disease that would have proved fatal within, I should say, at the earliest, two years. It might have come much sooner. His sonâs death had weakened his will to live, and his powers of resistance. I admit that I did not expect his death to come so soon, or indeed so suddenly, but there are precedentsâplenty of precedents. Any medical man who predicts exactly when a patient will die, or exactly how long he will live, is bound to make a fool of himself. The human factor is always incalculable. The weak have often unexpected powers of resistance, the strong sometimes succumb.â

âI understand all that. I am not doubting your diagnosis. Mr. Abernethie was, shall we say (rather melodramatically, Iâm afraid) under sentence of death. All Iâm asking you is, is it quite possible that a man, knowing or suspecting that he is doomed, might of his own accord shorten that period of life? Or that someone else might do it for him?â

Dr. Larraby frowned.

âSuicide, you mean? Abernethie wasnât a suicidal type.â

âI see. You can assure me, medically speaking, that such a suggestion is impossible.â

The doctor stirred uneasily.

âI wouldnât use the word impossible. After his sonâs death life no longer held the interest for Abernethie that it had done. I certainly donât feel that suicide is likelyâbut I canât say that itâs impossible.â

âYou are speaking from the psychological angle. When I say medically, I really meant: do the circumstances of his death make such a suggestion impossible?â

âNo, oh no. No, I canât say that. He died in his sleep, as people often do. There was no reason to suspect suicide, no evidence of his state of mind. If one were to demand an autopsy every time a man who is seriously ill died in his sleepââ

The doctorâs face was getting redder and redder. Mr. Entwhistle hastened to interpose.

âOf course. Of course. But if there had been evidenceâevidence of which you yourself were not aware? If, for instance, he had said something to someoneââ

âIndicating that he was contemplating suicide? Did he? I must say it surprises me.â

âBut if it were soâmy case is purely hypotheticalâcould you rule out the possibility?â

Dr. Larraby said slowly:

âNoânotâI could not do that. But I say again. I should be very much surprised.â

Mr. Entwhistle hastened to follow up his advantage.

âIf, then, we assume that his death was not naturalâall this is purely hypotheticalâwhat could have caused it? What kind of a drug, I mean?â

âSeveral. Some kind of a narcotic would be indicated. There was no sign of cyanosis, the attitude was quite peaceful.â

âHe had sleeping draughts or pills? Something of that kind.â

âYes. I had prescribed Slumberylâa very safe and dependable hypnotic. He did not take it every night. And he only had a small bottle of tablets at a time. Three or even four times the prescribed dose would not have caused death. In fact, I remember seeing the bottle on his washstand after his death still nearly full.â

âWhat else had you prescribed for him?â

âVarious thingsâa medicine containing a small quantity of morphia to be taken when he had an attack of pain. Some vitamin capsules. An indigestion mixture.â

Mr. Entwhistle interrupted.

âVitamin capsules? I think I was once prescribed a course of those. Small round capsules of gelatine.â

âYes. Containing adexoline.â

âCould anything else have been introduced intoâsayâone of those capsules?â

âSomething lethal, you mean?â The doctor was looking more and more surprised. âBut surely no man would everâlook here, Entwhistle, what are you getting at? My God, man, are you suggesting murder?â

âI donât quite know what Iâm suggestingâ¦I just want to know what would be possible.â

âBut what evidence have you for even suggesting such a thing?â

âI havenât any evidence,â said Mr. Entwhistle in a tired voice. âMr. Abernethie is deadâand the person to whom he spoke is also dead. The whole thing is rumourâvague, unsatisfactory rumour, and I want to scotch it if I can. If you tell me that no one could possibly have poisoned Abernethie in any way whatsoever, Iâll be delighted! It would be a big weight off my mind, I can assure you.â

Dr. Larraby got up and walked up and down.

âI canât tell you what you want me to tell you,â he said at last. âI wish I could. Of course it could have been done. Anybody could have extracted the oil from a capsule and replaced it withâsayâpure nicotine or half a dozen other things. Or something could have been put in his food or drink? Isnât that more likely?â

âPossibly. But you see, there were only the servants in the house when he diedâand I donât think it was any of themâin fact Iâm quite sure it wasnât. So Iâm looking for some delayed action possibility. Thereâs no drug, I suppose, that you can administer and then the person dies weeks later?â

âA convenient ideaâbut untenable, Iâm afraid,â said the doctor drily. âI know youâre a reasonable person, Entwhistle, but who is making this suggestion? It seems to me wildly farfetched.â

âAbernethie never said anything to you? Never hinted that one of his relations might be wanting him out of the way?â

The doctor looked at him curiously.

âNo, he never said anything to me. Are you sure, Entwhistle, that somebody hasnât beenâwell, playing up the sensational? Some hysterical subjects can give an appearance of being quite reasonable and normal, you know.â

âI hope it was like that. It might well be.â

âLet me understand. Someone claims that Abernethie told herâit was a woman, I suppose?â

âOh yes, it was a woman.â

ââtold her someone was trying to kill him?â

Cornered, Mr. Entwhistle reluctantly told the tale of Coraâs remark at the funeral. Dr. Larrabyâs face lightened.

âMy dear fellow. I shouldnât pay any attention! The explanation is quite simple. The womanâs at a certain time of lifeâcraving for sensation, unbalanced, unreliableâmight say anything. They do, you know!â

Mr. Entwhistle resented the doctorâs easy assumption. He himself had had to deal with plenty of sensation-hunting and hysterical women.

âYou may be quite right,â he said, rising. âUnfortunately we canât tackle her on the subject, as sheâs been murdered herself.â

âWhatâs thatâmurdered?â Dr. Larraby looked as though he had grave suspicions of Mr. Entwhistleâs own stability of mind.

âYouâve probably read about it in the paper. Mrs. Lansquenet at Lytchett St. Mary in Berkshire.â

âOf courseâIâd no idea she was a relation of Richard Abernethieâs!â Dr. Larraby was looking quite shaken.

Feeling that he had revenged himself for the doctorâs professional superiority, and unhappily conscious that his own suspicions had not been assuaged as a result of the visit, Mr. Entwhistle took his leave.

II

Back at Enderby, Mr. Entwhistle decided to talk to Lanscombe.

He started by asking the old butler what his plans were.

âMrs. Leo has asked me to stay on here until the house is sold, sir, and Iâm sure I shall be very pleased to oblige her. We are all very fond of Mrs. Leo.â He sighed. âI feel it very much, sir, if you will excuse me mentioning it, that the house has to be sold. Iâve known it for so very many years, and seen all the young ladies and gentlemen grow up in it. I always thought that Mr. Mortimer would come here after his father and perhaps bring up a family here, too. It was arranged, sir, that I should go to the North Lodge when I got past doing my work here. A very nice little place, the North Lodgeâand I looked forward to having it very spick and span. But I suppose thatâs all over now.â

âIâm afraid so, Lanscombe. The estate will have to be sold together. But with your legacyââ

âOh Iâm not complaining, sir, and Iâm very sensible of Mr. Abernethieâs generosity. Iâm well provided for, but itâs not so easy to find a little place to buy nowadays and though my married niece has asked me to make my home with them, well, it wonât be quite the same thing as living on the estate.â

âI know,â said Mr. Entwhistle. âItâs a hard new world for us old fellows. I wish Iâd seen more of my old friend before he went. How did he seem those last few months?â

âWell, he wasnât himself, sir, not since Mr. Mortimerâs death.â

âNo, it broke him up. And then he was a sick manâsick men have strange fancies sometimes. I imagine Mr. Abernethie suffered from that sort of thing in his last days. He spoke of enemies sometimes, of somebody wishing to do him harmâperhaps? He may even have thought his food was being tampered with?â

Old Lanscombe looked surprisedâsurprised and offended.

âI cannot recall anything of that kind, sir.â

Entwhistle looked at him keenly.

âYouâre a very loyal servant, Lanscombe, I know that. But such fancies on Mr. Abernethieâs part would be quiteâerâunimportantâa natural symptom in someâer diseases.â

âIndeed, sir? I can only say Mr. Abernethie never said anything like that to me, or in my hearing.â

Mr. Entwhistle slid gently to another subject.

âHe had some of his family down to stay with him, didnât he, before he died. His nephew and his two nieces and their husbands?â

âYes, sir, that is so.â

âWas he satisfied with those visits? Or was he disappointed?

Lanscombeâs eyes became remote, his old back stiffened.

âI really could not say, sir.â

âI think you could, you know,â said Mr. Entwhistle gently. âItâs not your place to say anything of that kindâthatâs what you really mean. But there are times when one has to do violence to oneâs senses of what is fitting. I was one of your masterâs oldest friends. I cared for him very much. So did you. Thatâs why Iâm asking you for your opinion as a man, not as a butler.â

Lanscombe was silent for a moment, then he said in a colourless voice:

âIs there anythingâwrong, sir?â

Mr. Entwhistle replied truthfully.

âI donât know,â he said. âI hope not. I would like to make sure. Have you felt yourself that something wasâwrong?â

âOnly since the funeral, sir. And I couldnât say exactly what it is. But Mrs. Leo and Mrs. Timothy, too, they didnât seem quite themselves that evening after the others had gone.â

âYou know the contents of the will?â

âYes, sir. Mrs. Leo thought I would like to know. It seemed to me, if I may permit myself to comment, a very fair will.â

âYes, it was a fair will. Equal benefits. But it is not, I think, the will that Mr. Abernethie originally intended to make after his son died. Will you answer now the question that I asked you just now?â

âAs a matter of personal opinionââ

âYes, yes, that is understood.â

âThe master, sir, was very much disappointed after Mr. George had been hereâ¦ He had hoped, I think, that Mr. George might resemble Mr. Mortimer. Mr. George, if I may say so, did not come up to standard. Miss Lauraâs husband was always considered unsatisfactory, and Iâm afraid Mr. George took after him.â Lanscombe paused and then went on, âThen the young ladies came with their husbands. Miss Susan he took to at onceâa very spirited and handsome young lady, but itâs my opinion he couldnât abide her husband. Young ladies make funny choices nowadays, sir.â

âAnd the other couple?â

âI couldnât say much about that. A very pleasant and good-looking young pair. I think the master enjoyed having them hereâbut I donât thinkââ The old man hesitated.

âYes, Lanscombe?â

âWell, the master had never been much struck with the stage. He said to me one day, âI canât understand why anyone gets stage-struck. Itâs a foolish kind of life. Seems to deprive people of what little sense they have. I donât know what it does to your moral sense. You certainly lose your sense of proportion.â Of course he wasnât referring directlyââ

âNo, no, I quite understand. Now after these visits, Mr. Abernethie himself went awayâfirst to his brother, and afterwards to his sister Mrs. Lansquenet.â

âThat I did not know, sir. I mean he mentioned to me that he was going to Mr. Timothy and afterwards to Something St. Mary.â

âThat is right. Can you remember anything he said on his return in regard to those visits?â

Lanscombe reflected.

âI really donât knowânothing direct. He was glad to be back. Travelling and staying in strange houses tired him very muchâthat I do remember his saying.â

âNothing else? Nothing about either of them?â

Lanscombe frowned.

âThe master used toâwell, to murmur, if you get my meaningâspeaking to me and yet more to himselfâhardly noticing I was thereâbecause he knew me so well.â

âKnew you and trusted you, yes.â

âBut my recollection is very vague as to what he saidâsomething about he couldnât think what heâd done with his moneyâthat was Mr. Timothy, I take it. And then he said something about, âWomen can be fools in ninety-nine different ways but be pretty shrewd in the hundredth.â Oh yes, and he said, âYou can only say what you really think to someone of your own generation. They donât think youâre fancying things as the younger ones do.â And later he saidâbut I donât know in what connectionââItâs not very nice to have to set traps for people, but I donât see what else I can do.â But I think it possible, sir, that he may have been thinking of the second gardenerâa question of the peaches being taken.â

But Mr. Entwhistle did not think that it was the second gardener who had been in Richard Abernethieâs mind. After a few more questions he let Lanscombe go and reflected on what he had learned. Nothing, reallyânothing, that is, that he had not deduced before. Yet there were suggestive points. It was not his sister-in-law, Maude, but his sister Cora of whom he had been thinking when he made the remark about women who were fools and yet shrewd. And it was to her that he had confided his âfancies.â And he had spoken of setting a trap. For whom?

III

Mr. Entwhistle had meditated a good deal over how much he should tell Helen. In the end he decided he should take her wholly into his confidence.

First he thanked her for sorting out Richardâs things and for making various household arrangements. The house had been advertised for sale and there were one or two prospective buyers who would shortly be coming to look over it.

âPrivate buyers?â

âIâm afraid not. The Y.W.C.A. are considering it, and there is a young peopleâs club, and the Trustees of the Jefferson Trust are looking for a suitable place to house their Collection.â

âIt seems sad that the house will not be lived in, but of course it is not a practicable proposition nowadays.â

âI am going to ask you if it would be possible for you to remain here until the house is sold. Or would it be a great inconvenience?â

âNoâactually it would suit me very well. I donât want to go to Cyprus until May, and I much prefer being here than being in London as I had planned. I love this house, you know; Leo loved it, and we were always happy when we were here together.â

âThere is another reason why I should be grateful if you would stay on. There is a friend of mine, a man called Hercule Poirotââ

Helen said sharply: âHercule Poirot? Then you thinkââ

âYou know of him?â

âYes. Some friends of mineâbut I imagined that he was dead long ago.â

âHe is very much alive. Not young, of course.â

âNo, he could hardly be young.â

She spoke mechanically. Her face was white and strained. She said with an effort:

âYou thinkâthat Cora was right? That Richard wasâmurdered?â

Mr. Entwhistle unburdened himself. It was a pleasure to unburden himself to Helen with her clear calm mind.

When he had finished she said:

âOne ought to feel itâs fantasticâbut one doesnât. Maude and I, that night after the funeralâit was in both our minds, Iâm sure. Saying to ourselves what a silly woman Cora wasâand yet being uneasy. And thenâCora was killedâand I told myself it was just coincidenceâand of course it may beâbut oh! if one can only be sure. Itâs all so difficult.â

âYes, itâs difficult. But Poirot is a man of great originality and he has something really approaching genius. He understands perfectly what we needâassurance that the whole thing is a mareâs nest.â

âAnd suppose it isnât?â

âWhat makes you say that?â asked Mr. Entwhistle sharply.

âI donât know. Iâve been uneasyâ¦ Not just about what Cora said that dayâsomething else. Something that I felt at the time to be wrong.â

âWrong? In what way?â

âThatâs just it. I donât know.â

âYou mean it was something about one of the people in the room?â

âYesâyesâsomething of that kind. But I donât know who or whatâ¦ Oh that sounds absurdââ

âNot at all. It is interestingâvery interesting. You are not a fool, Helen. If you noticed something, that something has significance.â

âYes, but I canât remember what it was. The more I thinkââ

âDonât think. That is the wrong way to bring anything back. Let it go. Sooner or later it will flash into your mind. And when it doesâlet me knowâat once.â

âI will.â

Nine

Miss Gilchrist pulled her black hat down firmly on her head and tucked in a wisp of grey hair. The inquest was set for twelve oâclock and it was not quite twenty past eleven. Her grey coat and skirt looked quite nice, she thought, and she had bought herself a black blouse. She wished she could have been all in black, but that would have been far beyond her means. She looked round the small neat bedroom and at the walls hung with representations of Brixham Harbour, Cockington Forge, Ansteyâs Cove, Kyance Cove, Polflexan Harbour, Babbacombe Bay, etc., all signed in a dashing way, Cora Lansquenet. Her eyes rested with particular fondness on Polflexan Harbour. On the chest of drawers a faded photograph carefully framed represented the Willow Tree tea shop. Miss Gilchrist looked at it lovingly and sighed.

She was disturbed from her reverie by the sound of the doorbell below.

âDear me,â murmured Miss Gilchrist, âI wonder whoââ

She went out of her room and down the rather rickety stairs. The bell sounded again and there was a sharp knock.

For some reason Miss Gilchrist felt nervous. For a moment or two her steps slowed up, then she went rather unwillingly to the door, adjuring herself not to be so silly.

A young woman dressed smartly in black and carrying a small suitcase was standing on the step. She noticed the alarmed look on Miss Gilchristâs face and said quickly:

âMiss Gilchrist? I am Mrs. Lansquenetâs nieceâSusan Banks.â

âOh dear, yes, of course. I didnât know. Do come in, Mrs. Banks. Mind the hallstandâit sticks out a little. In here, yes. I didnât know you were coming down for the inquest. Iâd have had something readyâsome coffee or something.â

Susan Banks said briskly:

âI donât want anything. Iâm so sorry if I startled you.â

âWell, you know you did, in a way. Itâs very silly of me. Iâm not usually nervous. In fact I told the lawyer that I wasnât nervous, and that I wouldnât be nervous staying on here alone, and really Iâm not nervous. Onlyâperhaps itâs just the inquest andâand thinking of things, but I have been jumpy all this morning, just about half an hour ago the bell rang and I could hardly bring myself to open the doorâwhich was really very stupid and so unlikely that a murderer would come backâand why should he?âand actually it was only a nun, collecting for an orphanageâand I was so relieved I gave her two shillings although Iâm not a Roman Catholic and indeed have no sympathy with the Roman Church and all these monks and nuns although I believe the Little Sisters of the Poor really do good work. But do please sit down, Mrs.â Mrs.ââ

âBanks.â

âYes, of course, Banks. Did you come down by train?â

âNo, I drove down. The lane seemed so narrow I ran the car on a little way and found a sort of old quarry I backed it into.â

âThis lane is very narrow, but thereâs hardly ever any traffic along here. Itâs rather a lonely road.â

Miss Gilchrist gave a little shiver as she said those last words.

Susan Banks was looking round the room.

âPoor old Aunt Cora,â she said. âShe left what she had to me, you know.â

âYes, I know. Mr. Entwhistle told me. I expect youâll be glad of the furniture. Youâre newly married, I understand, and furnishing is such an expense nowadays. Mrs. Lansquenet had some very nice things.â

Susan did not agree. Cora had had no taste for the antique. The contents varied between âmodernisticâ pieces and the âartyâ type.

âI shanât want any of the furniture,â she said. âIâve got my own, you know. I shall put it up for auction. Unlessâis there any of it you would like? Iâd be very gladâ¦.â

She stopped, a little embarrassed. But Miss Gilchrist was not at all embarrassed. She beamed.

âNow really, thatâs very kind of you, Mrs. Banksâyes, very kind indeed. I really do appreciate it. But actually, you know, I have my own things. I put them in store in caseâsome dayâI should need them. There are some pictures my father left too. I had a small tea shop at one time, you knowâbut then the war cameâit was all very unfortunate. But I didnât sell up everything, because I did hope to have my own little home again one day, so I put the best things in store with my fatherâs pictures and some relics of our old home. But I would like very much, if you really wouldnât mind, to have that little painted tea table of dear Mrs. Lansquenetâs. Such a pretty thing and we always had tea on it.â

Susan, looking with a slight shudder at a small green table painted with large purple clematis, said quickly that she would be delighted for Miss Gilchrist to have it.

âThank you very much, Mrs. Banks. I feel a little greedy. Iâve got all her beautiful pictures, you know, and a lovely amethyst brooch, but I feel that perhaps I ought to give that back to you.â

âNo, no, indeed.â

âYouâll want to go through her things? After the inquest, perhaps?â

âI thought Iâd stay here a couple of days, go through things, and clear everything up.â

âSleep here, you mean?â

âYes. Is there any difficulty?â

âOh no, Mrs. Banks, of course not. Iâll put fresh sheets on my bed, and I can doss down here on the couch quite well.â

âBut thereâs Aunt Coraâs room, isnât there? I can sleep in that.â

âYouâyou wouldnât mind?â

âYou mean because she was murdered there? Oh no, I wouldnât mind. Iâm very tough, Miss Gilchrist. Itâs beenâI meanâItâs all right again?â

Miss Gilchrist understood the question.

âOh yes, Mrs. Banks. All the blankets sent away to the cleaners and Mrs. Panter and I scrubbed the whole room out thoroughly. And there are plenty of spare blankets. But come up and see for yourself.â

She led the way upstairs and Susan followed her.

The room where Cora Lansquenet had died was clean and fresh and curiously devoid of any sinister atmosphere. Like the sitting room it contained a mixture of modern utility and elaborately painted furniture. It represented Coraâs cheerful tasteless personality. Over the mantelpiece an oil painting showed a buxom young woman about to enter her bath.

Susan gave a slight shudder as she looked at it and Miss Gilchrist said:

âThat was painted by Mrs. Lansquenetâs husband. There are a lot more of his pictures in the dining room downstairs.â

âHow terrible.â

âWell, I donât care very much for that style of painting myselfâbut Mrs. Lansquenet was very proud of her husband as an artist and thought that his work was sadly unappreciated.â

âWhere are Aunt Coraâs own pictures?â

âIn my room. Would you like to see them?â

Miss Gilchrist displayed her treasures proudly.

Susan remarked that Aunt Cora seemed to have been fond of seacoast resorts.

âOh yes. You see, she lived for many years with Mr. Lansquenet at a small fishing village in Brittany. Fishing boats are always so picturesque, are they not?â

âObviously,â Susan murmured. A whole series of picture postcards could, she thought, have been made from Cora Lansquenetâs paintings which were faithful to detail and very highly coloured. They gave rise to the suspicion that they might actually have been painted from picture postcards.

But when she hazarded this opinion Miss Gilchrist was indignant. Mrs. Lansquenet always painted from Nature! Indeed, once she had had a touch of the sun from reluctance to leave a subject when the light was just right.

âMrs. Lansquenet was a real artist,â said Miss Gilchrist reproachfully.

She glanced at her watch and Susan said quickly:

âYes, we ought to start for the inquest. Is it far? Shall I get the car?â

It was only five minutesâ walk, Miss Gilchrist assured her. So they set out together on foot. Mr. Entwhistle, who had come down by train, met them and shepherded them into the Village Hall.

There seemed to be a large number of strangers present. The inquest was not sensational. There was evidence of the identification of the deceased. Medical evidence as to the nature of the wounds that had killed her. There were no signs of a struggle. Deceased was probably under a narcotic at the time she was attacked and would have been taken quite unawares. Death was unlikely to have occurred later than four thirty. Between two and four thirty was the nearest approximation. Miss Gilchrist testified to finding the body. A police constable and Inspector Morton gave their evidence. The Coroner summed up briefly. The jury made no bones about the verdict. âMurder by some person or persons unknown.â

It was over. They came out again into the sunlight. Half a dozen cameras clicked. Mr. Entwhistle shepherded Susan and Miss Gilchrist into the Kingâs Arms, where he had taken the precaution to arrange for lunch to be served in a private room behind the bar.

âNot a very good lunch,â he said apologetically.

But the lunch was not at all bad. Miss Gilchrist sniffed a little and murmured that âit was all so dreadful,â but cheered up and tackled the Irish stew with appetite after Mr. Entwhistle had insisted on her drinking a glass of sherry. He said to Susan:

âIâd no idea you were coming down today, Susan. We could have come together.â

âI know I said I wouldnât. But it seemed rather mean for none of the family to be there. I rang up George but he said he was very busy and couldnât possibly make it, and Rosamund had an audition and Uncle Timothy, of course, is a crock. So it had to be me.â

âYour husband didnât come with you?â

âGreg had to settle up with his tiresome shop.â

Seeing a startled look in Miss Gilchristâs eye, Susan said: âMy husband works in a chemistâs shop.â

A husband in retail trade did not quite square with Miss Gilchristâs impression of Susanâs smartness, but she said valiantly: âOh yes, just like Keats.â

âGregâs no poet,â said Susan.

She added:

âWeâve got great plans for the futureâa double-barrelled establishmentâCosmetics and Beauty parlour and a laboratory for special preparations.â

âThat will be much nicer,â said Miss Gilchrist approvingly. âSomething like Elizabeth Arden who is really a Countess, so I have been toldâor is that Helena Rubenstein? In any case,â she added kindly, âa pharmacistâs is not in the least like an ordinary shopâa draper, for instance, or a grocer.â

âYou kept a tea shop, you said, didnât you?â

âYes, indeed,â Miss Gilchristâs face lit up. That the Willow Tree had ever been âtradeâ in the sense that a shop was trade, would never have occurred to her. To keep a tea shop was in her mind the essence of gentility. She started telling Susan about the Willow Tree.

Mr. Entwhistle, who had heard about it before, let his mind drift to other matters. When Susan had spoken to him twice without his answering he hurriedly apologized.

âForgive me, my dear, I was thinking, as a matter of fact, about your Uncle Timothy. I am a little worried.â

âAbout Uncle Timothy? I shouldnât be. I donât believe really thereâs anything the matter with him. Heâs just a hypochondriac.â

âYesâyes, you may be right. I confess it was not his health that was worrying me. Itâs Mrs. Timothy. Apparently sheâs fallen downstairs and twisted her ankle. Sheâs laid up and your uncle is in a terrible state.â

âBecause heâll have to look after her instead of the other way about? Do him a lot of good,â said Susan.

âYesâyes, I dare say. But will your poor aunt get any looking after? That is really the question. With no servants in the house?â

âLife is really hell for elderly people,â said Susan. âThey live in a kind of Georgian Manor house, donât they?â

Mr. Entwhistle nodded.

They came rather warily out of the Kingâs Arms, but the Press seemed to have dispersed.

A couple of reporters were lying in wait for Susan by the cottage door. Shepherded by Mr. Entwhistle she said a few necessary and noncommittal words. Then she and Miss Gilchrist went into the cottage and Mr. Entwhistle returned to the Kingâs Arms where he had booked a room. The funeral was to be on the following day.

âMy carâs still in the quarry,â said Susan. âIâd forgotten about it. Iâll drive it along to the village later.â

Miss Gilchrist said anxiously:

âNot too late. You wonât go out after dark, will you?â

Susan looked at her and laughed.

âYou donât think thereâs a murderer still hanging about, do you?â

âNoâno, I suppose not.â Miss Gilchrist looked embarrassed.

âBut itâs exactly what she does think, thought Susan. âHow amazing!â

Miss Gilchrist had vanished towards the kitchen.

âIâm sure youâd like tea early. In about half an hour, do you think, Mrs. Banks?â

Susan thought that tea at half past three was overdoing it, but she was charitable enough to realize that âa nice cup of teaâ was Miss Gilchristâs idea of restoration for the nerves and she had her own reasons for wishing to please Miss Gilchrist, so she said:

âWhenever you like, Miss Gilchrist.â

A happy clatter of kitchen implements began and Susan went into the sitting room. She had only been there a few minutes when the bell sounded and was succeeded by a very precise little rat-tat-tat.

Susan came out into the hall and Miss Gilchrist appeared at the kitchen door wearing an apron and wiping floury hands on it.

âOh dear, who do you think that can be?â

âMore reporters, I expect,â said Susan.

âOh dear, how annoying for you, Mrs. Banks.â

âOh well, never mind, Iâll attend to it.â

âI was just going to make a few scones for tea.â

Susan went towards the front door and Miss Gilchrist hovered uncertainly. Susan wondered whether she thought a man with a hatchet was waiting outside.

The visitor, however, proved to be an elderly gentleman who raised his hat when Susan opened the door and said, beaming at her in avuncular style:

âMrs. Banks, I think?â

âYes.â

âMy name is GuthrieâAlexander Guthrie. I was a friendâa very old friend, of Mrs. Lansquenetâs. You, I think, are her niece, formerly Miss Susan Abernethie?â

âThatâs quite right.â

âThen since we know who we are, I may come in?â

âOf course.â

Mr. Guthrie wiped his feet carefully on the mat, stepped inside, divested himself of his overcoat, laid it down with his hat on a small oak chest and followed Susan into the sitting room.

âThis is a melancholy occasion,â said Mr. Guthrie, to whom melancholy did not seem to come naturally, his own inclination being to beam. âYes, a very melancholy occasion. I was in this part of the world and I felt the least I could do was to attend the inquestâand of course the funeral. Poor Coraâpoor foolish Cora. I have known her, my dear Mrs. Banks, since the early days of her marriage. A high-spirited girlâand she took art very seriouslyâtook Pierre Lansquenet seriously, tooâas an artist, I mean. All things considered he didnât make her too bad a husband. He strayed, if you know what I mean, yes, he strayedâbut fortunately Cora took it as part of the artistic temperament. He was an artist and therefore immoral! In fact, Iâm not sure she didnât go further: he was immoral and therefore he must be an artist! No kind of sense in artistic matters, poor Coraâthough in other ways, mind you, Cora had a lot of senseâyes, a surprising lot of sense.â

âThatâs what everybody seems to say,â said Susan. âI didnât really know her.â

âNo, no, cut herself off from her family because they didnât appreciate her precious Pierre. She was never a pretty girlâbut she had something. She was good company! You never knew what sheâd say next and you never knew if her nÃ¤ivetÃ© was genuine or whether she was doing it deliberately. She made us all laugh a good deal. The eternal childâthatâs what we always felt about her. And really the last time I saw her (I have seen her from time to time since Pierre died) she struck me as still behaving very much like a child.â

Susan offered Mr. Guthrie a cigarette, but the old gentleman shook his head.

âNo thank you, my dear. I donât smoke. You must wonder why Iâve come? To tell you the truth I was feeling rather conscience-stricken. I promised Cora to come and see her some weeks ago. I usually called upon her once a year, and just lately sheâd taken up the hobby of buying pictures at local sales, and wanted me to look at some of them. My profession is that of art critic, you know. Of course most of Coraâs purchases were horrible daubs, but take it all in all, it isnât such a bad speculation. Pictures go for next to nothing at these country sales and the frames alone are worth more than you pay for the picture. Naturally any important sale is attended by dealers and one isnât likely to get hold of masterpieces. But only the other day, a small Cuyp was knocked down for a few pounds at a farmhouse sale. The history of it was quite interesting. It had been given to an old nurse by the family she had served faithfully for many yearsâthey had no idea of its value. Old nurse gave it to a farmer nephew who liked the horse in it but thought it was a dirty old thing! Yes, yes, these things sometimes happen, and Cora was convinced that she had an eye for pictures. She hadnât of course. Wanted me to come and look at a Rembrandt she had picked up last year. A Rembrandt! Not even a respectable copy of one! But she had got hold of a quite nice Bartolozzi engravingâdamp spotted unfortunately. I sold it for her for thirty pounds and of course that spurred her on. She wrote to me with great gusto about an Italian Primitive she had bought at some sale and I promised Iâd come along and see it.â

âThatâs it over there, I expect,â said Susan, gesturing to the wall behind him.

Mr. Guthrie got up, put on a pair of spectacles, and went over to study the picture.

âPoor dear Cora,â he said at last.

âThere are a lot more,â said Susan.

Mr. Guthrie proceeded to a leisurely inspection of the art treasures acquired by the hopeful Mrs. Lansquenet. Occasionally he said, âTchk, Tchk,â occasionally he sighed.

Finally he removed his spectacles.

âDirt,â he said, âis a wonderful thing, Mrs. Banks! It gives a patina of romance to the most horrible examples of the painterâs art. Iâm afraid that Bartolozzi was beginnerâs luck. Poor Cora. Still, it gave her an interest in life. I am really thankful that I did not have to disillusion her.â

âThere are some pictures in the dining room,â said Susan, âbut I think they are all her husbandâs work.â

Mr. Guthrie shuddered slightly and held up a protesting hand.

âDo not force me to look at those again. Life classes have much to answer for! I always tried to spare Coraâs feelings. A devoted wifeâa very devoted wife. Well, dear Mrs. Banks, I must not take up more of your time.â

âOh, do stay and have some tea. I think itâs nearly ready.â

âThat is very kind of you.â Mr. Guthrie sat down again promptly.

âIâll just go and see.â

In the kitchen, Miss Gilchrist was just lifting a last batch of scones from the oven. The tea tray stood ready and the kettle was just gently rattling its lid.

âThereâs a Mr. Guthrie here, and Iâve asked him to stay for tea.â

âMr. Guthrie? Oh, yes, he was a great friend of dear Mrs. Lansquenetâs. Heâs the celebrated art critic. How fortunate; Iâve made a nice lot of scones and thatâs some homemade strawberry jam, and I just whipped up some little drop cakes. Iâll just make the teaâIâve warmed the pot. Oh, please, Mrs. Banks, donât carry that heavy tray. I can manage everything.â

However, Susan took in the tray and Miss Gilchrist followed with teapot and kettle, greeted Mr. Guthrie, and they set to.

âHot scones, that is a treat,â said Mr. Guthrie, âand what delicious jam! Really, the stuff one buys nowadays.â

Miss Gilchrist was flushed and delighted. The little cakes were excellent and so were the scones, and everyone did justice to them. The ghost of the Willow Tree hung over the party. Here, it was clear, Miss Gilchrist was in her element.

âWell, thank you, perhaps I will,â said Mr. Guthrie as he accepted the last cake, pressed upon him by Miss Gilchrist. âI do feel rather guilty, thoughâenjoying my tea here, where poor Cora was so brutally murdered.â

Miss Gilchrist displayed an unexpected Victorian reaction to this.

âOh, but Mrs. Lansquenet would have wished you to take a good tea. Youâve got to keep your strength up.â

âYes, yes, perhaps you are right. The fact is, you know, that one cannot really bring oneself to believe that someone you knewâactually knewâcan have been murdered!â

âI agree,â said Susan. âIt just seemsâfantastic.â

âAnd certainly not by some casual tramp who broke in and attacked her. I can imagine, you know, reasons why Cora might have been murderedââ

Susan said quickly, âCan you? What reasons?â

âWell, she wasnât discreet,â said Mr. Guthrie. âCora was never discreet. And she enjoyedâhow shall I put itâshowing how sharp she could be? Like a child whoâs got hold of somebodyâs secret. If Cora got hold of a secret sheâd want to talk about it. Even if she promised not to, sheâd still do it. She wouldnât be able to help herself.â

Susan did not speak. Miss Gilchrist did not either. She looked worried. Mr. Guthrie went on:

âYes, a little dose of arsenic in a cup of teaâthat would not have surprised me, or a box of chocolates by post. But sordid robbery and assaultâthat seems highly incongruous. I may be wrong but I should have thought she had very little to take that would be worth a burglarâs while. She didnât keep much money in the house, did she?â

Miss Gilchrist said, âVery little.â

Mr. Guthrie sighed and rose to his feet.

âAh! well, thereâs a lot of lawlessness about since the war. Times have changed.â

Thanking them for the tea he took a polite farewell of the two women. Miss Gilchrist saw him out and helped him on with his overcoat. From the window of the sitting room, Susan watched him trot briskly down the front path to the gate.

Miss Gilchrist came back into the room with a small parcel in her hand.

âThe postman must have been while we were at the inquest. He pushed it through the letter box and it had fallen in the corner behind the door. Now I wonderâwhy, of course, it must be wedding cake.â

Happily Miss Gilchrist ripped off the paper. Inside was a small white box tied with silver ribbon.

âIt is!â She pulled off the ribbon, inside was a modest wedge of rich cake with almond paste and white icing. âHow nice! Now whoââ She consulted the card attached. âJohn and Mary. Now who can that be? How silly to put no surname.â

Susan, rousing herself from contemplation, said vaguely:

âItâs quite difficult sometimes with people just using Christian names. I got a postcard the other day signed Joan. I counted up I knew eight Joansâand with telephoning so much, one often doesnât know their handwriting.â

Miss Gilchrist was happily going over the possible Johns and Marys of her acquaintance.

âIt might be Dorothyâs daughterâher name was Mary, but I hadnât heard of an engagement, still less of a marriage. Then thereâs little John BanfieldâI suppose heâs grown up and old enough to be marriedâor the Enfield girlâno, her name was Margaret. No address or anything. Oh well, I dare say it will come to meâ¦.â

She picked up the tray and went out to the kitchen.

Susan roused herself and said:

âWellâ I suppose Iâd better go and put the car somewhere.â

Ten

Susan retrieved the car from the quarry where she had left it and drove it into the village. There was a petrol pump but no garage and she was advised to take it to the Kingâs Arms. They had room for it there and she left it by a big Daimler which was preparing to go out. It was chauffeur driven and inside it, very much muffled up, was an elderly foreign gentleman with a large moustache.

The boy to whom Susan was talking about the car was staring at her with such rapt attention that he did not seem to be taking in half of what she said.

Finally he said in an awe-stricken voice:

âYouâre her niece, arenât you?â

âWhat?â

âYouâre the victimâs niece,â the boy repeated with relish.

âOhâyesâyes, I am.â

âAr! Wondered where Iâd seen you before.â

âGhoul,â thought Susan as she retraced her steps to the cottage.

Miss Gilchrist greeted her with:

âOh, youâre safely back,â in tones of relief which further annoyed her. Miss Gilchrist added anxiously:

âYou can eat spaghetti, canât you? I thought for tonightââ

âOh yes, anything. I donât want much.â

âI really flatter myself that I can make a very tasty spaghetti au gratin.â

The boast was not an idle one. Miss Gilchrist, Susan reflected, was really an excellent cook. Susan offered to help wash up but Miss Gilchrist, though clearly gratified by the offer, assured Susan that there was very little to do.

She came in a little while after with coffee. The coffee was less excellent, being decidedly weak. Miss Gilchrist offered Susan a piece of the wedding cake which Susan refused.

âItâs really very good cake,â Miss Gilchrist insisted, tasting it. She had settled to her own satisfaction that it must have been sent by someone whom she alluded to as âdear Ellenâs daughter who I know was engaged to be married but I canât remember her name.â

Susan let Miss Gilchrist chirrup away into silence before starting her own subject of conversation. This moment, after supper, sitting before the fire, was a companionable one.

She said at last:

âMy Uncle Richard came down here before he died, didnât he?â

âYes, he did.â

âWhen was that exactly?â

âLet me seeâit must have been one, twoânearly three weeks before his death was announced.â

âDid he seemâill?â

âWell, no, I wouldnât say he seemed exactly ill. He had a very hearty vigorous manner. Mrs. Lansquenet was very surprised to see him. She said, âWell, really, Richard, after all these years!â and he said, âI came to see for myself exactly how things are with you.â And Mrs. Lansquenet said, âIâm all right.â I think, you know, she was a teeny bit offended by his turning up so casuallyâafter the long break. Anyway Mr. Abernethie said, âNo use keeping up old grievances. You and I and Timothy are the only ones leftâand nobody can talk to Timothy except about his own health.â And he said, âPierre seems to have made you happy, so it seems I was in the wrong. There, will that content you?â Very nicely he said it. A handsome man, though elderly, of course.â

âHow long was he here?â

âHe stayed for lunch. Beef olives, I made. Fortunately it was the day the butcher called.â

Miss Gilchristâs memory seemed to be almost wholly culinary.

âThey seemed to be getting on well together?â

âOh, yes.â

Susan paused and then said:

âWas Aunt Cora surprised whenâhe died?â

âOh yes, it was quite sudden, wasnât it?â

âYes, it was suddenâ¦ I meanâshe was surprised. He hadnât given her any indication how ill he was.â

âOhâI see what you mean.â Miss Gilchrist paused a moment. âNo, no, I think perhaps you are right. She did say that he had got very oldâ I think she said senileâ¦.â

âBut you didnât think he was senile?â

âWell, not to look at. But I didnât talk to him much, naturally I left them alone together.â

Susan looked at Miss Gilchrist speculatively. Was Miss Gilchrist the kind of woman who listened at doors? She was honest, Susan felt sure, she wouldnât ever pilfer, or cheat over the housekeeping, or open letters. But inquisitiveness can drape itself in a mantle of rectitude. Miss Gilchrist might have found it necessary to garden near an open window, or to dust the hallâ¦ That would be within the permitted lengths. And then, of course, she could not have helped hearing somethingâ¦.

âYou didnât hear any of their conversation?â Susan asked.

Too abrupt. Miss Gilchrist flushed angrily.

âNo, indeed, Mrs. Banks. It has never been my custom to listen at doors!â

That means she does, thought Susan, otherwise sheâd just say âNo.â

Aloud she said: âIâm so sorry, Miss Gilchrist. I didnât mean it that way. But sometimes, in these small flimsily built cottages, one simply canât help overhearing nearly everything that goes on, and now that they are both dead, itâs really rather important to the family to know just what was said at that meeting between them.â

The cottage was anything but flimsily builtâit dated from a sturdier era of building, but Miss Gilchrist accepted the bait, and rose to the suggestion held out.

âOf course what you say is quite true, Mrs. Banksâthis is a very small place and I do appreciate that you would want to know what passed between them, but really Iâm afraid I canât help very much. I think they were talking about Mr. Abernethieâs healthâand certainâwell, fancies he had. He didnât look it, but he must have been a sick man and as is so often the case, he put his illhealth down to outside agencies. A common symptom, I believe. My auntââ

Miss Gilchrist described her aunt.

Susan, like Mr. Entwhistle, sidetracked the aunt.

âYes,â she said. âThat is just what we thought. My uncleâs servants were all very attached to him and naturally they are upset by his thinkingââ She paused.

âOh, of course! Servants are very touchy about anything of that kind. I remember that my auntââ

Again Susan interrupted.

âIt was the servants he suspected, I suppose? Of poisoning him, I mean?â

âI donât knowâ¦ Iâreallyââ

Susan noted her confusion.

âIt wasnât the servants. Was it one particular person?â

âI donât know, Mrs. Banks. Really I donât knowââ

But her eye avoided Susanâs. Susan thought to herself that Miss Gilchrist knew more than she was willing to admit.

It was possible that Miss Gilchrist knew a good dealâ¦.

Deciding not to press the point for the moment, Susan said:

âWhat are your own plans for the future, Miss Gilchrist?â

âWell, really, I was going to speak to you about that, Mrs. Banks. I told Mr. Entwhistle I would be willing to stay on until everything here was cleared up.â

âI know. Iâm very grateful.â

âAnd I wanted to ask you how long that was likely to be, because, of course, I must start looking about for another post.â

Susan considered.

âThereâs really not very much to be done here. In a couple of days I can get things sorted out and notify the auctioneer.â

âYou have decided to sell up everything, then?â

âYes. I donât suppose there will be any difficulty in letting the cottage?â

âOh, noâpeople will queue up for it, Iâm sure. There are so few cottages to rent. One nearly always has to buy.â

âSo itâs all very simple, you see.â Susan hesitated a moment before saying, âI wanted to tell youâthat I hope youâll accept three monthsâ salary.â

âThatâs very generous of you, Iâm sure, Mrs. Banks. I do appreciate it. And you would be prepared toâI mean I could ask youâif necessaryâtoâto recommend me? To say that I had been with a relation of yours and that I hadâproved satisfactory?â

âOh, of course.â

âI donât know whether I ought to ask it.â Miss Gilchristâs hands began to shake and she tried to steady her voice. âBut would it be possible not toâto mention the circumstancesâor even the name?â

Susan stared.

âI donât understand.â

âThatâs because you havenât thought, Mrs. Banks. Itâs murder. A murder thatâs been in the papers and that everybody has read about. Donât you see? People might think, âTwo women living together, and one of them is killedâand perhaps the companion did it.â Donât you see, Mrs. Banks? Iâm sure that if I was looking for someone, Iâdâwell, Iâd think twice before engaging myselfâif you understand what I mean. Because one never knows! Itâs been worrying me dreadfully, Mrs. Banks; Iâve been lying awake at night thinking that perhaps Iâll never get another jobânot of this kind. And what else is there that I can do?â

The question came out with unconscious pathos. Susan felt suddenly stricken. She realized 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 wouldnât, if you could help it, engage a woman to share domestic intimacy who had figured, however innocently, in a murder case.

Susan said: âBut if they find the man who did itââ

âOh then, of course, it will be quite all right. But will they find him? I donât think, myself, the police have the least idea. And if heâs not caughtâwell, that leaves me asâas not quite the most likely person, but as a person who could have done it.â

Susan nodded thoughtfully. It was true that Miss Gilchrist did not benefit from Cora Lansquenetâs deathâbut who was to know that? And besides, there were so many talesâugly talesâof animosity arising between women who lived togetherâstrange pathological motives for sudden violence. Someone who had not known them might imagine that Cora Lansquenet and Miss Gilchrist had lived on those termsâ¦.

Susan spoke with her usual decision.

âDonât worry, Miss Gilchrist,â she said, speaking briskly and cheerfully. âIâm sure I can find you a post amongst my friends. There wonât be the least difficulty.â

âIâm afraid,â said Miss Gilchrist, regaining some of her customary manner, âthat I couldnât undertake any really rough work. Just a little plain cooking and houseworkââ

The telephone rang and Miss Gilchrist jumped.

âDear me, I wonder who that can be.â

âI expect itâs my husband,â said Susan, jumping up. âHe said heâd ring me tonight.â

She went to the telephone.

âYes?âyes, this is Mrs. Banks speaking personallyâ¦â There was a pause and then her voice changed. It became soft and warm. âHallo, darlingâyes, itâs meâ¦ Oh, quite wellâ¦ Murder by someone unknownâ¦the usual thingâ¦ Only Mr. Entwhistleâ¦What?â¦itâs difficult to say, but I think soâ¦ Yes, just as we thoughtâ¦ Absolutely according to planâ¦ I shall sell the stuff. Thereâs nothing weâd wantâ¦ Not for a day or twoâ¦ Absolutely frightfulâ¦ Donât fuss. I know what Iâm doingâ¦ Greg, you didnâtâ¦ You were careful toâ¦ No, itâs nothing. Nothing at all. Goodnight, darling.â

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 hadnât liked to.

She stood by the telephone, frowning abstractedly. Then suddenly an idea came to her.

âOf course,â she murmured. âJust the thing.â

Lifting the receiver she asked for Trunk Enquiry.

Some quarter of an hour later a weary voice from the exchange was saying:

âIâm afraid thereâs no reply.â

âPlease go on ringing them.â

Susan spoke autocratically. She listened to the far-off buzzing of a telephone bell. Then, suddenly it was interrupted and a manâs voice, peevish and slightly indignant, said:

âYes, yes, what is it?â

âUncle Timothy?â

âWhatâs that? I canât hear you.â

âUncle Timothy? Iâm Susan Banks.â

âSusan who?â

âBanks. Formerly Abernethie. Your niece Susan.â

âOh, youâre Susan, are you? Whatâs the matter? What are you ringing up for at this time of night?â

âItâs quite early still.â

âIt isnât. I was in bed.â

âYou must go to bed very early. Howâs Aunt Maude?â

âIs that all you rang up to ask? Your auntâs in a good deal of pain and she canât do a thing. Not a thing. Sheâs helpless. Weâre in a nice mess, I can tell you. That fool of a doctor says he canât even get a nurse. He wanted to cart Maude off to hospital. I stood out against that. Heâs trying to get hold of someone for us. I canât do anythingâ I darenât even try. Thereâs a fool from the village staying in the house tonightâbut sheâs murmuring about getting back to her husband. Donât know what weâre going to do.â

âThatâs what I rang up about. Would you like Miss Gilchrist?â

âWhoâs she? Never heard of her.â

âAunt Coraâs companion. Sheâs very nice and capable.â

âCan she cook?â

âYes, she cooks very well, and she could look after Aunt Maude.â

âThatâs 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 itâs not good for me. My heartâs playing me up.â

âIâll arrange for her to get off to you as soon as possible. The day after tomorrow, perhaps?â

âWell, thanks very much,â said the voice rather grudgingly. âYouâre a good girl, Susanâerâthank you.â

Susan rang off and went into the kitchen.

âWould 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. Heâs 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.â

Miss Gilchrist dropped the coffee pot in her agitation.

âOh, thank you, thank youâthat really is kind. I think I can say of myself that I am really good in the sickroom, and Iâm sure I can manage your uncle and cook him nice little meals. Itâs really very kind of you, Mrs. Banks, and I do appreciate it.â

Eleven

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 Abernethieâ

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 aheadâthe future. Her future and Gregâs. Those premises in Cardigan Streetâjust 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 setup. 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 sheâd been quite frightenedâ¦ And old Mr. Coleâheâd hintedâthreatened: âIf this happens againâ¦â And it might have happened againâit would have happened again. If Uncle Richard hadnât died just when he didâ¦.

Uncle Richardâbut really why look at it like that? Heâd 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. Quietlyâ¦in his sleepâ¦ If only she could sleep. It was so stupid lying awake hour after hourâ¦hearing the furniture creak, and the rustling of trees and bushes outside the window and the occasional queer melancholy hootâan owl, she supposed. How sinister the country was, somehow. So different from the big noisy indifferent town. One felt so safe thereâsurrounded by peopleânever alone. Whereas hereâ¦.

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 Lansquenetâ¦ Aunt Cora. Odd, really, how ever since she had arrived she had felt as though Aunt Cora were quite close to herâ¦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 herâ¦.

She had lain on this bed when the hatchet fellâ¦ Lying there trustingly asleepâ¦ Knowing nothing till the hatchet fellâ¦ And now she wouldnât let Susan sleepâ¦.

The furniture creaked againâ¦was that a stealthy step? Susan switched on the light. Nothing. Nerves, nothing but nerves. Relaxâ¦close your eyesâ¦.

Surely that was a groanâa groan or a faint moanâ¦ Someone in painâsomeone dyingâ¦.

âI mustnât imagine things, I mustnât, I mustnât,â Susan whispered to herself.

Death was the endâthere was no existence after death. Under no circumstances could anyone come back. Or was she reliving a scene from the pastâa dying woman groaningâ¦.

There it was againâ¦strongerâ¦someone groaning in acute painâ¦.

Butâthis 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 Gilchristâs door and then went in. Miss Gilchristâs light was on. She was sitting up in bed. She looked ghastly. Her face was distorted with pain.

âMiss Gilchrist, whatâs the matter? Are you ill?â

âYes. I donât know whatâIââ she tried to get out of bed, was seized with a fit of vomiting and then collapsed back on the pillows.

She murmured: âPleaseâring up doctor. Must have eaten somethingâ¦.â

âIâll get you some bicarbonate. We can get the doctor in the morning if youâre no better.â

Miss Gilchrist shook her head.

âNo, get the doctor now. Iâ I feel dreadful.â

âDo you know his number? Or shall I look in the book?â

Miss Gilchrist gave her the number. She was interrupted by another fit of retching.

Susanâs call was answered by a sleepy male voice.

âWho? Gilchrist? In Meadâs Lane. Yes, I know. Iâll be right along.â

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 and she took him upstairs. âI think,â she said, âshe must have eaten something that disagreed with her. But she seems pretty bad.â

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.

âIâve sent for an ambulance. Must get her into hospital.â

âSheâs really bad then?â

âYes. Iâve given her a shot of morphia to ease the pain. But it looksââ He broke off. âWhatâs she eaten?â

âWe had macaroni au gratin for supper and a custard pudding. Coffee afterwards.â

âYou have the same things?â

âYes.â

âAnd youâre all right? No pain or discomfort?â

âNo.â

âSheâs taken nothing else? No tinned fish? Or sausages?â

âNo. We had lunch at the Kingâs Armsâafter the inquest.â

âYes, of course. Youâre Mrs. Lansquenetâs niece?â

âYes.â

âThat was a nasty business. Hope they catch the man who did it.â

âYes, indeed.â

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.

âRather an odd occurrence?â

âOh, sheâs better this morning. They rang up from the hospital. People do get these bilious turns. Some make more fuss than others.â

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 Coraâs room and started to sort through the dead womanâs things.

She was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor.

The doctor was looking worried. He replied to Susanâs inquiry by saying that Miss Gilchrist was much better.

âSheâll be out and around in a couple of days,â he said. âBut it was lucky I got called in so promptly. Otherwiseâit might have been a near thing.â

Susan stared. âWas she really so bad?â

âMrs. Banks, will you tell me again exactly what Miss Gilchrist had to eat and drink yesterday. Everything.â

Susan reflected and gave a meticulous account. The doctor shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

âThere must have been something she had and you didnât?â

âI donât think soâ¦ Cakes, scones, jam, teaâand then supper. No, I canât remember anything.â

The doctor rubbed his nose. He walked up and down the room.

âWas it definitely something she ate? Definitely food poisoning?â

The doctor threw her a sharp glance. Then he seemed to come to a decision.

âIt was arsenic,â he said.

âArsenic?â Susan started. âYou mean somebody gave her arsenic?â

âThatâs what it looks like.â

âCould she have taken it herself? Deliberately, I mean?â

âSuicide? She says not and she should know. Besides, if she wanted to commit suicide she wouldnât be likely to choose arsenic. There are sleeping pills in this house. She could have taken an overdose of them.â

âCould the arsenic have got into something by accident?â

âThatâs what Iâm wondering. It seems very unlikely, but such things have been known. But if you and she ate the same thingsââ

Susan nodded. She said, âIt all seems impossibleââ then she gave a sudden gasp. âWhy, of course, the wedding cake!â

âWhatâs that? Wedding cake?â

Susan explained. The doctor listened with close attention.

âOdd. And you say she wasnât sure who sent it? Any of it left? Or is the box it came in lying around?â

âI donât know. Iâll look.â

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.

âIâll take charge of this. Any idea where the wrapping paper it came in might be?â

Here they were not successful and Susan said that it had probably gone into the Ideal boiler.

âYou wonât be leaving here just yet, Mrs. Banks?â

His tone was genial, but it made Susan feel a little uncomfortable.

âNo, I have to go through my auntâs things. I shall be here for a few days.â

âGood. You understand the police will probably want to ask some questions. You donât know of anyone whoâwell, might have had it in for Miss Gilchrist?â

Susan shook her head.

âI donât really know much about her. She was with my aunt for some yearsâthatâs all I know.â

âQuite, quite. Always seemed a pleasant unassuming womanâquite ordinary. Not the kind, youâd say, to have enemies or anything melodramatic of that kind. Wedding cake through the post. Sounds like some jealous womanâbut whoâd be jealous of Miss Gilchrist? Doesnât seem to fit.â

âNo.â

âWell, I must be on my way. I donât know whatâs 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.â

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 to 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.

âAnd what may you have got hold of there, Susan? Hallo, whatâs the matter?â

Susan reddened with annoyance. Her cry of alarm had been quite involuntary and she felt ashamed and anxious to explain.

âGeorge? How you startled me!â

Her cousin smiled lazily.

âSo it seems.â

âHow did you get here?â

âWell, 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.â

âI didnât see you there?â

âThe 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.â

He paused, and then went on:

âI rang you up, as a matter of fact, and Greg told me youâd come down to take possession, as it were. I thought I might give you a hand.â

Susan said, âArenât you needed in the office? Or can you take days off whenever you like?â

âA funeral has always been a recognized excuse for absenteeism. And this funeral is indubitably genuine. Besides, a murder always fascinates people. Anyway, I shanât be going much to the office in futureânot now that Iâm a man of means. I shall have better things to do.â

He paused and grinned, âSame as Greg,â he said.

Susan looked at George thoughtfully. She had never seen much of this cousin of hers and when they did meet she had always found him rather difficult to make out.

She asked, âWhy did you really come down here, George?â

âIâm not sure it wasnât to do a little detective work. Iâve been thinking a good deal about the last funeral we attended. Aunt Cora certainly threw a spanner into the works that day. Iâve wondered whether it was sheer irresponsibility and auntly joie de vivre that prompted her words, or whether she really had something to go upon. What actually is in that letter that you were reading so attentively when I came in?â

Susan said slowly, âItâs a letter that Uncle Richard wrote to Cora after heâd been down here to see her.â

How very black Georgeâs eyes were. Sheâd thought of them as brown but they were black, and there was something curiously impenetrable about black eyes. They concealed the thoughts that lay behind them.

George drawled slowly. âAnything interesting in it?â

âNo, not exactlyâ¦.â

âCan I see?â

She hesitated for a moment, then put the letter into his outstretched hand.

He read it, skimming over the contents in a low monotone.

âGlad to have seen you again after all these yearsâ¦looking very wellâ¦had a good journey home and arrived back not too tiredâ¦.â

His voice changed suddenly, sharpened:

âPlease donât say anything to anyone about what I told you. It may be a mistake. Your loving brother, Richard.â

He looked up at Susan. âWhat does that mean?â

âIt might mean anythingâ¦ It might be just about his health. Or it might be some gossip about a mutual friend.â

âOh yes, it might be a lot of things. It isnât conclusiveâbut itâs suggestiveâ¦ What did he tell Cora? Does anyone know what he told her?â

âMiss Gilchrist might know,â said Susan thoughtfully. âI think she listened.â

âOh, yes, the companion help. Where is she, by the way?â

âIn hospital, suffering from arsenic poisoning.â

George stared.

âYou donât mean it?â

âI do. Someone sent her some poisoned wedding cake.â

George sat down on one of the bedroom chairs and whistled.

âIt looks,â he said, âas though Uncle Richard was not mistaken.â

III

On the following morning Inspector Morton called at the cottage.

He was a quiet middle-aged man with a soft country burr in his voice. His manner was quiet and unhurried, but his eyes were shrewd.

âYou realize what this is about, Mrs. Banks?â he said. âDr. Proctor has already told you about Miss Gilchrist. The few crumbs of wedding cake that he took from here have been analysed to show traces of arsenic.â

âSo someone deliberately wanted to poison her?â

âThatâs what it looks like. Miss Gilchrist herself doesnât seem able to help us. She keeps repeating that itâs impossibleâthat nobody would do such a thing. But somebody did. You canât throw any light on the matter?â

Susan shook her head.

âIâm simply dumbfounded,â she said. âCanât you find out anything from the postmark? Or the handwriting?â

âYouâve forgottenâthe wrapping paper was presumably burnt. And thereâs a little doubt whether it came through the post at all. Young Andrews, the driver of the postal van, doesnât seem able to remember delivering it. Heâs got a big round, and he canât be sureâbut there it isâthereâs a doubt about it.â

âButâwhatâs the alternative?â

âThe alternative, Mrs. Banks, is that an old piece of brown paper was used that already had Miss Gilchristâs name and address on it and a cancelled stamp, and that the package was pushed through the letter box or deposited inside the door by hand to create the impression that it had come by post.â

He added dispassionately:

âItâs quite a clever idea, you know, to choose wedding cake. Lonely middle-aged women are sentimental about wedding cake, pleased at having been remembered. A box of sweets, or something of that kind might have awakened suspicion.â

Susan said slowly:

âMiss Gilchrist speculated a good deal about who could have sent it, but she wasnât at all suspiciousâas you say, she was pleased and yesâflattered.â

She added: âWas there enough poison in it toâkill?â

âThatâs difficult to say until we get the quantitative analysis. It rather depends on whether Miss Gilchrist ate the whole of the wedge. She seems to think that she didnât. Can you remember?â

âNoâno, Iâm not sure. She offered me some and I refused and then she ate some and said it was a very good cake, but I donât remember if she finished it or not.â

âIâd like to go upstairs if you donât mind, Mrs. Banks.â

âOf course.â

She followed him up to Miss Gilchristâs room. She said apologetically:

âIâm afraid itâs in a rather disgusting state. But I didnât have time to do anything about it with my auntâs funeral and everything, and then after Dr. Proctor came I thought perhaps I ought to leave it as it was.â

âThat was very intelligent of you, Mrs. Banks. Itâs not everyone who would have been so intelligent.â

He went to the bed and slipping his hand under the pillow raised it carefully. A slow smile spread over his face.

âThere you are,â he said.

A piece of wedding cake lay on the sheet looking somewhat the worse for wear.

âHow extraordinary,â said Susan.

âOh no, itâs not. Perhaps your generation doesnât do it. Young ladies nowadays maynât set so much store on getting married. But itâs an old custom. Put a piece of wedding cake under your pillow and youâll dream of your future husband.â

âBut surely Miss Gilchristââ

âShe didnât want to tell us about it because she felt foolish doing such a thing at her age. But I had a notion thatâs what it might be.â His face sobered. âAnd if it hadnât been for an old maidâs foolishness, Miss Gilchrist mightnât be alive today.â

âBut who could have possibly wanted to kill her?â

His eyes met hers, a curious speculative look in them that made Susan feel uncomfortable.

âYou donât know?â he asked.

âNoâof course I donât.â

âIt seems then as though we shall have to find out,â said Inspector Morton.

Twelve

Two elderly men sat together in a room whose furnishings were of the most modern kind. There were no curves in the room. Everything was square. Almost the only exception was Hercule Poirot himself who was full of curves. His stomach was pleasantly rounded, his head resembled an egg in shape, and his moustaches curved upwards in a flamboyant flourish.

He was sipping a glass of sirop and looking thoughtfully at Mr. Goby.

Mr. Goby was small and spare and shrunken. He had always been refreshingly nondescript in appearance and he was now so nondescript as practically not to be there at all. He was not looking at Poirot because Mr. Goby never looked at anybody.

Such remarks as he was now making seemed to be addressed to the left-hand corner of the chromium-plated fireplace curb.

Mr. Goby was famous for the acquiring of information. Very few people knew about him and very few employed his servicesâbut those few were usually extremely rich. They had to be, for Mr. Goby was very expensive. His speciality was the acquiring of information quickly. At the flick of Mr. Gobyâs double-jointed thumb, hundreds of patient questioning plodding men and women, old and young, of all apparent stations in life, were despatched to question, and probe, and achieve results.

Mr. Goby had now practically retired from business. But he occasionally âobligedâ a few old patrons. Hercule Poirot was one of these.

âIâve got what I could for you,â Mr. Goby told the fire curb in a soft confidential whisper. âI sent the boys out. They do what they canâgood ladsâgood lads all of them, but not what they used to be in the old days. They donât come that way nowadays. Not willing to learn, thatâs what it is. Think they know everything after theyâve only been a couple of years on the job. And they work to time. Shocking the way they work to time.â

He shook his head sadly and shifted his gaze to an electric plug socket.

âItâs the Government,â he told it. âAnd all this education racket. It gives them ideas. They come back and tell us what they think. They canât think, most of them, anyway. All they know is things out of books. Thatâs no good in our business. Bring in the answersâthatâs all thatâs neededâno thinking.â

Mr. Goby flung himself back in his chair and winked at a lampshade.

âMustnât crab the Government, though! Donât know really what weâd do without it. I can tell you that nowadays you can walk in most anywhere with a notebook and pencil, dressed right, and speaking B.B.C., and ask people all the most intimate details of their daily lives and all their back history, and what they had for dinner on November 23rd because that was a test day for middleclass incomesâor whatever it happens to be (making it a grade above to butter them up!)âask âem any mortal thing you can; and nine times out of ten theyâll come across pat, and even the tenth time though they may cut up rough, they wonât doubt for a minute that youâre what you say you areâand that the Government really wants to knowâfor some completely unfathomable reason! I can tell you, M. Poirot,â said Mr. Goby, still talking to the lampshade, âthat itâs the best line weâve ever had; much better than reading the electric meter or tracing a fault in the telephoneâyes, or than calling as nuns, or the Girl Guides or Boy Scouts asking for subscriptionsâthough we use all those too. Yes, Government snooping is Godâs gift to investigators and long may it continue!â

Poirot did not speak. Mr. Goby had grown a little garrulous with advancing years, but he would come to the point in his own good time.

âAr,â said Mr. Goby, and took out a very scrubby little notebook. He licked his finger and flicked over the pages. âHere we are. Mr. George Crossfield. Weâll take him first. Just the plain facts. You wonât want to know how I got them. Heâs been in Queer Street for quite a while now. Horses, mostly, and gamblingâheâs not a great one for women. Goes over to France now and then, and Monte too. Spends a lot of time at the Casino. Too downy to cash cheques there, but gets hold of a lot more money than his travelling allowance would account for. I didnât go into that, because it wasnât what you want to know. But heâs not scrupulous about evading the lawâand being a lawyer he knows how to do it. Some reason to believe heâs been using trust funds entrusted to him to invest. Plunging pretty wildly of lateâon the Stock Exchange and on the gee-gees! Bad judgement and bad luck. Been off his feed badly for three months. Worried, bad-tempered and irritable in the office. But since his uncleâs death thatâs all changed. Heâs like the breakfast eggs (if we had âem). Sunny side up!

âNow, as to particular information asked for. Statement that he was at Hurst Park races on the day in question almost certainly untrue. Almost invariably places bets with one or other of two bookies on the course. They didnât see him that day. Possible that he left Paddington by train for destination unknown. Taxi driver who took fare to Paddington made doubtful identification of his photograph. But I wouldnât bank on it. Heâs a very common typeânothing outstanding about him. No success with porters, etc., at Paddington. Certainly didnât arrive at Cholsey stationâwhich is nearest for Lytchett St. Mary. Small station, strangers noticeable. Could have got out at Reading and taken bus. Buses there crowded, frequent and several routes go within a mile or so of Lytchett St. Mary as well as the bus service that goes right into the village. He wouldnât take thatânot if he meant business. All in all, heâs a downy card. Wasnât seen in Lytchett St. Mary but he neednât have been. Other ways of approach than through the village. Was in the OUDS at Oxford, by the way. If he went to the cottage that day he maynât have looked quite like the usual George Crossfield. Iâll keep him in my book, shall I? Thereâs a black market angle Iâd like to play up.â

âYou may keep him in,â said Hercule Poirot.

Mr. Goby licked his finger and turned another page of his notebook.

âMr. Michael Shane. Heâs thought quite a lot of in the profession. Has an even better idea of himself than other people have. Wants to star and wants to star quickly. Fond of money and doing himself well. Very attractive to women. They fall for him right and left. Heâs partial to them himselfâbut business comes first, as you might say. Heâs been running around with Sorrel Dainton who was playing the lead in the last show he was in. He only had a minor part but made quite a hit in it, and Miss Daintonâs husband doesnât like him. His wife doesnât know about him and Miss Dainton. Doesnât know much about anything, it seems. Not much of an actress I gather, but easy on the eye. Crazy about her husband. Some rumour of a bust-up likely between them not long ago, but that seems out now. Out since Mr. Richard Abernethieâs death.â

Mr. Goby emphasised the last point by nodding his head at a cushion on the sofa.

âOn the day in question, Mr. Shane says he was meeting a Mr. Rosenheim and a Mr. Oscar Lewis to fix up some stage business. He didnât meet them. Sent them a wire to say he was terribly sorry he couldnât make it. What he did do was to go to the Emeraldo Car people, who hire out âdrive yourself â cars. He hired a car about twelve oâclock and drove away in it. He returned it about six in the evening. According to the speedometer it had been driven just about the right number of miles for what weâre after. No confirmation from Lytchett St. Mary. No strange car seems to have been observed there that day. Lots of places it could be left unnoticed a mile or so away. And thereâs even a disused quarry a few hundred yards down the lane from the cottage. Three market towns within walking distance where you can park in side streets, without the police bothering about you. All right, we keep Mr. Shane in?â

âMost certainly.â

âNow Mrs. Shane.â Mr. Goby rubbed his nose and told his left cuff about Mrs. Shane. âShe says she was shopping. Just shoppingâ¦â Mr. Goby raised his eyes to the ceiling. âWomen who are shoppingâjust scatty, thatâs what they are. And sheâd heard sheâd come into money the day before. Naturally thereâd be no holding her. She has one or two charge accounts but theyâre overdrawn and theyâve been pressing her for payment and she didnât put any more on the sheet. Itâs quite on the cards that she went in here and there and everywhere, trying on clothes, looking at jewellery, pricing this, that, and the otherâand as likely as not, not buying anything! Sheâs easy to approachâIâll say that. I had one of my young ladies whoâs knowledgeable on the theatrical line to do a hook up. Stopped by her table in a restaurant and exclaimed the way they do: âDarling, I havenât seen you since Way Down Under. You were wonderful in that! Have you seen Hubert lately?â That was the producer and Mrs. Shane was a bit of a flop in the playâbut that makes it go all the better. Theyâre chatting theatrical stuff at once, and my girl throws the right names about, and then she says, âI believe I caught a glimpse of you at so and so, on so and so,â giving the dayâand most ladies fall for it and say, âOh no, I wasââ whatever it may be. But not Mrs. Shane. Just looks vacant and says, âOh, I dare say.â What can you do with a lady like that?â Mr. Goby shook his head severely at the radiator.

âNothing,â said Hercule Poirot with feeling. âDo I not have cause to know it? Never shall I forget the killing of Lord Edgware. I was nearly defeatedâyes, I, Hercule Poirotâby the extremely simple cunning of a vacant brain. The very simple-minded have often the genius to commit an uncomplicated crime and then leave it alone. Let us hope that our murdererâif there is a murderer in this affairâis intelligent and superior and thoroughly pleased with himself and unable to resist painting the lily. Enfinâbut continue.â

Once more Mr. Goby applied himself to his little book.

âMr. and Mrs. Banksâwho said they were at home all day. She wasnât, anyway! Went round to the garage, got out her car, and drove off in it about 1 oâclock. Destination unknown. Back about five. Canât tell about mileage because sheâs had it out every day since and itâs been nobodyâs business to check.

âAs to Mr. Banks, weâve dug up something curious. To begin with, Iâll mention that on the day in question we donât know what he did. He didnât go to work. Seems heâd already asked for a couple of days off on account of the funeral. And since then heâs chucked his jobâwith no consideration for the firm. Nice, well-established pharmacy it is. Theyâre not too keen on Master Banks. Seems he used to get into rather queer excitable states.

âWell, as I say, we donât know what he was doing on the day of Mrs. L.âs death. He didnât go with his wife. It could be that he stopped in their little flat all day. Thereâs no porter there, and nobody knows whether tenants are in or out. But his back history is interesting. Up till about four months agoâjust before he met his wife, he was in a Mental Home. Not certifiedâjust what they call a mental breakdown. Seems he made some slip up in dispensing a medicine. (He was working with a Mayfair firm then.) The woman recovered, and the firm were all over themselves apologizing, and there was no prosecution. After all, these accidental slips do occur, and most decent people are sorry for a poor young chap whoâs done itâso long as thereâs no permanent harm done, that is. The firm didnât sack him, but he resignedâsaid it had shaken his nerve. But afterwards, it seems, he got into a very low state and told the doctor he was obsessed by guiltâthat it had all been deliberateâthe woman had been overbearing and rude to him when she came into the shop, had complained that her last prescription had been badly made upâand that he had resented this and had deliberately added a near lethal dose of some drug or other. He said, âShe had to be punished for daring to speak to me like that!â And then wept and said he was too wicked to live and a lot of things like that. The medicos have a long word for that sort of thingâguilt complex or somethingâand donât believe it was deliberate at all, just carelessness, but that he wanted to make it important and serious.â

âÃa se peut,â said Hercule Poirot.

âPardon? Anyway, he went into this Sanatorium and they treated him and discharged him as cured, and he met Miss Abernethie as she was then. And he got a job in this respectable but rather obscure little chemistâs shop. Told them heâd been out of England for a year and a half, and gave them his former reference from some shop in Eastbourne. Nothing against him in that shop, but a fellow dispenser said he had a very queer temper and was odd in his manner sometimes. Thereâs a story about a customer saying once as a joke, âWish youâd sell me something to poison my wife, ha ha!â And Banks says to him, very soft and quiet: âI couldâ¦ It would cost you two hundred pounds.â The man felt uneasy and laughed it off. May have been all a joke, but it doesnât seem to me that Banks is the joking kind.â

âMon ami,â said Hercule Poirot. âIt really amazes me how you get your information! Medical and highly confidential most of it!â

Mr. Gobyâs eyes swivelled right round the room and he murmured, looking expectantly at the door, that there were waysâ¦.

âNow we come to the country department. Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Abernethie. Very nice place theyâve got, but sadly needing money spent on it. Very straitened they seem to be, very straitened. Taxation and unfortunate investments. Mr. Abernethie enjoys ill health and the emphasis is on the enjoyment. Complains a lot and has everyone running and fetching and carrying. Eats hearty meals, and seems quite strong physically if he likes to make the effort. Thereâs no one in the house after the daily woman goes and no oneâs allowed into Mr. Abernethieâs room unless he rings the bell. He was in a very bad temper the morning of the day after the funeral. Swore at Mrs. Jones. Ate only a little of his breakfast and said he wouldnât have any lunchâheâd had a bad night. He said the supper she had left out for him was unfit to eat and a good deal more. He was alone in the house and unseen by anybody from 9:30 that morning until the following morning.â

âAnd Mrs. Abernethie?â

âShe started off from Enderby by car at the time you mentioned. Arrived on foot at a small local garage in a place called Cathstone and explained her car had broken down a couple of miles away.

âA mechanic drove her out to it, made an investigation and said theyâd have to tow it in and it would be a long jobâcouldnât promise to finish it that day. The lady was very put out, but went to a small inn, arranged to stay the night, and asked for some sandwiches as she said sheâd like to see something of the countrysideâitâs on the edge of the moorland country. She didnât come back to the inn till quite late that evening. My informant said he didnât wonder. Itâs a sordid little place!â

âAnd the times?â

âShe got the sandwiches at eleven. If sheâd walked to the main road, a mile, she could have hitchhiked into Wallcaster and caught a special South Coast express which stops at Reading West. I wonât go into details of buses etcetera. It could just have been done if you could make theâerâattack fairly late in the afternoon.â

âI understand the doctor stretched the time limit to possibly 4:30.â

âMind you,â said Mr. Goby, âI shouldnât say it was likely. She seems to be a nice lady, liked by everybody. Sheâs devoted to her husband, treats him like a child.â

âYes, yes, the maternal complex.â

âSheâs strong and hefty, chops the wood and often hauls in great baskets of logs. Pretty good with the inside of a car, too.â

âI was coming to that. What exactly was wrong with the car?â

âDo you want the exact details, M. Poirot?â

âHeaven forbid. I have no mechanical knowledge.â

âIt was a difficult thing to spot. And also to put right. And it could have been done maliciously by someone without very much trouble. By someone who was familiar with the insides of a car.â

âCâest magnifique!â said Poirot with bitter enthusiasm. âAll so convenient, all so possible. Bon dieu, can we eliminate nobody? And Mrs. Leo Abernethie?â

âSheâs a very nice lady, too. Mr. Abernethie deceased was very fond of her. She came there to stay about a fortnight before he died.â

âAfter he had been to Lytchett St. Mary to see his sister?â

âNo, just before. Her income is a good deal reduced since the war. She gave up her house in England and took a small flat in London. She has a villa in Cyprus and spends part of the year there. She has a young nephew whom she is helping to educate, and there seems to be one or two young artists whom she helps financially from time to time.â

âSt. Helen of the blameless life,â said Poirot, shutting his eyes. âAnd it was quite impossible for her to have left Enderby that day without the servants knowing? Say that is so, I implore you!â

Mr. Goby brought his glance across to rest apologetically on Poirotâs polished patent leather shoe, the nearest he had come to a direct encounter, and murmured:

âIâm afraid I canât say that, M. Poirot. Mrs. Abernethie went to London to fetch some extra clothes and belongings as she had agreed with Mr. Entwhistle to stay on and see to things.â

âIl ne manquait Ã§a!â said Poirot with strong feeling.

Thirteen

When the card of Inspector Morton of the Berkshire County Police was brought to Hercule Poirot, his eyebrows went up.

âShow him in, Georges, show him in. And bringâwhat is it that the police prefer?â

âI would suggest beer, sir.â

âHow horrible! But how British. Bring beer, then.â

Inspector Morton came straight to the point.

âI had to come to London,â he said. âAnd I got hold of your address, M. Poirot. I was interested to see you at the inquest on Thursday.â

âSo you saw me there?â

âYes. I was surprisedâand, as I say, interested. You wonât remember me but I remember you very well. In that Pangbourne Case.â

âAh, you were connected with that?â

âOnly in a very junior capacity. Itâs a long time ago but Iâve never forgotten you.â

âAnd you recognized me at once the other day?â

âThat wasnât difficult, sir.â Inspector Morton repressed a slight smile. âYour appearance isârather unusual.â

His gaze took in Poirotâs sartorial perfection and rested finally on the curving moustaches.

âYou stick out in a country place,â he said.

âIt is possible, it is possible,â said Poirot with complacency.

âIt interested me why you should be there. That sort of crimeârobberyâassaultâdoesnât usually interest you.â

âWas it the usual ordinary brutal type of crime?â

âThatâs what Iâve been wondering.â

âYou have wondered from the beginning, have you not?â

âYes, M. Poirot. There were some unusual features. Since then weâve worked along the routine lines. Pulled in one or two people for questioning, but everyone has been able to account quite satisfactorily for his time that afternoon. It wasnât what youâd call an âordinaryâ crime, M. Poirotâweâre quite sure of that. The Chief Constable agrees. It was done by someone who wished to make it appear that way. It could have been the Gilchrist woman, but there doesnât seem to be any motiveâand there wasnât any emotional background, Mrs. Lansquenet was perhaps a bit mentalâor âsimple,â if you like to put it that way, but it was a household of mistress and dogsbody with no feverish feminine friendship about it. There are dozens of Miss Gilchrists about, and theyâre not usually the murdering type.â

He paused.

âSo it looks as though weâd have to look farther afield. I came to ask if you could help us at all. Something must have brought you down there, M. Poirot.â

âYes, yes, something did. An excellent Daimler car. But not only that.â

âYou hadâinformation?â

âHardly in your sense of the word. Nothing that could be used as evidence.â

âBut something that could beâa pointer?â

âYes.â

âYou see, M. Poirot, there have been developments.â

Meticulously, in detail, he told of the poisoned wedge of wedding cake.

Poirot took a deep, hissing breath.

âIngeniousâyes, ingeniousâ¦ I warned Mr. Entwhistle to look after Miss Gilchrist. An attack on her was always a possibility. But I must confess that I did not expect poison. I anticipated a repetition of the hatchet motif. I merely thought that it would be inadvisable for her to walk alone in unfrequented lanes after dark.â

âBut why did you anticipate an attack on her? I think, M. Poirot, you ought to tell me that.â

Poirot nodded his head slowly.

âYes, I will tell you. Mr. Entwhistle will not tell you, because he is a lawyer and lawyers do not like to speak of suppositions, or inferences made from the character of a dead woman, or from a few irresponsible words. But he will not be averse to my telling youâno, he will be relieved. He does not wish to appear foolish or fanciful, but he wants you to know what mayâonly mayâbe the facts.â

Poirot paused as Georges entered with a tall glass of beer.

âSome refreshment, Inspector. No, no, I insist.â

âWonât you join me?â

âI do not drink the beer. But I will myself have a glass of sirop de cassisâthe English they do not care for it, I have noticed.â

Inspector Morton looked gratefully at his beer.

Poirot, sipping delicately from his glass of dark purple fluid, said:

âIt begins, all this, at a funeral. Or rather, to be exact, after the funeral.â

Graphically, with many gestures, he set forth the story as Mr. Entwhistle had told it to him, but with such embellishments as his exuberant nature suggested. One almost felt that Hercule Poirot himself had been an eyewitness of the scene.

Inspector Morton had an excellent clear-cut brain. He seized at once on what were, for his purposes, the salient points.

âThis Mr. Abernethie may have been poisoned?â

âIt is a possibility.â

âAnd the body has been cremated and there is no evidence?â

âExactly.â

Inspector Morton ruminated.

âInteresting. Thereâs nothing in it for us. Nothing, that is, to make Richard Abernethieâs death worth investigating. It would be a waste of time.â

âYes.â

âBut there are the peopleâthe people who were thereâthe people who heard Cora Lansquenet say what she did, and one of whom may have thought that she might say it again and with more detail.â

âAs she undoubtedly would have. There are, Inspector, as you say, the people. And now you see why I was at the inquest, why I interested myself in the caseâbecause it is, always, people in whom I interest myself.â

âThen the attack on Miss Gilchristââ

âWas always indicated. Richard Abernethie had been down to the cottage. He had talked to Cora. He had, perhaps, actually mentioned a name. The only person who might possibly have known or overheard something was Miss Gilchrist. After Cora is silenced, the murderer might continue to be anxious. Does the other woman know somethingâanything? Of course, if the murderer is wise he will let well alone, but murderers, Inspector, are seldom wise. Fortunately for us. They brood, they feel uncertain, they desire to make sureâquite sure. They are pleased with their own cleverness. And so, in the end, they protrude their necks, as you say.â

Inspector Morton smiled faintly.

Poirot went on:

âThis attempt to silence Miss Gilchrist, already it is a mistake. For now there are two occasions about which you make inquiry. There is the handwriting on the wedding label also. It is a pity the wrapping paper was burnt.â

âYes, I could have been certain, then, whether it came by post or whether it didnât.â

âYou have reason for thinking the latter, you say?â

âItâs only what the postman thinksâheâs not sure. If the parcel had gone through a village post office, itâs ten to one the postmistress would have noticed it, but nowadays the mail is delivered by van from Market Keynes and of course the young chap does quite a round and delivers a lot of things. He thinks it was letters only and no parcel at the cottageâbut he isnât sure. As a matter of fact heâs having a bit of girl trouble and he canât think about anything else. Iâve tested his memory and he isnât reliable in any way. If he did deliver it, it seems to me odd that the parcel shouldnât have been noticed until after this Mr.âwhatshisnameâGuthrieââ

âAh, Mr. Guthrie.â

Inspector Morton smiled.

âYes, M. Poirot. Weâre checking up on him. After all, it would be easy, wouldnât it, to come along with a plausible tale of having been a friend of Mrs. Lansquenetâs. Mrs. Banks wasnât to know if he was or he wasnât. He could have dropped that little parcel, you know. Itâs easy to make a thing look as though itâs been through the post. Lamp black a little smudged, makes quite a good postmark cancellation mark over a stamp.â

He paused and then added:

âAnd there are other possibilities.â

Poirot nodded.

âYou thinkâ?â

âMr. George Crossfield was down in that part of the worldâbut not until the next day. Meant to attend the funeral, but had a little engine trouble on the way. Know anything about him, M. Poirot?â

âA little. But not as much as I would like to know.â

âLike that, is it? Quite a little bunch interested in the late Mr. Abernethieâs will, I understand. I hope it doesnât mean going after all of them.â

âI have accumulated a little information. It is at your disposal. Naturally I have no authority to ask these people questions. In fact, it would not be wise for me to do so.â

âI shall go slowly myself. You donât want to fluster your bird too soon. But when you do fluster it, you want to fluster it well.â

âA very sound technique. For you then, my friend, the routineâwith all the machinery you have at your disposal. It is slowâbut sure. For myselfââ

âYes, M. Poirot?â

âFor myself, I go North. As I have told you, it is people in whom I interest myself. Yesâa little preparatory camouflageâand I go North.

âI intend,â added Hercule Poirot, âto purchase a country mansion for foreign refugees. I represent U.N.A.R.C.O.â

âAnd whatâs U.N.A.R.C.O.?â

âUnited Nations Aid for Refugee Centre Organization. It sounds well, do you not think?â

Inspector Morton grinned.

Fourteen

Hercule Poirot said to a grim-faced Janet:

âThank you very much. You have been most kind.â

Janet, her lips still fixed in a sour line, left the room. These foreigners! The questions they asked. Their impertinence! All very well to say that he was a specialist interested in unsuspected heart conditions such as Mr. Abernethie must have suffered from. That was very likely trueâgone very sudden the master had, and the doctor had been surprised. But what business was it of some foreign doctor coming along and nosing around?

All very well for Mrs. Leo to say: âPlease answer Monsieur Pontarlierâs questions. He has a good reason for asking.â

Questions. Always questions. Sheets of them sometimes to fill in as best you couldâand what did the Government or anyone else want to know about your private affairs for? Asking your age at that censusâdownright impertinent and she hadnât told them, either! Cut off five years she had. Why not? If she only felt fifty-four, sheâd call herself fifty-four!

At any rate Monsieur Pontarlier hadnât wanted to know her age. Heâd had some decency. Just questions about the medicines the master had taken, and where they were kept, and if, perhaps, he might have taken too much of them if he was feeling not quite the thingâor if heâd been forgetful. As though she could remember all that rubbishâthe master knew what he was doing! And asking if any of the medicines he took were still in the house. Naturally theyâd all been thrown away. Heart conditionâand some long word heâd used. Always thinking of something new they were, these doctors. Look at them telling old Rogers he had a disc or some such in his spine. Plain lumbago, that was all that was the matter with him. Her father had been a gardener and heâd suffered from lumbago. Doctors!

The self-appointed medical man sighed and went downstairs in search of Lanscombe. He had not got very much out of Janet but he had hardly expected to do so. All he had really wanted to do was to check such information as could unwillingly be extracted from her with that given him by Helen Abernethie and which had been obtained from the same sourceâbut with much less difficulty, since Janet was ready to admit that Mrs. Leo had a perfect right to ask such questions and indeed Janet herself had enjoyed dwelling at length on the last few weeks of her masterâs life. Illness and death were congenial subjects to her.

Yes, Poirot thought, he could have relied on the information that Helen had got for him. He had done so really. But by nature and long habit he trusted nobody until he himself had tried and proved them.

In any case the evidence was slight and unsatisfactory. It boiled down to the fact that Richard Abernethie had been prescribed vitamin oil capsules. That these had been in a large bottle which had been nearly finished at the time of his death. Anybody who had wanted to, could have operated on one or more of those capsules with a hypodermic syringe and could have rearranged the bottle so that the fatal dose would only be taken some weeks after that somebody had left the house. Or someone might have slipped into the house on the day before Richard Abernethie died and have doctored a capsule thenâor, which was more likelyâhave substituted something else for a sleeping tablet in the little bottle that stood beside the bed. Or again he might have quite simply tampered with the food or drink.

Hercule Poirot had made his own experiments. The front door was kept locked, but there was a side door giving on the garden which was not locked until evening. At about quarter past one, when the gardeners had gone to lunch and when the household was in the dining room, Poirot had entered the grounds, come to the side door, and mounted the stairs to Richard Abernethieâs bedroom without meeting anybody. As a variant he had pushed through a baize door and slipped into the larder. He had heard voices from the kitchen at the end of the passage but no one had seen him.

Yes, it could have been done. But had it been done? There was nothing to indicate that that was so. Not that Poirot was really looking for evidenceâhe wanted only to satisfy himself as to possibilities. The murder of Richard Abernethie could only be a hypothesis. It was Cora Lansquenetâs murder for which evidence was needed. What he wanted was to study the people who had been assembled for the funeral that day, and to form his own conclusions about them. He already had his plan, but first he wanted a few more words with old Lanscombe.

Lanscombe was courteous but distant. Less resentful than Janet, he nevertheless regarded this upstart foreigner as the materialization of the Writing on the Wall. This was What We are Coming to!

He put down the leather with which he was lovingly polishing the Georgian teapot and straightened his back.

âYes, sir?â he said politely.

Poirot sat down gingerly on a pantry stool.

âMrs. Abernethie tells me that you hoped to reside in the lodge by the north gate when you retired from service here?â

âThat is so, sir. Naturally all that is changed now. When the propety is soldââ

Poirot interrupted deftly:

âIt might still be possible. There are cottages for the gardeners. The lodge is not needed for the guests or their attendants. It might be possible to make an arrangement of some kind.â

âWell, thank you, sir, for the suggestion. But I hardly thinkâ The majority of theâguests would be foreigners, I presume?â

âYes, they will be foreigners. Amongst those who fled from Europe to this country are several who are old and infirm. There can be no future for them if they return to their own countries, for these persons, you understand, are those whose relatives there have perished. They cannot earn their living here as an able-bodied man or woman can do. Funds have been raised and are being administered by the organization which I represent to endow various country homes for them. This place is, I think, eminently suitable. The matter is practically settled.â

Lanscombe sighed.

âYouâll understand, sir, that itâs sad for me to think that this wonât be a private dwelling house any longer. But I know how things are nowadays. None of the family could afford to live hereâand I donât think the young ladies and gentlemen would even want to do so. Domestic help is too difficult to obtain these days, and even if obtained is expensive and unsatisfactory. I quite realize that these fine mansions have served their turn.â Lanscombe sighed again. âIf it has to be anâan institution of some kind, Iâll be glad to think that itâs the kind youâre mentioning. We were Spared in This Country, sir, owing to our Navy and Air Force and our brave young men and being fortunate enough to be an island. If Hitler had landed here weâd all have turned out and given him short shrift. My sight isnât good enough for shooting, but I could have used a pitchfork, sir, and I intended to do so if necessary. Weâve always welcomed the unfortunate in this country, sir, itâs been our pride. We shall continue so to do.â

âThank you, Lanscombe,â said Poirot gently. âYour masterâs death must have been a great blow to you.â

âIt was, sir. Iâd been with the master since he was quite a young man. Iâve been very fortunate in my life, sir. No one could have had a better master.â

âI have been conversing with my friend andâerâcolleague, Dr. Larraby. We were wondering if your master could have had any extra worryâany unpleasant interviewâon the day before he died? You do not remember if any visitors came to the house that day?â

âI think not, sir. I do not recall any.â

âNo one called at all just about that time?â

âThe vicar was here to tea the day before. Otherwise some nuns called for a subscriptionâand a young man came to the back door and wanted to sell Marjorie some brushes and saucepan cleaners. Very persistent he was. Nobody else.â

A worried expression had appeared on Lanscombeâs face. Poirot did not press him further. Lanscombe had already unburdened himself to Mr. Entwhistle. He would be far less forthcoming with Hercule Poirot.

With Marjorie, on the other hand, Poirot had had instant success. Marjorie had none of the conventions of âgood service.â Marjorie was a first-class cook and the way to her heart lay through her cooking. Poirot had visited her in the kitchen, praised certain dishes with discernment, and Marjorie, realizing that here was someone who knew what he was talking about, hailed him immediately as a fellow spirit. He had no difficulty in finding out exactly what had been served the night before Richard Abernethie had died. Marjorie, indeed, was inclined to view the matter as, âIt was the night I made that chocolate soufflÃ© that Mr. Abernethie died. Six eggs Iâd saved up for it. The dairyman heâs a friend of mine. Got hold of some cream too. Better not ask how. Enjoyed it, Mr. Abernethie did.â The rest of the meal was likewise detailed. What had come out from the dining room had been finished in the kitchen. Ready as Marjorie was to talk, Poirot had learned nothing of value from her.

He went now to fetch his overcoat and a couple of scarves, and thus padded against the North Country air he went out on the terrace and joined Helen Abernethie, who was clipping some late roses.

âHave you found out anything fresh?â she asked.

âNothing. But I hardly expected to do so.â

âI know. Ever since Mr. Entwhistle told me you were coming, Iâve been ferreting around, but thereâs really been nothing.â

She paused and said hopefully:

âPerhaps it is all a mareâs nest?â

âTo be attacked with a hatchet?â

âI wasnât thinking of Cora.â

âBut it is of Cora that I think. Why was it necessary for someone to kill her? Mr. Entwhistle has told me that on that day, at the moment that she came out suddenly with her gaffe, you yourself felt that something was wrong. That is so?â

âWellâyes, but I donât knowââ

Poirot swept on.

âHow âwrongâ? Unexpected? Surprising? Orâwhat shall we sayâuneasy? Sinister?â

âOh no, not sinister. Just something that wasnâtâoh, I donât know. I canât remember and it wasnât important.â

âBut why cannot you rememberâbecause something else put it out of your headâsomething more important?â

âYesâyesâI think youâre right there. It was the mention of murder, I suppose. That swept away everything else.â

âIt was, perhaps, the reaction of some particular person to the word âmurderâ?â

âPerhapsâ¦ But I donât remember looking at anyone in particular. We were all staring at Cora.â

âIt may have been something you heardâsomething dropped perhapsâ¦or brokenâ¦.â

Helen frowned in an effort of remembrance.

âNoâ¦ I donât think soâ¦.â

âAh well, some day it will come back. And it may be of no consequence. Now tell me, Madame, of those there, who knew Cora best?â

Helen considered.

âLanscombe, I suppose. He remembers her from a child. The housemaid, Janet, only came after she had married and gone away.â

âAnd next to Lanscombe?â

Helen said thoughtfully: âI supposeâI did. Maude hardly knew her at all.â

âThen, taking you as the person who knew her best, why do you think she asked that question as she did?â

Helen smiled.

âIt was very characteristic of Cora!â

âWhat I mean is, was it a bÃªtise pure and simple? Did she just blurt out what was in her mind without thinking? Or was she being maliciousâamusing herself by upsetting everyone?â

Helen reflected.

âYou canât ever be quite sure about a person, can you? I never have known whether Cora was just ingenuousâor whether she counted, childishly, on making an effect. Thatâs what you mean, isnât it?â

âYes. I was thinking: Suppose this Mrs. Cora says to herself âWhat fun it would be to ask if Richard was murdered and see how they all look!â That would be like her, yes?â

Helen looked doubtful.

âIt might be. She certainly had an impish sense of humour as a child. But what difference does it make?â

âIt would underline the point that it is unwise to make jokes about murder,â said Poirot drily.

Helen shivered.

âPoor Cora.â

Poirot changed the subject.

âMrs. Timothy Abernethie stayed the night after the funeral?â

âYes.â

âDid she talk to you at all about what Cora had said?â

âYes, she said it was outrageous and just like Cora!â

âShe didnât take it seriously?â

âOh no. No, Iâm sure she didnât.â

The second âno,â Poirot thought, had sounded suddenly doubtful. But was not that almost always the case when you went back over something in your mind?

âAnd you, Madame, did you take it seriously?â

Helen Abernethie, her eyes looking very blue and strangely young under the sideways sweep of crisp grey hair, said thoughtfully:

âYes, M. Poirot, I think I did.â

âBecause of your feeling that something was wrong?â

âPerhaps.â

He waitedâbut as she said nothing more, he went on:

âThere had been an estrangement, lasting many years, between Mrs. Lansquenet and her family?â

âYes. None of us liked her husband and she was offended about it, and so the estrangement grew.â

âAnd then, suddenly, your brother-in-law went to see her. Why?â

âI donât knowâI suppose he knew, or guessed, that he hadnât very long to live and wanted to be reconciledâbut I really donât know.â

âHe didnât tell you?â

âTell me?â

âYes. You were here, staying with him, just before he went there. He didnât even mention his intention to you?â

He thought a slight reserve came into her manner.

âHe told me that he was going to see his brother Timothyâwhich he did. He never mentioned Cora at all. Shall we go in? It must be nearly lunchtime.â

She walked beside him carrying the flowers she had picked. As they went in by the side door, Poirot said:

âYou are sure, quite sure, that during your visit, Mr. Abernethie said nothing to you about any member of the family which might be relevant?â

A faint resentment in her manner, Helen said:

âYou are speaking like a policeman.â

âI was a policemanâonce. I have no statusâno right to question you. But you want the truthâor so I have been led to believe?â

They entered the green drawing room. Helen said with a sigh:

âRichard was disappointed in the younger generation. Old men usually are. He disparaged them in various waysâbut there was nothingânothing, do you understandâthat could possibly suggest a motive for murder.â

âAh,â said Poirot. She reached for a Chinese bowl, and began to arrange the roses in it. When they were disposed to her satisfaction she looked round for a place to put it.

âYou arrange flowers admirably, Madame,â said Hercule. âI think that anything you undertook you would manage to do with perfection.â

âThank you. I am fond of flowers. I think this would look well on that green malachite table.â

There was a bouquet of wax flowers under a glass shade on the malachite table. As she lifted it off, Poirot said casually:

âDid anyone tell Mr. Abernethie that his niece Susanâs husband had come near to poisoning a customer when making up a prescription? Ah, pardon!â

He sprang forward.

The Victorian ornament had slipped from Helenâs fingers. Poirotâs spring forward was not quick enough. It dropped on the floor and the glass shade broke. Helen gave an expression of annoyance.

âHow careless of me. However, the flowers are not damaged. I can get a new glass shade made for it. Iâll put it away in the big cupboard under the stairs.â

It was not until Poirot had helped her to lift it on to a shelf in the dark cupboard and had followed her back to the drawing room that he said:

âIt was my fault. I should not have startled you.â

âWhat was it that you asked me? I have forgotten.â

âOh, there is no need to repeat my question. IndeedâI have forgotten what it was.â

Helen came up to him. She laid her hand on his arm. âM. Poirot, is there anyone whose life would really bear close investigation? Must peopleâs lives be dragged into this when they have nothing to do withâwithââ

âWith the death of Cora Lansquenet? Yes. Because one has to examine everything. Oh! it is true enoughâit is an old maximâeveryone has something to hide. It is true of all of usâit is perhaps true of you, too, Madame. But I say to you, nothing can be ignored. That is why your friend, Mr. Entwhistle, he has come to me. For I am not the police. I am discreet and what I learn does not concern me. But I have to know. And since in this matter it is not so much evidence as peopleâthen it is people with whom I occupy myself. I need, Madame, to meet everyone who was here on the day of the funeral. And it would be a great convenienceâyes, and it would be strategically satisfactoryâif I could meet them here.â

âIâm afraid,â said Helen slowly, âthat that would be too difficultââ

âNot so difficult as you think. Already I have devised a means. The house, it is sold. So Mr. Entwhistle will declare. (Entendu, sometimes these things fall through!) He will invite the various members of the family to assemble here and to choose what they will from the furnishings before it is all put up to auction. A suitable weekend can be selected for that purpose.â

He paused and then said:

âYou see, it is easy, is it not?â

Helen looked at him. The blue eyes were coldâalmost frosty.

âAre you laying a trap for someone, M. Poirot?â

âAlas! I wish I knew enough. No, I have still the open mind.

âThere may,â Hercule Poirot added thoughtfully, âbe certain testsâ¦.â

âTests? What kind of tests?â

âI have not yet formulated them to myself. And in any case, Madame, it would be better that you should not know them.â

âSo that I can be tested too?â

âYou, Madame, have been taken behind the scenes. Now there is one thing that is doubtful. The young people will, I think, come readily. But it may be difficult, may it not, to secure the presence here of Mr. Timothy Abernethie. I hear that he never leaves home.â

Helen smiled suddenly.

âI believe you may be lucky there, M. Poirot. I heard from Maude yesterday. The workmen are in painting the house and Timothy is suffering terribly from the smell of the paint. He says that it is seriously affecting his health. I think that he and Maude would both be pleased to come hereâperhaps for a week or two. Maude is still not able to get about very wellâyou know she broke her ankle?â

âI had not heard. How unfortunate.â

âLuckily they have got Coraâs companion, Miss Gilchrist. It seems that she has turned out a perfect treasure.â

âWhat is that?â Poirot turned sharply on Helen. âDid they ask for Miss Gilchrist to go to them? Who suggested it?â

âI think Susan fixed it up. Susan Banks.â

âAha,â said Poirot in a curious voice. âSo it was the little Susan who suggested it. She is fond of making the arrangements.â

âSusan struck me as being a very competent girl.â

âYes. She is competent. Did you hear that Miss Gilchrist had a narrow escape from death with a piece of poisoned wedding cake?â

âNo!â Helen looked startled. âI do remember now that Maude said over the telephone that Miss Gilchrist had just come out of hospital but Iâd no idea why she had been in hospital. Poisoned? But, M. Poirotâwhyââ

âDo you really ask that?â

Helen said with sudden vehemence:

âOh! get them all here! Find out the truth! There mustnât be any more murders.â

âSo you will cooperate?â

âYesâ I will cooperate.â

Fifteen

I

âThat linoleum does look nice, Mrs. Jones. What a hand you have with lino. The teapotâs on the kitchen table, so go and help yourself. Iâll be there as soon as Iâve taken up Mr. Abernethieâs elevenses.â

Miss Gilchrist trotted up the staircase, carrying a daintily set out tray. She tapped on Timothyâs door, interpreted a growl from within as an invitation to enter, and tripped briskly in.

âMorning coffee and biscuits, Mr. Abernethie. I do hope youâre feeling brighter today. Such a lovely day.â

Timothy grunted and said suspiciously:

âIs there skim on that milk?â

âOh no, Mr. Abernethie. I took it off very carefully, and anyway Iâve brought up the little strainer in case it should form again. Some people like it, you know, they say itâs the creamâand so it is really.â

âIdiots!â said Timothy. âWhat kind of biscuits are those?â

âTheyâre those nice digestive biscuits.â

âDigestive tripe. Ginger-nuts are the only biscuits worth eating.â

âIâm afraid the grocer hadnât got any this week. But these are really very nice. You try them and see.â

âI know what theyâre like, thank you. Leave those curtains alone, canât you?â

âI thought you might like a little sunshine. Itâs such a nice sunny day.â

âI want the room kept dark. My headâs terrible. Itâs this paint. Iâve always been sensitive to paint. Itâs poisoning me.â

Miss Gilchrist sniffed experimentally and said brightly:

âOne really canât smell it much in here. The workmen are over on the other side.â

âYouâre not sensitive like I am. Must I have all the books Iâm reading taken out of my reach?â

âIâm so sorry, Mr. Abernethie, I didnât know you were reading all of them.â

âWhereâs my wife? I havenât seen her for over an hour.â

âMrs. Abernethie is resting on the sofa.â

âTell her to come and rest up here.â

âIâll tell her, Mr. Abernethie. But she may have dropped off to sleep. Shall we say in about a quarter of an hour?â

âNo, tell her I want her now. Donât monkey about with that rug. Itâs arranged the way I like it.â

âIâm so sorry. I thought it was slipping off the far side.â

âI like it slipping off. Go and get Maude. I want her.â

Miss Gilchrist departed downstairs and tiptoed into the drawing room where Maude Abernethie was sitting with her leg up reading a novel.

âIâm so sorry, Mrs. Abernethie,â she said apologetically. âMr. Abernethie is asking for you.â

Maude thrust aside her novel with a guilty expression.

âOh dear,â she said. âIâll go at once.â

She reached for her stick.

Timothy burst out as soon as his wife entered the room:

âSo there you are at last!â

âIâm so sorry dear, I didnât know you wanted me.â

âThat woman youâve got into the house will drive me mad. Twittering and fluttering round like a demented hen. Real typical old maid, thatâs what she is.â

âIâm sorry she annoys you. She tries to be kind, thatâs all.â

âI donât want anybody kind. I donât want a blasted old maid always chirruping over me. Sheâs so damned arch, tooââ

âJust a little, perhaps.â

âTreats me as thought I was a confounded kid! Itâs maddening.â

âIâm sure it must be. But please, please, Timothy, do try not to be rude to her. Iâm really very helpless stillâand you yourself say she cooks well.â

âHer cookingâs all right,â Mr. Abernethie admitted grudgingly. âYes, sheâs a decent enough cook. But keep her in the kitchen, thatâs all I ask. Donât let her come fussing round me.â

âNo, dear, of course not. How are you feeling?â

âNot at all well. I think youâd better send for Barton to come and have a look at me. This paint affects my heart. Feel my pulseâthe irregular way itâs beating.â

Maude felt it without comment.

âTimothy, shall we go to an hotel until the house painting is finished?â

âIt would be a great waste of money.â

âDoes that matter so muchânow?â

âYouâre just like all womenâhopelessly extravagant! Just because weâve come into a ridiculously small part of my brotherâs estate, you think we can go and live indefinitely at the Ritz.â

âI didnât quite say that, dear.â

âI can tell you that the difference Richardâs money will make will be hardly appreciable. This bloodsucking Government will see to that. You mark my words, the whole lot will go in taxation.â

Mrs. Abernethie shook her head sadly.

âThis coffeeâs cold,â said the invalid, looking with distaste at the cup which he had not as yet tasted. âWhy canât I ever get a cup of really hot coffee?â

âIâll take it down and warm it up.â

In the kitchen Miss Gilchrist was drinking tea and conversing affably, though with slight condescension, with Mrs. Jones.

âIâm so anxious to spare Mrs. Abernethie all I can,â she said. âAll this running up and down stairs is so painful for her.â

âWaits on him hand and foot, she does,â said Mrs. Jones, stirring the sugar in her cup.

âItâs very sad his being such an invalid.â

âNot such an invalid either,â Mrs. Jones said darkly. âSuits him very well to lie up and ring bells and have trays brought up and down. But heâs well able to get up and go about. Even seen him out in the village, I have, when sheâs been away. Walking as hearty as you please. Anything he really needsâlike his tobacco or a stampâhe can come and get. And thatâs why when she was off to that funeral and got held up on the way back, and he told me Iâd got to come in and stay the night again, I refused. âIâm sorry, sir,â I said, âbut Iâve got my husband to think of. Going out to oblige in the mornings is all very well, but Iâve got to be there to see to him when he comes back from work.â Nor I wouldnât budge, I wouldnât. Do him good, I thought, to get about the house and look after himself for once. Might make him see what a lot he gets done for him. So I stood firm, I did. He didnât half create.â

Mrs. Jones drew a deep breath and took a long satisfying drink of sweet inky tea. âAr,â she said.

Though deeply suspicious of Miss Gilchrist, and considering her as a finicky thing and a âregular fussy old maid,â Mrs. Jones approved of the lavish way in which Miss Gilchrist dispensed her employerâs tea and sugar ration.

She set down the cup and said affably:

âIâll give the kitchen floor a nice scrub down and then Iâll be getting along. The potatoes is all ready peeled, dear, youâll find them by the sink.â

Though slightly affronted by the âdear,â Miss Gilchrist was appreciative of the goodwill which had divested an enormous quantity of potatoes of their outer coverings.

Before she could say anything the telephone rang and she hurried out in the hall to answer it. The telephone, in the style of fiftyodd years ago, was situated inconveniently in a draughty passage behind the staircase.

Maude Abernethie appeared at the top of the stairs while Miss Gilchrist was still speaking. The latter looked up and said:

âItâs Mrs.âLeoâis it?âAbernethie speaking.â

âTell her Iâm just coming.â

Maude descended the stairs slowly and painfully.

Miss Gilchrist murmured, âIâm so sorry youâve had to come down again, Mrs. Abernethie. Has Mr. Abernethie finished his elevenses? Iâll just nip up and get the tray.â

She trotted up the stairs as Mrs. Abernethie said into the receiver:

âHelen? This is Maude here.â

The invalid received Miss Gilchrist with a baleful glare. As she picked up the tray he asked fretfully:

âWhoâs that on the telephone?â

âMrs. Leo Abernethie.â

âOh? Suppose theyâll go on gossiping for about an hour. Women have no sense of time when they get on the phone. Never think of the money theyâre wasting.â

Miss Gilchrist said brightly that it would be Mrs. Leo who had to pay, and Timothy grunted.

âJust pull that curtain aside, will you? No, not that one, the other one. I donât want the light slap in my eyes. Thatâs better. No reason because Iâm an invalid that I should have to sit in the dark all day.â

He went on:

âAnd you might look in that bookcase over there for a greenâ Whatâs the matter now? What are you rushing off for?â

âItâs the front door, Mr. Abernethie.â

âI didnât hear anything. Youâve got that woman downstairs, havenât you? Let her go and answer it.â

âYes, Mr. Abernethie. What was the book you wanted me to find?â

The invalid closed his eyes.

âI canât remember now. Youâve put it out of my head. Youâd better go.â

Miss Gilchrist seized the tray and hurriedly departed. Putting the tray on the pantry table she hurried into the front hall, passing Mrs. Abernethie who was still at the telephone.

She returned in a moment to ask in a muted voice:

âIâm so sorry to interrupt. Itâs a nun. Collecting. The Heart of Mary Fund, I think she said. She has a book. Half a crown or five shillings most people seem to have given.â

Maude Abernethie said:

âJust a moment, Helen,â into the telephone, and to Miss Gilchrist, âI donât subscribe to Roman Catholics. We have our own Church charities.â

Miss Gilchrist hurried away again.

Maude terminated her conversation after a few minutes with the phrase, âIâll talk to Timothy about it.â

She replaced the receiver and came into the front hall. Miss Gilchrist was standing quite still by the drawing room door. She was frowning in a puzzled way and jumped when Maude Abernethie spoke to her.

âThereâs nothing the matter, is there, Miss Gilchrist?â

âOh no, Mrs. Abernethie, Iâm afraid I was just woolgathering. So stupid of me when thereâs so much to be done.â

Miss Gilchrist resumed her imitation of a busy ant and Maude Abernethie climbed the stairs slowly and painfully to her husbandâs room.

âThat was Helen on the telephone. It seems that the place is definitely soldâsome Institution for Foreign Refugeesââ

She paused whilst Timothy expressed himself forcibly on the subject of Foreign Refugees, with side issues as to the house in which he had been born and brought up. âNo decent standards left in this country. My old home! I can hardly bear to think of it.â

Maude went on:

âHelen quite appreciates what youâweâwill feel about it. She suggests that we might like to come there for a visit before it goes. She was very distressed about your health and the way the painting is affecting it. She thought you might prefer coming to Enderby to going to an hotel. The servants are there still, so you could be looked after comfortably.â

Timothy, whose mouth had been open in outraged protests halfway through this, had closed it again. His eyes had become suddenly shrewd. He now nodded his head approvingly.

âThoughtful of Helen,â he said. âVery thoughtful. I donât know, Iâm sure, Iâll have to think it overâ¦ Thereâs no doubt that this paint is poisoning meâthereâs arsenic in paint, I believe. I seem to have heard something of the kind. On the other hand the exertion of moving might be too much for me. Itâs difficult to know what would be the best.â

âPerhaps youâd prefer an hotel, dear,â said Maude. âA good hotel is very expensive, but where your health is concernedââ

Timothy interrupted.

âI wish I could make you understand, Maude, that we are not millionaires. Why go to an hotel when Helen has very kindly suggested that we should go to Enderby? Not that itâs really for her to suggest! The house isnât hers. I donât understand legal subtleties, but I presume it belongs to us equally until itâs sold and the proceeds divided. Foreign Refugees! It would have made old Cornelius turn in his grave. Yes,â he sighed, âI should like to see the old place again before I die.â

Maude played her last card adroitly.

âI understand that Mr. Entwhistle has suggested that the members of the family might like to choose certain pieces of furniture or china or somethingâbefore the contents are put up for auction.â

Timothy heaved himself briskly upright.

âWe must certainly go. There must be a very exact valuation of what is chosen by each person. Those men the girls have marriedâ I wouldnât trust either of them from what Iâve heard. There might be some sharp practice. Helen is far too amiable. As the head of the family, it is my duty to be present!â

He got up and walked up and down the room with a brisk vigorous tread.

âYes, it is an excellent plan. Write to Helen and accept. What I am really thinking about is you, my dear. It will be a nice rest and change for you. You have been doing far too much lately. The decorators can get on with the painting while we are away and that Gillespie woman can stay here and look after the house.â

âGilchrist,â said Maude.

Timothy waved a hand and said that it was all the same.

II

âI canât do it,â said Miss Gilchrist.

Maude looked at her in surprise.

Miss Gilchrist was trembling. Her eyes looked pleadingly into Maudeâs.

âItâs stupid of me, I knowâ¦ But I simply canât. Not stay here all alone in the house. If there was anyone who could come andâand sleep here too?â

She looked hopefully at the other woman, but Maude shook her head. Maude Abernethie knew only too well how difficult it was to get anyone in the neighbourhood to âlive in.â

Miss Gilchrist went on, a kind of desperation in her voice. âI know youâll think it nervy and foolishâand I wouldnât have dreamed once that Iâd ever feel like this. Iâve never been a nervous womanâor fanciful. But now it all seems different. Iâd be terrifiedâyes, literally terrifiedâto be all alone here.â

âOf course,â said Maude. âItâs stupid of me. After what happend at Lytchett St. Mary.â

âI suppose thatâs itâ¦ Itâs not logical, I know. And I didnât feel it at first. I didnât mind being alone in the cottage afterâafter it had happened. The feelingâs grown up gradually. Youâll have no opinion of me at all, Mrs. Abernethie, but ever since Iâve been here Iâve been feeling itâfrightened, you know. Not of anything in particularâbut just frightenedâ¦ Itâs so silly and I really am ashamed. Itâs just as though all the time I was expecting something awful to happenâ¦ Even that nun coming to the door startled me. Oh dear, I am in a bad wayâ¦.â

âI suppose itâs what they call delayed shock,â said Maude vaguely.

âIs it? I donât know. Oh, dear, Iâm so sorry to appear soâso ungrateful, and after all your kindness. What you will thinkââ

Maude soothed her.

âWe must think of some other arrangement,â she said.

Sixteen

George Crossfield paused irresolutely for a moment as he watched a particular feminine back disappear through a doorway. Then he nodded to himself and went in pursuit.

The doorway in question was that of a double-fronted shopâa shop that had gone out of business. The plate-glass windows showed a disconcerting emptiness within. The door was closed, but George rapped on it. A vacuous faced young man with spectacles opened it and stared at George.

âExcuse me,â said George. âBut I think my cousin just came in here.â

The young man drew back and George walked in.

âHallo, Susan,â he said.

Susan, who was standing on a packing case and using a footrule, turned her head in some surprise.

âHallo, George. Where did you spring from?â

âI saw your back. I was sure it was yours.â

âHow clever of you. I suppose backs are distinctive.â

âMuch more so than faces. Add a beard and pads in your cheeks and do a few things to your hair and nobody will know you when you come face to face with themâbut beware of the moment when you walk away.â

âIâll remember. Can you remember seven feet five inches until Iâve got time to write it down.â

âCertainly. What is this, bookshelves?â

âNo, cubicle space. Eight feet nineâand three sevenâ¦.â

The young man with the spectacles who had been fidgeting from one foot to the other, coughed apologetically.

âExcuse me, Mrs. Banks, but if you want to be here for some timeââ

âI do, rather,â said Susan. âIf you leave the keys, Iâll lock the door and return them to the office when I go past. Will that be all right?â

âYes, thank you. If it werenât that weâre short staffed this morningââ

Susan accepted the apologetic intent of the half-finished sentence and the young man removed himself to the outer world of the street.

âIâm glad weâve got rid of him,â said Susan. âHouse agents are a bother. They will keep talking just when I want to do sums.â

âAh,â said George. âMurder in an empty shop. How exciting it would be for the passersby to see the dead body of a beautiful young woman displayed behind plate glass. How they would goggle. Like goldfish.â

âThere wouldnât be any reason for you to murder me, George.â

âWell, I should get a fourth part of your share of our esteemed uncleâs estate. If one were sufficiently fond of money that should be a reason.â

Susan stopped taking measurements and turned to look at him. Her eyes opened a little.

âYou look a different person, George. Itâs reallyâextraordinary.â

âDifferent? How different?â

âLike an advertisement. This is the same man that you saw overleaf, but now he has taken Uppingtonâs Health Salts.â

She sat down on another packing case and lit a cigarette.

âYou must have wanted your share of old Richardâs money pretty badly, George?â

âNobody could honestly say that money isnât welcome these days.â

Georgeâs tone was light.

Susan said: âYou were in a jam, werenât you?â

âHardly your business, is it, Susan?â

âI was just interested.â

âAre you renting this shop as a place of business?â

âIâm buying the whole house.â

âWith possession?â

âYes. The two upper floors were flats. Oneâs empty and went with the shop. The other, Iâm buying the people out.â

âNice to have money, isnât it, Susan?â

There was a malicious tone in Georgeâs voice. But Susan merely took a deep breath and said:

âAs far as Iâm concerned, itâs wonderful. An answer to prayer.â

âDoes prayer kill off elderly relatives?â

Susan paid no attention.

âThis place is exactly right. To begin with, itâs a very good piece of period architecture. I can make the living part upstairs something quite unique. There are two lovely moulded ceilings and the rooms are a beautiful shape. This part down here which has already been hacked about I shall have completely modern.â

âWhat is this? A dress business?â

âNo. Beauty culture. Herbal preparations. Face creams!â

âThe full racket?â

âThe racket as before. It pays. It always pays. What you need to put it over is personality. I can do it.â

George looked at his cousin appreciatively. He admired the slanting planes of her face, the generous mouth, the radiant colouring. Altogether an unusual and vivid face. And he recognized in Susan that odd, indefinable quality, the quality of success.

âYes,â he said, âI think youâve got what it takes, Susan. Youâll get back your outlay on this scheme and youâll get places with it.â

âItâs the right neighbourhood, just off a main shopping street and you can park a car right in front of the door.â

Again George nodded.

âYes, Susan, youâre going to succeed. Have you had this in mind for a long time?â

âOver a year.â

âWhy didnât you put it up to old Richard? He might have staked you.â

âI did put it up to him.â

âAnd he didnât see his way? I wonder why. I should have thought heâd have recognized the same mettle that he himself was made of.â

Susan did not answer, and into Georgeâs mind there leapt a swift birdâs eye view of another figure. A thin, nervous, suspicious-eyed young man.

âWhere doesâwhatâs his nameâGregâcome in on all this?â he asked. âHeâll give up dishing out pills and powders, I take it?â

âOf course. There will be a laboratory built out at the back. We shall have our own formulas for face creams and beauty preparations.â

George suppressed a grin. He wanted to say: âSo baby is to have his playpen,â but he did not say it. As a cousin he did not mind being spiteful, but he had an uneasy sense that Susanâs feeling for her husband was a thing to be treated with care. It had all the qualities of a dangerous explosive. He wondered, as he had wondered on the day of the funeral, about that queer fish, Gregory. Something odd about the fellow. So nondescript in appearanceâand yet, in some way, not nondescriptâ¦.

He looked again at Susan, calmly and radiantly triumphant.

âYouâve got the true Abernethie touch,â he said. âThe only one of the family who has. Pity as far as old Richard was concerned that youâre a woman. If youâd been a boy, I bet heâd have left you the whole caboodle.â

Susan said slowly: âYes, I think he would.â

She paused and then went on:

âHe didnât like Greg, you knowâ¦.â

âAh.â George raised his eyebrows. âHis mistake.â

âYes.â

âOh, well. Anyway, things are going well nowâall going according to plan.â

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 didnât really like a woman who was so cold-bloodedly efficient.

Changing the subject he said:

âBy the way, did you get a letter from Helen? About Enderby?â

âYes, I did. This morning. Did you?â

âYes. What are you going to do about it?â

âGreg and I thought of going up the weekend after nextâif that suits everyone else. Helen seemed to want us all together.â

George laughed shrewdly.

âOr somebody might choose a more valuable piece of furniture than somebody else?â

Susan laughed.

âOh, 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, Iâd 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 periodâs 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 hummingbirdsâor one of those crowns made of waxed flowers. Something like thatâjust as a keynoteâcan be very effective.â

âI trust your judgement.â

âYouâll be there, I suppose?â

âOh, I shall be thereâto see fair play if nothing else.â

Susan laughed.

âWhat do you bet there will be a grand family row?â she asked.

âRosamund will probably want your green malachite table for a stage set!â

Susan did not laugh. Instead she frowned.

âHave you seen Rosamund lately?â

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

âIâve seen her once or twiceâ¦ Sheâshe seemed rather oddââ

âWhat was the matter with her? Trying to think?â

âNo. She seemedâwellâupset.â

âUpset 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?â

âOh, thatâs going ahead and it does sound frightfulâbut all the same, it may be a success. Michaelâs good, you know. He can put himself across the footlightsâor whatever the term is. Heâs not like Rosamund, whoâs just beautiful and ham.â

âPoor beautiful ham Rosamund.â

âAll the same Rosamund is not quite so dumb as one might think. She says things that are quite shrewd, sometimes. Things that you wouldnât have imagined sheâd even noticed. Itâsâitâs quite disconcerting.â

âQuite like our Aunt Coraââ

âYesâ¦.â

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

Then George said with a rather elaborate air of unconcern:

âTalking of Coraâwhat about that companion woman of hers? I rather think something ought to be done about her.â

âDone about her? What do you mean?â

âWell, itâs up to the family, so to speak. I mean Iâve been thinking Cora was our Auntâand it occurred to me that this woman maynât find it easy to get another post.â

âThat occurred to you, did it?â

âYes. People are so careful of their skins. I donât say theyâd actually think that this Gilchrist female would take a hatchet to themâbut at the back of their minds theyâd feel that it might be unlucky. People are superstitious.â

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

George said drily:

âYou forget that Iâm a lawyer. I see a lot of the queer illogical side of people. What Iâm 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 sheâs capable of that sort of thing. I feel rather as though we ought to keep in touch with her.â

âYou neednât worry,â said Susan. Her voice was dry and ironic. âIâve seen to things. Sheâs gone to Timothy and Maude.â

George looked startled.

âI say, Susanâis that wise?â

âIt was the best thing I could think ofâat the moment.â

George looked at her curiously.

âYouâre very sure of yourself, arenât you, Susan? You know what youâre doing and you donât haveâregrets.â

Susan said lightly:

âItâs a waste of timeâhaving regrets.â

Seventeen

Michael tossed the letter across the table to Rosamund.

âWhat about it?â

âOh, weâll go. Donât you think so?â

Michael said slowly:

âIt might be as well.â

âThere might be some jewelleryâ¦ Of course all the things in the house are quite hideousâstuffed birds and wax flowersâugh!â

âYes. Bit of a mausoleum. As a matter of fact Iâd like to make a sketch or twoâparticularly in that drawing room. The mantelpiece, for instance, and that very odd shaped couch. Theyâd be just right for The Baronetâs Progressâif we revive it.â

He got up and looked at his watch.

âThat reminds me. I must go round and see Rosenheim. Donât expect me until rather late this evening. Iâm dining with Oscar and weâre going into the question of taking up that option and how it fits in with the American offer.â

âDarling Oscar. Heâll be pleased to see you after all this time. Give him my love.â

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

âWhat do you meanâafter all this time? Anyone would think I hadnât seen him for months.â

âWell, you havenât, have you?â murmured Rosamund.

âYes, I have. We lunched together only a week ago.â

âHow funny. He must have forgotten about it. He rang up yesterday and said he hadnât seen you since the first night of Tilly Looks West.â

âThe old fool must be off his head.â

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

âYou think Iâm a fool, donât you, Mick?â

Michael protested.

âDarling, of course I donât.â

âYes, you do. But Iâm not an absolute nitwit. You didnât go near Oscar that day. I know where you did go.â

âRosamund darlingâwhat do you mean?â

âI mean I know where you really wereâ¦.â

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:

âI donât know what youâre driving atâ¦.â

âI just meant itâs rather silly telling me a lot of lies.â

âLook here, Rosamundââ

He had started to blusterâbut he stopped, taken aback as his wife said softly:

âWe do want to take up this option and put this play on, donât we?â

âWant to? Itâs the part Iâve always dreamed must exist somewhere.â

âYesâthatâs what I mean.â

âJust what do you mean?â

âWellâitâs worth a good deal, isnât it? But one mustnât take too many risks.â

He stared at her and said slowly:

âItâs your moneyâ I know that. If you donât want to risk itââ

âItâs our money, darling.â Rosamund stressed it. âI think thatâs rather important.â

âListen, darling. The part of Eileenâit would bear writing up.â

Rosamund smiled.

âI donât thinkâreallyâ I want to play it.â

âMy dear girl.â Michael was aghast. âWhatâs come over you?â

âNothing.â

âYes, there is, youâve been different latelyâmoodyânervous, what is it?â

âNothing. I only want you to beâcareful, Mick.â

âCareful about what? Iâm always careful.â

âNo, I donât 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.â

Michael flushed angrily.

âAnd what about you? You said you were going shopping with Jane. You didnât. Janeâs in America, has been for weeks.â

âYes,â said Rosamund. âThat was stupid, too. I really just went for a walkâin Regentâs Park.â

Michael looked at her curiously.

âRegentâs Park? You never went for a walk in Regentâs Park in your life. Whatâs it all about? Have you got a boyfriend? You may say what you like, Rosamund, you have been different lately. Why?â

âIâve beenâthinking about things. About what to doâ¦.â

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

âDarlingâyou know I love you madly!â

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

âWhatever Iâd done, youâd always forgive me, wouldnât you?â he demanded.

âI suppose so,â said Rosamund vaguely. âThatâs not the point. You see, itâs all different now. Weâve got to think and plan.â

âThink and planâwhat?â

Rosamund, frowning, said:

âThings arenât over when youâve done them. Itâs really a sort of beginning and then oneâs got to arrange what to do next, and whatâs important and what is not.â

âRosamundâ¦.â

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.

âWhat did you say?â

âI asked you what you were thinking aboutâ¦.â

âOh? Oh yes, I was wondering if Iâd go down toâwhat is it?âLytchett St. Mary, and see that Miss Somebodyâthe one who was with Aunt Cora.â

âBut why?â

âWell, sheâll be going away soon, wonât she? To relatives or someone. I donât think we ought to let her go away until weâve asked her.â

âAsked her what?â

âAsked her who killed Aunt Cora.â

Michael stared.

âYou meanâyou think she knows?â

Rosamund said rather absently:

âOh yes, I expect soâ¦ She lived there, you see.â

âBut sheâd have told the police.â

âOh, I donât mean she knows that wayâI just mean that sheâs 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.â

âBut she wouldnât have heard what he said.â

âOh yes, she would, darling.â Rosamund sounded like someone arguing with an unreasonable child.

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

âWell, of course. Sheâd have heard it through the door.â

âEavesdropping, you mean?â

âI expect soâin fact Iâm sure. It must be 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 lettersâanyone would.â

Michael looked at her with something faintly approaching dismay.

âWould you?â he demanded bluntly.

âI wouldnât go and be a companion in the country.â Rosamund shuddered. âIâd rather die.â

âI meanâwould you read letters andâand all that?â

Rosamund said calmly:

âIf I wanted to know, yes. Everybody does, donât you think so?â

The limpid gaze met his.

âOne just wants to know,â said Rosamund. âOne doesnât want to do anything about it. I expect thatâs how she feelsâMiss Gilchrist, I mean. But Iâm certain she knows.â

Michael said in a stifled voice:

âRosamund, who do you think killed Cora? And old Richard?â

Once again that limpid blue gaze met his.

âDarlingâdonât be absurdâ¦ You know as well as I do. But itâs much, much better never to mention it. So we wonât.â

Eighteen

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, âHow extraordinary, darling. But why?â 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 thickset, in devoted attendance, and finally to the figure sitting with a tinge of apology just beyond the range of the family circleâthe figure of Miss Gilchrist wearing a rather peculiar âdressyâ blouse. Presently, he judged, she would get up, murmur her 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 thereâall 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 Richardâs 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. Entwhistleâs account of the family had, he realized, been admirable. He had described all these people shrewdly and well. With the old lawyerâs 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 ideaânot of how and whenâ(those were questions with which he did not propose to concern himself. Murder had been possibleâthat was all he needed to know!)âbut of who. For Hercule Poirot had a lifetime of experience behind him, and as a man who deals with pictures can recognize the artist, so Poirot believed he could recognize a likely type of the amateur criminal who willâif his own particular need arisesâbe prepared to kill.

But it was not to be so easy.

Because he could visualize almost all of these people as a possibleâthough not a probableâmurderer. George might killâas the cornered rat kills. Susan calmlyâefficientlyâto 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 murdererâs 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 brotherâs 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 civilizedâtoo removed from violence. And she and her husband had surely loved Richard Abernethie.

Poirot sighed to himself. There were to be no shortcuts 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 awayâ¦.

He had been introduced by Helen to the gathering, and had set to work to overcome the almost universal annoyance caused by his presenceâa foreign stranger!âin this family gathering. He had used his eyes and his ears. He had watched and listenedâopenly and behind doors! He had noticed affinities, antagonism, the unguarded words that arose as always when property was to be divided. He had engineered adroitly tÃªte-Ã -tÃªtes, 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 Ã©clairs 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 something about paintâ Mr. Entwhistle?

There had also been discussion of a different kind of painting. Pierre Lansquenet as a painter. Cora Lansquenetâs paintings, rapturized over by Miss Gilchrist, dismissed scornfully by Susan. âJust like picture postcards,â she had said. âShe did them from postcards, too.â

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

âBut I bet she cheated,â said Susan to Poirot when Miss Gilchrist had gone out of the room. âIn fact I know she did, though I wonât upset the old pussy by saying so.â

âAnd how do you know?â

Poirot watched the strong confident line of Susanâs chin.

âShe will always be sure, this one,â he thought. âAnd perhaps sometimes, she will be too sureâ¦.â

Susan was going on.

âIâll tell you, but donât pass it on to the Gilchrist. One picture is of Polflexan, the cove and lighthouse and the pierâthe usual aspect that all amateur artists sit down and sketch. But the pier was blown up in the war, and since Aunt Coraâs sketch was done a couple of years ago, it canât 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 ârough sketchâ down there, I expect, and then finished it surreptitiously later at home from a postcard! Itâs funny, isnât it, the way people get caught out?â

âYes, it is, as you say, funny.â He paused, and then thought that the opening was a good one.

âYou do not remember me, Madame,â he said, âbut I remember you. This is not the first time that I have seen you.â

She stared at him. Poirot nodded with great gusto.

âYes, yes, it is so. I was inside an automobile, well wrapped up and from the window I saw you. You were talking to one of the mechanics in the garage. You do not notice meâit is naturalâ I am inside the carâan elderly muffled-up foreigner! But I noticed you, for you are young and agreeable to look at and you stand there in the sun. So when I arrive here, I say to myself, âTiens! What a coincidence!ââ

âA garage? Where? When was this?â

âOh, a little time agoâa weekâno, more. For the moment,â said Poirot disingenuously and with a full recollection of the Kingâs Arms garage in his mind, âI cannot remember where. I travel so much all over this country.â

âLooking for a suitable house to buy for your refugees?â

âYes. There is so much to take into consideration, you see. Priceâneighbourhoodâsuitability for conversion.â

âI suppose youâll have to pull the house about a lot? Lots of horrible partitions.â

âIn the bedrooms, yes, certainly. But most of the ground floor rooms we shall not touch.â He paused before going on. âDoes it sadden you, Madame, that this old family mansion of yours should go this wayâto strangers?â

âOf course not.â Susan looked amused. âI think itâs an excellent idea. Itâs an impossible place for anybody to think of living in as it is. And Iâve nothing to be sentimental about. Itâs not my old home. My mother and father lived in London. We just came here for Christmas sometimes. Actually Iâve always thought it quite hideousâan almost indecent temple to wealth.â

âThe altars are different now. There is the building in, and the concealed lighting and the expensive simplicity. But wealth still has its temples, Madame. I understandâI am not, I hope, indiscreetâthat you yourself are planning such an edifice? Everything de luxeâand no expense spared.â

Susan laughed.

âHardly a templeâitâs just a place of business.â

âPerhaps the name does not matterâ¦ But it will cost much moneyâthat is true, is it not?â

âEverythingâs wickedly expensive nowadays. But the initial outlay will be worthwhile, I think.â

âTell me something about these plans of yours. It amazes me to find a beautiful young woman so practical, so competent. In my young daysâa long time ago, I admitâbeautiful women thought only of their pleasures, of cosmeticsâof la toilette.â

âWomen still think a great deal about their facesâthatâs where I come in.â

âTell me.â

And she had told him. Told him with a wealth of detail and with a great deal of unconscious self-revelation. He appreciated her business acumen, her boldness of planning and her grasp of detail. A good bold planner, sweeping all side issues away. Perhaps a little ruthless as all those who plan boldly must be.

Watching her, he had said:

âYes, you will succeed. You will go ahead. How fortunate that you are not restricted, as so many are, by poverty. One cannot go far without the capital outlay. To have had these creative ideas and to have been frustrated by lack of meansâthat would have been unbearable.â

âI couldnât have borne it! But Iâd have raised money somehow or otherâgot someone to back me.â

âAh! of course. Your uncle, whose house this was, was rich. Even if he had not died, he would, as you express it, have âstakedâ you.â

âOh no, he wouldnât. Uncle Richard was a bit of a stick-in-the-mud where women were concerned. If Iâd been a manââ A quick flash of anger swept across her face. âHe made me very angry.â

âI seeâyes, I seeâ¦.â

âThe old shouldnât stand in the way of the young. Iâoh, I beg your pardon.â

Hercule Poirot laughed easily and twirled his moustache.

âI am old, yes. But I do not impede youth. There is no one who needs to wait for my death.â

âWhat a horrid idea.â

âBut you are a realist, Madame. Let us admit without more ado that the world is full of the youngâor even the middle-agedâwho wait, patiently or impatiently, for the death of someone whose decease will give them if not affluenceâthen opportunity.â

âOpportunity!â Susan said, taking a deep breath. âThatâs what one needs.â

Poirot who had been looking beyond her, said gaily:

âAnd here is your husband come to join our little discussionâ¦We talk, Mr. Banks, of opportunity. Opportunity the goldenâopportunity who must be grasped with both hands. How far in conscience can one go? Let us hear your views?â

But he was not destined to hear the views of Gregory Banks on opportunity or on anything else. In fact he had found it next to impossible to talk to Gregory Banks at all. Banks had a curious fluid quality. Whether by his own wish, or by that of his wife, he seemed to have no liking for tÃªte-Ã -tÃªtes or quiet discussions. No, âconversationâ with Gregory had failed.

Poirot had talked with Maude Abernethieâalso about paint (the smell of ) and how fortunate it had been that Timothy had been able to come to Enderby, and how kind it had been of Helen to extend an invitation to Miss Gilchrist also.

âFor really she is most useful. Timothy so often feels like a snackâand one cannot ask too much of other peopleâs servants but there is a gas ring in a little room off the pantry, so that Miss Gilchrist can warm up Ovaltine or Bengerâs there without disturbing anybody. And sheâs so willing about fetching things, sheâs quite willing to run up and down stairs a dozen times a day. Oh yes, I feel that it was really quite Providential that she should have lost her nerve about staying alone in the house as she did, though I admit it vexed me at the time.â

âLost her nerve?â Poirot was interested.

He listened whilst Maude gave him an account of Miss Gilchristâs sudden collapse.

âShe was frightened, you say? And yet could not exactly say why? That is interesting. Very interesting.â

âI put it down myself to delayed shock.â

âPerhaps.â

âOnce during the war, when a bomb dropped about a mile from us, I remember Timothyââ

Poirot abstracted his mind from Timothy.

âHad anything particular happened that day?â he asked.

âOn what day?â Maude looked blank.

âThe day that Miss Gilchrist was upset.â

âOh, thatâno, I donât think so. It seems to have been coming on ever since she left Lytchett St. Mary, or so she said. She didnât seem to mind when she was there.â

And the result, Poirot thought, had been a piece of poisoned wedding cake. Not so very surprising that Miss Gilchrist was frightened after thatâ¦ And even when she had removed herself to the peaceful country round Stansfield Grange, the fear had lingered. More than lingered. Grown. Why grown? Surely attending on an exacting hypochondriac like Timothy must be so exhausting that nervous fears would be likely to be swallowed up in exasperation?

But something in that house had made Miss Gilchrist afraid. What? Did she know herself?

Finding himself alone with Miss Gilchrist for a brief space before dinner, Poirot had sailed into the subject with an exaggerated foreign curiosity.

âImpossible, you comprehend, for me to mention the matter of murder to members of the family. But I am intrigued. Who would not be? A brutal crimeâa sensitive artist attacked in a lonely cottage. Terrible for her family. But terrible, also, I imagine, for you. Since Mrs. Timothy Abernethie gives me to understand that you were there at the time?â

âYes, I was. And if youâll excuse me, M. Pontarlier, I donât want to talk about it.â

âI understandâoh yes, I completely understand.â

Having said this, Poirot waited. And, as he had thought, Miss Gilchrist immediately did begin to talk about it.

He heard nothing from her that he had not heard before, but he played his part with perfect sympathy, uttering little cries of comprehension and listening with an absorbed interest which Miss Gilchrist could not help but enjoy.

Not until she had exhausted the subject of what she herself had felt, and what the doctor had said, and how kind Mr. Entwhistle had been, did Poirot proceed cautiously to the next point.

âYou were wise, I think, not to remain alone down in that cottage.â

âI couldnât have done it, M. Pontarlier. I really couldnât have done it.â

âNo. I understand even that you were afraid to remain alone in the house of Mr. Timothy Abernethie whilst they came here?â

Miss Gilchrist looked guilty.

âIâm terribly ashamed about that. So foolish really. It was just a kind of panic I hadâreally donât know why.â

âBut of course one knows why. You had just recovered from a dastardly attempt to poison youââ

Miss Gilchrist here sighed and said she simply couldnât understand it. Why should anyone try to poison her?

âBut obviously, my dear lady, because this criminal, this assassin, thought that you knew something that might lead to his apprehension by the police.â

âBut what could I know? Some dreadful tramp, or semi-crazed creature.â

âIf it was a tramp. It seems to me unlikelyââ

âOh, please, M. Pontarlierââ Miss Gilchrist became suddenly very upset. âDonât suggest such things. I donât want to believe it.â

âYou do not want to believe what?â

âI donât want to believe that it wasnâtâI meanâthat it wasââ

She paused, confused.

âAnd yet,â said Poirot shrewdly, âyou do believe.â

âOh, I donât. I donât!â

âBut I think you do. That is why you are frightenedâ¦ You are still frightened, are you not?â

âOh, no, not since I came here. So many people. And such a nice family atmosphere. Oh, no, everything seems quite all right here.â

âIt seems to meâyou must excuse my interestâI am an old man, somewhat infirm and a great part of my time is given to idle speculation on matters which interest meâit seems to me that there must have been some definite occurrence at Stansfield Grange which, so to speak, brought your fears to a head. Doctors recognize nowadays how much takes place in our subconscious.â

âYes, yesâ I know they say so.â

âAnd I think your subconscious fears might have been brought to a point by some small concrete happening, something, perhaps, quite extraneous, serving, shall we say, as a focal point.â

Miss Gilchrist seemed to lap this up eagerly.

âIâm sure you are right,â she said.

âNow what, should you think, was thisâerâextraneous circumstance?â

Miss Gilchrist pondered a moment, and then said, unexpectedly:

âI think, you know, M. Pontarlier, it was the nun.â

Before Poirot could take this up, Susan and her husband came in, closely followed by Helen.

âA nun,â thought Poirotâ¦ âNow where, in all this, have I heard something about a nun?â

He resolved to lead the conversation on to nuns some time in the course of the evening.

Nineteen

The family had all been polite to M. Pontarlier, the representative of U.N.A.R.C.O. And how right he had been to have chosen to designate himself by initials. Everyone had accepted U.N.A.R.C.O. as a matter of courseâhad even pretended to know all about it! How averse human beings were ever to admit ignorance! An exception had been Rosamund, who had asked him wonderingly: âBut what is it? I never heard of it?â Fortunately no one else had been there at the time. Poirot had explained the organization in such a way that anyone but Rosamund would have felt abashed at having displayed ignorance of such a well-known worldwide institution. Rosamund, however, had only said vaguely, âOh! refugees all over again. Iâm so tired of refugees.â Thus voicing the unspoken reaction of many, who were usually too conventional to express themselves so frankly.

M. Pontarlier was, therefore, now acceptedâas a nuisance but also as a nonentity. He had become, as it were, a piece of foreign dÃ©cor. The general opinion was that Helen should have avoided having him here this particular weekend, but as he was here they must make the best of it. Fortunately this queer little foreigner did not seem to know much English. Quite often he did not understand what you said to him, and when everyone was speaking more or less at once he seemed completely at sea. He appeared to be interested only in refugees and postwar conditions, and his vocabulary only included those subjects. Ordinary chit-chat appeared to bewilder him. More or less forgotten by all, Hercule Poirot leant back in his chair, sipped his coffee and observed, as a cat may observe the twitterings and comings and goings of a flock of birds. The cat is not ready yet to make its spring.

After twenty-four hours of prowling round the house and examining its contents, the heirs of Richard Abernethie were ready to state their preferences, and, if need be, to fight for them.

The subject of conversation was, first, a certain Spode dinner dessert service off which they had just been eating dessert.

âI donât suppose I have long to live,â said Timothy in a faint melancholy voice. âAnd Maude and I have no children. It is hardly worthwhile our burdening ourselves with useless possessions. But for sentimentâs sake I should like to have the old dessert service. I remember it in the dear old days. Itâs out of fashion, of course, and I understand dessert services have very little value nowadaysâbut there it is. I shall be quite content with thatâand perhaps the Boule Cabinet in the White Boudoir.â

âYouâre too late, Uncle,â George spoke with debonair insouciance. âI asked Helen to mark off the Spode service to me this morning.â

Timothy became purple in the face.

âMark it offâmark it off? What do you mean? Nothingâs been settled yet. And what do you want with a dessert service? Youâre not married.â

âAs a matter of fact I collect Spode. And this is really a splendid specimen. But itâs quite all right about the Boule Cabinet, Uncle. I wouldnât have that as a gift.â

Timothy waved aside the Boule Cabinet.

âNow look here, young George. You canât go butting in, in this way. Iâm an older man than you areâand Iâm Richardâs only surviving brother. That dessert service is mine.â

âWhy not take the Dresden service, Uncle? A very fine example and Iâm sure just as full of sentimental memories. Anyway, the Spodeâs mine. First come, first served.â

âNonsenseânothing of the kind!â Timothy spluttered.

Maude said sharply:

âPlease donât upset your uncle, George. Itâs very bad for him. Naturally he will take the Spode if he wants to! The first choice is his, and you young people must come afterwards. He was Richardâs brother, as he says, and you are only a nephew.â

âAnd I can tell you this, young man.â Timothy was seething with fury. âIf Richard had made a proper will, the disposal of the contents of this place would have been entirely in my hands. Thatâs the way the property should have been left, and if it wasnât, I can only suspect undue influence. Yesâand I repeat itâundue influence.â

Timothy glared at his nephew.

âA preposterous will,â he said. âPreposterous!â

He leant back, placed a hand to his heart, and groaned:

âThis is very bad for me. If I could haveâa little brandy.â

Miss Gilchrist hurried to get it and returned with the restorative in a small glass.

âHere you are, Mr. Abernethie. Pleaseâplease donât excite youself. Are you sure you oughtnât to go up to bed?â

âDonât be a fool.â Timothy swallowed the brandy. âGo to bed? I intend to protect my interests.â

âReally, George, Iâm surprised at you,â said Maude. âWhat your uncle says is perfectly true. His wishes come first. If he wants the Spode dessert service he shall have it!â

âItâs quite hideous anyway,â said Susan.

âHold your tongue, Susan,â said Timothy.

The thin young man who sat beside Susan raised his head. In a voice that was a little shriller than his ordinary tones, he said:

âDonât speak like that to my wife!â

He half rose from his seat.

Susan said quickly: âItâs all right, Greg. I donât mind.â

âBut I do.â

Helen said: âI think it would be graceful on your part, George, to let your uncle have the dessert service.â

Timothy spluttered indignantly: âThereâs no âlettingâ about it!â

But George, with a slight bow to Helen said, âYour wish is law, Aunt Helen. I abandon my claim.â

âYou didnât really want it, anyway, did you?â said Helen.

He cast a sharp glance at her, then grinned:

âThe trouble with you, Aunt Helen, is that youâre too sharp by half! You see more than youâre meant to see. Donât worry, Uncle Timothy, the Spode is yours. Just my idea of fun.â

âFun, indeed.â Maude Abernethie was indignant. âYour uncle might have had a heart attack!â

âDonât you believe it,â said George cheerfully. âUncle Timothy will probably outlive us all. Heâs what is known as a creaking gate.â

Timothy leaned forward balefully.

âI donât wonder,â he said, âthat Richard was disappointed in you.â

âWhatâs that?â The good humour went out of Georgeâs face.

âYou came up here after Mortimer died, expecting to step into his shoesâexpecting that Richard would make you his heir, didnât you? But my poor brother soon took your measure. He knew where the money would go if you had control of it. Iâm surprised that he even left you a part of his fortune. He knew where it would go. Horses, gambling, Monte Carlo, foreign casinos. Perhaps worse. He suspected you of not being straight, didnât he?â

George, a white dint appearing each side of his nose, said quietly:

âHadnât you better be careful of what you are saying?â

âI wasnât well enough to come here for the funeral,â said Timothy slowly, âbut Maude told me what Cora said. Cora always was a foolâbut there may have been something in it! And if so, I know who Iâd suspectââ

âTimothy!â Maude stood up, solid, calm, a tower of forcefulness. âYou have had a very trying evening. You must consider your health. I canât 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 mementoes of Richard. There is no objection to that, I hope?â

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.

âFemme formidable!â he said. âThat describes Aunt Maude exactly. I should hate ever to impede her triumphal progress.â

Miss Gilchrist sat down again rather uncomfortably and murmured:

âMrs. Abernethie is always so kind.â

The remark fell rather flat.

Michael Shane laughed suddenly and said: âYou know, Iâm enjoying all this! âThe Voysey Inheritanceâ to the life. By the way, Rosamund and I want that malachite table in the drawing room.â

âOh, no,â cried Susan. âI want that.â

âHere we go again,â said George, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

âWell, we neednât get angry about it,â said Susan. âThe reason I want it is for my new Beauty shop. Just a note of colourâand 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 isnât so common.â

âBut, darling,â said Rosamund, âthatâs just why we want it. For the new set. As you say, a note of colourâand so absolutely period. And either wax flowers or stuffed hummingbirds. It will be absolutely right.â

âI see what you mean, Rosamund,â said Susan. âBut I donât think youâve got as good a case as I have. You could easily have a painted malachite table for the stageâit would look just the same. But for my salon Iâve got to have the genuine thing.â

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

Susan smiled pleasantly.

âRosamund and I will talk about it tomorrow,â she said.

She seemed, as usual, quite sure of herself. George looked with some interest from her face to that of Rosamund. Rosamundâs face had a vague, rather faraway expression.

âWhich one will you back, Aunt Helen?â he asked. âAn even money chance, Iâd say. Susan has determination, but Rosamund is so wonderfully single-minded.â

âOr perhaps not hummingbirds,â said Rosamund. âOne of those big Chinese vases would make a lovely lamp, with a gold shade.â

Miss Gilchrist hurried into placating speech.

âThis house is full of so many beautiful things,â she said. âThat green table would look wonderful in your new establishment, Iâm sure, Mrs. Banks. Iâve never seen one like it. It must be worth a lot of money.â

âIt will be deducted from my share of the estate, of course,â said Susan.

âIâm so sorryâI didnât meanââ Miss Gilchrist was covered with confusion.

âIt may be deducted from our share of the estate,â Michael pointed out. âWith the wax flowers thrown in.â

âThey look so right on that table,â Miss Gilchrist murmured. âReally artistic. Sweetly pretty.â

But nobody was paying any attention to Miss Gilchristâs well-meant trivialities.

Greg said, speaking again in that high nervous voice:

âSusan wants that table.â

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

Helen said quickly:

âAnd what do you really want, George? Leaving out the Spode service.â

George grinned and the tension relaxed.

âRather a shame to bait old Timothy,â he said. âBut he really is quite unbelievable. Heâs had his own way in everything so long that heâs become quite pathological about it.â

âYou have to humour an invalid, Mr. Crossfield,â said Miss Gilchrist.

âRuddy old hypochondriac, thatâs what he is,â said George.

âOf course he is,â Susan agreed. âI donât believe thereâs anything whatever the matter with him, do you, Rosamund?â

âWhat?â

âAnything the matter with Uncle Timothy.â

âNoâno, I shouldnât think so.â Rosamund was vague. She apologized. âIâm sorry. I was thinking about what lighting would be right for the table.â

âYou see?â said George. âA woman of one idea. Your wifeâs a dangerous woman, Michael. I hope you realize it.â

âI realize it,â said Michael rather grimly.

George went on with every appearance of enjoyment.

âThe Battle of the Table! To be fought tomorrowâpolitelyâbut with grim determination. We ought all to take sides. I back Rosamund who looks so sweet and yielding and isnât. Husbands, presumably back their own wives. Miss Gilchrist? On Susanâs side, obviously.â

âOh, really, Mr. Crossfield, I wouldnât venture toââ

âAunt Helen?â George paid no attention to Miss Gilchristâs flutterings. âYou have the casting vote. Oh, erâI forgot. M. Pontarlier?â

âPardon?â Hercule Poirot looked blank.

George considered explanations, but decided against it. The poor old boy hadnât understood a word of what was going on. He said: âJust a family joke.â

âYes, yes, I comprehend.â Poirot smiled amiably.

âSo yours is the casting vote, Aunt Helen. Whose side are you on?â

Helen smiled.

âPerhaps I want it myself, George.â

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

âIâm afraid this is all very dull for you, M. Pontarlier?â

âNot at all, Madame. I consider myself privileged to be admitted to your family lifeââ he bowed. âI would like to sayâI cannot quite express my meaningâmy regret that this house had to pass out of your hands into the hands of strangers. It is without doubtâa great sorrow.â

âNo, indeed, we donât regret at all,â Susan assured him.

âYou 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 hereânot a regular school, a conventârun by religieusesâby ânuns,â I think you say? You would have preferred that, perhaps?â

âNot at all,â said George.

âThe Sacred Heart of Mary,â continued Poirot. âFortunately, owing to the kindness of an unknown benefactory we were able to make a slightly higher offer.â He addressed Miss Gilchrist directly. âYou do not like nuns, I think?â

Miss Gilchrist flushed and looked embarrassed.

âOh, really, Mr. Pontarlier, you mustnâtâI mean, itâs nothing personal. But I never do see that itâs right to shut yourself up from the world in that wayânot necessary, I mean, and really almost selfish, though not teaching ones, of course, or the ones that go about amongst the poorâbecause Iâm sure theyâre thoroughly unselfish women and do a lot of good.â

âI simply canât imagine wanting to be a nun,â said Susan.

âItâs very becoming,â said Rosamund. âYou rememberâwhen they revived The Miracle last year. Sonia Wells looked absolutely too glamorous for words.â

âWhat beats me,â said George, âis why it should be pleasing to the Almighty to dress oneself up in medieval dress. For after all, thatâs all a nunâs dress is. Thoroughly cumbersome, unhygienic and impractical.â

âAnd it makes them look so alike, doesnât it?â said Miss Gilchrist. âItâs silly, you know, but I got quite a turn when I was at Mrs. Abernethieâs and a nun came to the door, collecting. I got it into my head she was the same as the nun who came to the door on the day of the inquest on poor Mrs. Lansquenet at Lytchett St. Mary. I felt, you know, almost as though she had been following me round!â

âI thought nuns always collected in couples,â said George. âSurely a detective story hinged on that point once?â

âThere was only one this time,â said Miss Gilchrist. âPerhaps theyâve got to economize,â she added vaguely. âAnd anyway it couldnât have been the same nun, for the other one was collecting for an organ for StâBarnabas, I thinkâand this one was for something quite differentâsomething to do with children.â

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

âI suppose that must be it. The upper lipâalmost as though she had a moustache. I think, you know, that that is really what alarmed meâbeing 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.â

âA nun would be a good disguise,â said Susan thoughtfully. âIt hides your feet.â

âThe truth is,â said George, âthat one very seldom looks properly at anyone. Thatâs why one gets such wildly differing accounts of a person from different witnesses in court. Youâd be surprised. A man is often described as tallâshort; thinâstout; fairâdark; dressed in a darkâlightâsuit, and so on. Thereâs usually one reliable observer, but one has to make up oneâs mind who that is.â

âAnother queer thing,â said Susan, âis that you sometimes catch sight of yourself in a mirror unexpectedly and donât know who it is. It just looks vaguely familiar. And you say to yourself, âThereâs somebody I know quite wellâ¦ â and then suddenly realize itâs yourself!â

George said: âIt would be more difficult still if you could really see yourselfâand not a mirror image.â

âWhy?â asked Rosamund, looking puzzled.

âBecause, donât you see, nobody ever sees themselvesâas they appear to other people. They always see themselves in a glassâthat isâas a reversed image.â

âBut why does that look any different?â

âOh yes,â said Susan quickly. âIt must. Because peopleâs faces arenât the same both sides. Their eyebrows are different, and their mouths go up one side, and their noses arenât really straight. You can see with a pencilâwhoâs got a pencil?â

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.

âAnd perhaps, Madame, I had better say good-bye. My train departs itself at nine oâclock tomorrow morning. That is very early. So I will thank you now for all your kindness and hospitality. The date of possessionâthat will be arranged with the good Mr. Entwhistle. To suit your convenience, of course.â

âIt can be anytime you please, M. Pontarlier. IâI have finished all that I came here to do.â

âYou will return now to your villa at Cyprus?â

âYes.â A little smile curved Helen Abernethieâs lips.

Poirot said:

âYou are glad, yes. You have no regrets?â

âAt leaving England? Or leaving here, do you mean?â

âI meantâleaving here?â

âOhâno. Itâs no good, is it, to cling on to the past? One must leave that behind one.â

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

âSometimes, is it not, the Past will not be left, will not suffer itself to pass into oblivion? It stands at oneâs elbowâit says, âI am not done with yet.ââ

Susan gave a rather doubtful laugh. Poirot said:

âBut I am seriousâyes.â

âYou mean,â said Michael, âthat your refugees when they come here will not be able to put their past sufferings completely behind them?â

âI did not mean my Refugees.â

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

She turned to Poirot.

âDidnât you?â

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

âWhy do you think that, Madame?â

âBecause youâre a detective, arenât you? Thatâs why youâre here. N.A.R.C.O., or whatever you call it, is just nonsense, isnât it?â

Twenty

I

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

He said with a little bow, âYou have great perspicacity, Madame.â

âNot really,â said Rosamund. âYou were pointed out to me once in a restaurant. I remembered.â

âBut you have not mentioned itâuntil now?â

âI thought it would be more fun not to,â said Rosamund.

Michael said in an imperfectly controlled voice:

âMyâdear girl.â

Poirot shifted his gaze then to look at him.

Michael was angry. Angry and something elseâapprehensive?

Poirotâs eyes went slowly round all the faces. Susanâs, angry and watchful; Gregoryâs dead and shut in; Miss Gilchristâs, foolish, her mouth wide open; George, wary; Helen, dismayed and nervousâ¦.

All those expressions were normal ones under the circumstances. He wished he could have seen their faces a split second earlier, when the words âa detectiveâ fell from Rosamundâs lips. For now, inevitably, it could not be quite the sameâ¦.

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

âYes,â he said. âI am a detective.â

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

âI was commissioned to inquire into the circumstances of Richard Abernethieâs death.â

âBy whom?â

âFor 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?â

âOf course he died a natural death. Who says anything else?â

âCora Lansquenet said so. And Cora Lansquenet is dead herself.â

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

âShe said it hereâin this room,â said Susan. âBut I didnât really thinkââ

âDidnât you, Susan?â George Crossfield turned his sardonic glance upon her. âWhy pretend anymore? You wonât take M. Pontarlier in?â

âWe all thought so really,â said Rosamund. And his name isnât Pontarlierâitâs Hercules something.â

âHercule Poirotâat your service.â

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 âdetective.â

âMay I ask what conclusions you have come to?â asked George.

âHe wonât tell you, darling,â said Rosamund. âOr if he does tell you, what he says wonât be true.â

Alone of all 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 movementsâall seemed fraught with a tantalizing 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. PaintâTimothy and paint. Oil paintâthe smell of oil paintâconnected somehow with Mr. Entwhistle. Paint and Cora. Coraâs paintingsâpicture postcardsâ¦ Cora was deceitful about her paintingâ¦ No, back to Mr. Entwhistleâsomething Mr. Entwhistle had saidâor was it Lanscombe? A nun who came to the house on the day that Richard Abernethie died. A nun with a moustache. A nun at Stansfield Grangeâand at Lytchett St. Mary. Altogether too many nuns! Rosamund looking glamorous as a nun on the stage. Rosamundâsaying that he was a detectiveâand 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, âBut he was murdered, wasnât he?â What was it Helen Abernethie had felt to be âwrongâ on that occasion? Helen Abernethieâleaving the past behindâgoing to Cyprusâ¦ Helen dropping the wax flowers with a crash when he had saidâwhat was it he had said? He couldnât quite rememberâ¦.

He slept then, and as he slept he dreamedâ¦.

He dreamed of the green malachite table. On it was the glass-covered stand of wax flowersâonly 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, âIâm dyingâdyingâ¦this is the end.â And Maude, standing by, tall and stern, with a large knife in her hand was echoing him, saying, âYes, itâs the endâ¦â The endâa deathbed, with candles and a nun praying. If he could just see the nunâs face, he would knowâ¦.

Hercule Poirot woke upâand he did know!

Yes, it was the endâ¦.

Though there was still a long way to go.

He sorted out the various bits of the mosaic.

Mr. Entwhistle, the smell of paint, Timothyâs house and something that must be in itâor might be in itâ¦the wax flowersâ¦ Helenâ¦ Broken glassâ¦.

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 Coraâsâ¦.

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

What was it George had said? About seeing oneself?

There was some quotation, too. To see ourselves as others see usâ¦ As others see us.

The eyes that were staring into the glass unseeingly suddenly focused. She was seeing herselfâbut not really herselfânot herself as others saw herânot as Cora had seen her that day.

Her rightâno, her left eyebrow was arched a little higher than the right. The mouth? No, the curve of the mouth was symmetrical. If she met herself she would surely not see much difference from this mirror image. Not like Cora.

Coraâthe picture came quite clearlyâ¦ Cora, on the day of the funeral, her head tilted sidewaysâasking her questionâlooking at Helenâ¦.

Suddenly Helen raised her hands to her face. She said to herself, âIt doesnât make senseâ¦it canât make senseâ¦.â

IV

Miss Entwhistle was aroused from a delightful dream in which she was playing Piquet with Queen Mary, by the ringing of the telephone.

She tried to ignore itâbut it persisted. Sleepily she raised her head from the pillow and looked at the watch beside her bed. Five minutes to sevenâwho on earth could be ringing up at that hour? It must be a wrong number.

The irritating ding-dong continued. Miss Entwhistle sighed, snatched up a dressing gown and marched into the sitting room.

âThis is Kensington 675498,â she said with asperity as she picked up the receiver.

âThis is Mrs. Abernethie speaking. Mrs. Leo Abernethie. Can I speak to Mr. Entwhistle?â

âOh, good morning, Mrs. Abernethie.â The âgood morningâ was not cordial. âThis is Miss Entwhistle. My brother is still asleep, Iâm afraid. I was asleep myself.â

âIâm so sorry,â Helen was forced to the apology. âBut itâs very important that I should speak to your brother at once.â

âWouldnât it do later?â

âIâm afraid not.â

âOh, very well then.â

Miss Entwhistle was tart.

She tapped at her brotherâs door and went in.

âThose Abernethies again!â she said bitterly.

âEh! The Aberbethies?â

âMrs. Leo Abernethie. Ringing up before seven in the morning! Really!â

âMrs. Leo, is it? Dear me. How remarkable. Where is my dressing gown? Ah, thank you.â

Presently he was saying:

âEntwhistle speaking. Is that you, Helen?â

âYes. Iâm terribly sorry to get you out of bed like this. But you did tell me once to ring you up at once if I remembered what it was that struck me as having been wrong somehow on the day of the funeral when Cora electrified us all by suggesting that Richard had been murdered.â

âAh! You have remembered?â

Helen said in a puzzled voice:

âYes, but it doesnât make sense.â

âYou must allow me to be the judge of that. Was it something you noticed about one of the people?â

âYes.â

âTell me.â

âIt seems absurd.â Helenâs voice sounded apologetic. âBut Iâm quite sure of it. It came to me when I was looking at myself in the glass last night. Ohâ¦.â

The little startled half cry was succeeded by a sound that came oddly through the wiresâa dull heavy sound that Mr. Entwhistle couldnât place at all.

He said urgently:

âHalloâhalloâare you there? Helen, are you there?â¦ Helenâ¦.â

Twenty-one

I

It was not until nearly an hour later that Mr. Entwhistle, after a great deal of conversation with supervisors and others, found himself at last speaking to Hercule Poirot.

âThank heaven!â said Mr. Entwhistle with pardonable exasperation. âThe Exchange seems to have had the greatest difficulty in getting the number.â

âThat is not surprising. The receiver was off the hook.â

There was a grim quality in Poirotâs voice which carried through to the listener.

Mr. Entwhistle said sharply:

âHas something happened?â

âYes. Mrs. Leo Abernethie was found by the housemaid about twenty minutes ago lying by the telephone in the study. She was unconscious. A serious concussion.â

âDo you mean she was struck on the head?â

âI think so. It is just possible that she fell and struck her head on a marble doorstop, but me I do not think so, and the doctor, he does not think so either.â

âShe was telephoning to me at the time. I wondered when we were cut off so suddenly.â

âSo it was to you she was telephoning? What did she say?â

âShe mentioned to me some time ago that on the occasion when Cora Lansquenet suggested her brother had been murdered, she herself had a feeling of something being wrongâoddâshe did not quite know how to put itâunfortunately she could not remember why she had that impression.â

âAnd suddenly, she did remember?â

âYes.â

âAnd rang you up to tell you?â

âYes.â

âEh bien.â

âThereâs no eh bien about it,â said Mr. Entwhistle testily. âShe started to tell me, but was interrupted.â

âHow much had she said?â

âNothing pertinent.â

âYou will excuse me, mon ami, but I am the judge of that, not you. What exactly did she say?â

âShe reminded me that I had asked her to let me know at once if she remembered what it was that had struck her as peculiar. She said she had rememberedâbut that it âdidnât make sense.â

âI asked her if it was something about one of the people who were there that day, and she said, yes, it was. She said it had come to her when she was looking in the glassââ

âYes?â

âThat was all.â

âShe gave no hint as toâwhich of the people concerned it was?â

âI should hardly fail to let you know if she had told me that,â said Mr. Entwhistle acidly.

âI apologize, mon ami. Of course you would have told me.â

Mr. Entwhistle said:

âWe shall just have to wait until she recovers consciousness before we know.â

Poirot said gravely:

âThat may not be for a very long time. Perhaps never.â

âIs it as bad as that?â Mr. Entwhistleâs voice shook a little.

âYes, it is as bad as that.â

âButâthatâs terrible, Poirot.â

âYes, it is terrible. And it is why we cannot afford to wait. For it shows that we have to deal with someone who is either completely ruthless or so frightened that it comes to the same thing.â

âBut look here, Poirot. What about Helen? I feel worried. Are you sure she will be safe at Enderby?â

âNo, she would not be safe. So she is not at Enderby. Already the ambulance has come and is taking her to a nursing home where she will have special nurses and where no one, family or otherwise, will be allowed in to see her.â

Mr. Entwhistle sighed.

âYou relieve my mind! She might have been in danger.â

âShe assuredly would have been in danger!â

Mr. Entwhistleâs voice sounded deeply moved.

âI have a great regard for Helen Abernethie. I always have had. A woman of very exceptional character. She may have had certainâwhat shall I say?âreticences in her life.â

âAh, there were reticences?â

âI have always had an idea that such was the case.â

âHence the villa in Cyprus. Yes, that explains a good dealâ¦.â

âI donât want you to begin thinkingââ

âYou cannot stop me thinking. But now, there is a little commission that I have for you. One moment.â

There was a pause, then Poirotâs voice spoke again.

âI had to make sure that nobody was listening. All is well. Now here is what I want you to do for me. You must prepare to make a journey.â

âA journey?â Mr. Entwhistle sounded faintly dismayed. âOh, I seeâyou want me to come down to Enderby?â

âNot at all. I am in charge here. No, you will not have to travel so far. Your journey will not take you very far from London. You will travel to Bury St. Edmundsâ(Ma foi! what names your English towns have!) and there you will hire a car and drive to Forsdyke House. It is a Mental Home. Ask for Dr. Penrith and inquire of him particulars about a patient who was recently discharged.â

âWhat patient? Anyway, surelyââ

Poirot broke in:

âThe name of the patient is Gregory Banks. Find out for what form of insanity he was being treated.â

âDo you mean that Gregory Banks is insane?â

âSh! Be careful what you say. And nowâI have not yet breakfasted and you, too, I suspect, have not breakfasted?â

âNot yet. I was too anxiousââ

âQuite so. Then, I pray you, eat your breakfast, repose yourself. There is a good train to Bury St. Edmunds at twelve oâclock. If I have any more news I will telephone you before you start.â

âBe careful of yourself, Poirot,â said Mr. Entwhistle with some concern.

âAh that, yes! Me, I do not want to be hit on the head with a marble doorstop. You may be assured that I will take every precaution. And nowâfor the momentâgood-bye.â

Poirot heard the sound of the receiver being replaced at the other end, then he heard a very faint second clickâand smiled to himself. Somebody had replaced the receiver on the telephone in the hall.

He went out there. There was no one about. He tiptoed to the cupboard at the back of the stairs and looked inside. At that moment Lanscombe came through the service door carrying a tray with toast and a silver coffeepot. He looked slightly surprised to see Poirot emerge from the cupboard.

âBreakfast is ready in the dining room, sir,â he said.

Poirot surveyed him thoughtfully.

The old butler looked white and shaken.

âCourage,â said Poirot, clapping him on the shoulder. âAll will yet be well. Would it be too much trouble to serve me a cup of coffee in my bedroom?â

âCertainly, sir. I will send Janet up with it, sir.â

Lanscombe looked disapprovingly at Hercule Poirotâs back as the latter climbed the stairs. Poirot was attired in an exotic silk dressing gown with a pattern of triangles and squares.

âForeigners!â thought Lanscombe bitterly. âForeigners in the house! And Mrs. Leo with concussion! I donât know what weâre coming to. Nothingâs the same since Mr. Richard died.â

Hercule Poirot was dressed by the time he received his coffee from Janet. His murmurs of sympathy were well-received, since he stressed the shock her discovery must have given her.

âYes, indeed, sir, what I felt when I opened the door of the study and came in with the Hoover and saw Mrs. Leo lying there I shall never forget. There she layâand I made sure she was dead. She must have been taken faint as she stood at the phoneâand fancy her being up at that time in the morning! Iâve never known her to do such a thing before.â

âFancy, indeed!â He added casually: âNo one else was up, I suppose?â

âAs it happens, sir, Mrs. Timothy was up and about. Sheâs a very early riser alwaysâoften goes for a walk before breakfast.â

âShe is of the generation that rises early,â said Poirot, nodding his head. âThe younger ones, nowâthey do not get up so early?â

âNo, indeed, sir, all fast asleep when I brought them their teaâand very late I was, too, what with the shock and getting the doctor to come and having to have a cup first to steady myself.â

She went off and Poirot reflected on what she had said.

Maude Abernethie had been up and about, and the younger generation had been in bedâbut that, Poirot reflected, meant nothing at all. Anyone could have heard Helenâs door open and close, and have followed her down to listenâand would afterwards have made a point of being fast asleep in bed.

âBut if I am right,â thought Poirot, âand after all, it is natural to me to be rightâit is a habit I have!âthen there is no need to go into who was here and who was these. First, I must seek a proof where I have deduced the proof may be. And thenâI make my little speech. And I sit back and see what happensâ¦.â

As soon as Janet had left the room, Poirot drained his coffee cup, put on his overcoat and his hat, left his room, ran nimbly down the back stairs and left the house by the side door. He walked briskly the quarter mile to the post office where he demanded a trunk call. Presently he was once more speaking to Mr. Entwhistle.

âYes, it is I yet again! Pay no attention to the commission with which I entrusted you. CâÃ©tait une blague! Someone was listening. Now, mon vieux, to the real commission. You must, as I said, take a train. But not to Bury St. Edmunds. I want you to proceed to the house of Mr. Timothy Abernethie.â

âBut Timothy and Maude are at Enderby.â

âExactly. There is no one in the house but a woman by the name of Jones who has been persuaded by the offer of considerable largesse to guard the house whilst they are absent. What I want you to do is to take something out of that house!â

âMy dear Poirot! I really canât stoop to burglary!â

âIt will not seem like burglary. You will say to the excellent Mrs. Jones who knows you, that you have been asked by Mr. or Mrs. Abernethie to fetch this particular object and take it to London. She will not suspect anything amiss.â

âNo, no, probably not. But I donât like it.â Mr. Entwhistle sounded most reluctant. âWhy canât you go and get whatever it is yourself?â

âBecause, my friend, I should be a stranger of foreign appearance and as such a suspicious character, and Mrs. Jones would at once raise the difficulties! With you, she will not.â

âNo, noâI see that. But what on earth are Timothy and Maude going to think when they hear about it? I have known them for forty odd years.â

âAnd you knew Richard Abernethie for that time also! And you knew Cora Lansquenet when she was a little girl!â

In a martyred voice Mr. Entwhistle asked:

âYouâre sure this is really necessary, Poirot?â

âThe old question they asked in wartime on the posters. Is your journey really necessary? I say to you, it is necessary. It is vital!â

âAnd what is this object Iâve got to get hold of?â

Poirot told him.

âBut really, Poirot, I donât seeââ

âIt is not necessary for you to see. I am doing the seeing.â

âAnd what do you want me to do with the damned thing?â

âYou will take it to London, to an address in Elm Park Gardens. If you have a pencil, note it down.â

Having done so, Mr. Entwhistle said, still in his martyred voice:

âI hope you know what you are doing, Poirot?â

He sounded very doubtfulâbut Poirotâs reply was not doubtful at all.

âOf course I know what I am doing. We are nearing the end.â

Mr. Entwhistle sighed:

âIf we could only guess what Helen was going to tell me.â

âNo need to guess, I know.â

âYou know? But my dear Poirotââ

âExplanations must wait. But let me assure you of this. I know what Helen Abernethie saw when she looked in her mirror.â

II

Breakfast had been an uneasy meal. Neither Rosamund nor Timothy had appeared, but the others were there and had talked in rather subdued tones, and eaten a little less than they normally would have done.

George was the first one to recover his spirits. His temperament was mercurial and optimistic.

âI expect Aunt Helen will be all right,â he said. âDoctors always like to pull a long face. After all, whatâs concussion? Often clears up completely in a couple of days.â

âA woman I knew had concussion during the war,â said Miss Gilchrist conversationally. âA brick or something hit her as she was walking down Tottenham Court Roadâit was during fly bomb timeâand she never felt anything at all. Just went on with what she was doingâand collapsed in a train to Liverpool twelve hours later. And would you believe it, she had no recollection at all of going to the station and catching the train or anything. She just couldnât understand it when she woke up in hospital. She was there for nearly three weeks.â

âWhat I canât make out,â said Susan, âis what Helen was doing telephoning at that unearthly hour, and who she was telephoning to?â

âFelt ill,â said Maude with decision. âProbably woke up feeling queer and came down to ring up the doctor. Then had a giddy fit and fell. Thatâs the only thing that makes sense.â

âBad luck hitting her head on that doorstop,â said Michael. âIf sheâd just pitched over onto that thick pile carpet sheâd have been all right.â

The door opened and Rosamund came in, frowning.

âI canât find those wax flowers,â she said. âI mean the ones that were standing on the malachite table the day of Uncle Richardâs funeral.â She looked accusingly at Susan. âYou havenât taken them?â

âOf course I havenât! Really, Rosamund, youâre not still thinking about malachite tables with poor old Helen carted off to hospital with concussion?â

âI donât see why I shouldnât think about them. If youâve got concussion you donât know whatâs happening and it doesnât matter to you. We canât do anything for Aunt Helen, and Michael and I have got to get back to London by tomorrow lunchtime because weâre seeing Jackie Lygo about opening dates for The Baronetâs Progress. So Iâd like to fix up definitely about the table. But Iâd like to have a look at those wax flowers again. Thereâs a kind of Chinese vase on the table nowâniceâbut not nearly so period. I do wonder where they areâperhaps Lanscombe knows.â

Lanscombe had just looked in to see if they had finished breakfast.

âWeâre all through, Lanscombe,â said George getting up. âWhatâs happened to our foreign friend?â

âHe is having his coffee and toast served upstairs, sir.â

âPetit dÃ©jeuner for N.A.R.C.O.â

âLanscombe, do you know where those wax flowers are that used to be on that green table in the drawing room?â asked Rosamund.

âI understand Mrs. Leo had an accident with them, maâam. She was going to have a new glass shade made, but I donât think she has seen about it yet.â

âThen where is the thing?â

âIt would probably be in the cupboard behind the staircase, maâam. That is where things are usually placed when awaiting repair. Shall I ascertain for you?â

âIâll go and look myself. Come with me, Michael sweetie. Itâs dark there, and Iâm not going in any dark corners by myself after what happened to Aunt Helen.â

Everybody showed a sharp reaction. Maude demanded in her deep voice:

âWhat do you mean, Rosamund?â

âWell, she was coshed by someone, wasnât she?â

Gregory Banks said sharply:

âShe was taken suddenly faint and fell.â

Rosamund laughed.

âDid she tell you so? Donât be silly, Greg, of course she was coshed.â

George said sharply:

âYou shouldnât say things like that, Rosamund.â

âNonsense,â said Rosamund. âShe must have been. I mean, it all adds up. A detective in the house looking for clues, and Uncle Richard poisoned, and Aunt Cora killed with a hatchet, and Miss Gilchrist given poisoned wedding cake, and now Aunt Helen struck down with a blunt instrument. Youâll see, it will go on like that. One after another of us will be killed and the one thatâs left will be Itâthe murderer, I mean. But itâs not going to be meâwhoâs killed, I mean.â

âAnd why should anyone want to kill you, beautiful Rosamund?â asked George lightly.

Rosamund opened her eyes very wide.

âOh,â she said. âBecause I know too much, of course.â

âWhat do you know?â Maude Abernethie and Gregory Banks spoke almost in unison.

Rosamund gave her vacant and angelic smile.

âWouldnât you all like to know?â she said agreeably. âCome on, Michael.â

Twenty-two

I

At eleven oâclock, Hercule Poirot called an informal meeting in the library. Everyone was there and Poirot looked thoughtfully round the semicircle of faces.

âLast night,â he said, âMrs. Shane announced to you that I was a private detective. For myself, I hoped to retain myâcamouflage, shall we say?âa little longer. But no matter! Todayâor at most the day afterâI would have told you the truth. Please listen carefully now to what I have to say.

âI am in my own line a celebrated personâI may say a most celebrated person. My gifts, in fact, are unequalled!â

George Crossfield grinned and said:

âThatâs the stuff, M. Pontâno, itâs M. Poirot, isnât it? Funny, isnât it, that Iâve never even heard of you?â

âIt is not funny,â said Poirot severely. âIt is lamentable! Alas, there is no proper education nowadays. Apparently one learns nothing but economicsâand how to sit Intelligence Tests! But to continue. I have been a friend for many years of Mr. Entwhistleâsââ

âSo heâs the fly in the ointment!â

âIf you like to put it that way, Mr. Crossfield! Mr. Entwhistle was greatly upset by the death of his old friend, Mr. Richard Abernethie. He was particularly perturbed by some words spoken on the day of the funeral by Mr. Abernethieâs sister, Mrs. Lansquenet. Words spoken in this very room.â

âVery sillyâand just like Cora,â said Maude. âMr. Entwhistle should have had more sense than to pay attention to them!â

Poirot went on:

âMr. Entwhistle was even more perturbed after theâthe coincidence, shall I say?âof Mrs. Lansquenetâs death. He wanted one thing onlyâto be assured that that death was a coincidence. In other words he wanted to feel assured that Richard Abernethie had died a natural death. To that end he commissioned me to make the necessary investigations.â

There was a pause.

âI have made themâ¦.â

Again there was a pause. No one spoke.

Poirot threw back his head.

âEh bien, you will all be delighted to hear that as a result of my investigationsâthere is absolutely no reason to believe that Mr. Abernethie died anything but a natural death. There is no reason at all to believe that he was murdered!â He smiled. He threw out his hands in a triumphant gesture.

âThat is good news, is it not?â

It hardly seemed to be, by the way they took it. They stared at him and in all but the eyes of one person there still seemed to be doubt and suspicion.

The exception was Timothy Abernethie, who was nodding his head in violent agreement.

âOf course Richard wasnât murdered,â he said angrily. âNever could understand why anybody ever even thought of such a thing for a moment! Just Cora up to her tricks, that was all. Wanting to give you all a scare. Her idea of being funny. Truth is that although she was my own sister, she was always a bit mental, poor girl. Well, Mr. whatever your name is, Iâm glad youâve had the sense to come to the right conclusion, though if you ask me, I call it damned cheek of Entwhistle to go commissioning you to come prying and poking about. And if he thinks heâs going to charge the estate with your fee, I can tell you he wonât get away with it! Damned cheek, and most uncalled for! Whoâs Entwhistle to set himself up? If the familyâs satisfiedââ

âBut the family wasnât, Uncle Timothy,â said Rosamund.

âHeyâwhatâs that?â

Timothy peered at her under beetling brows of displeasure.

âWe werenât satisfied. And what about Aunt Helen this morning?â

Maude said sharply:

âHelenâs just the age when youâre liable to get a stroke. Thatâs all there is to that.â

âI see,â said Rosamund. âAnother coincidence, you think?â

She looked at Poirot.

âArenât there rather too many coincidences?â

âCoincidences,â said Hercule Poirot, âdo happen.â

âNonsense,â said Maude. âHelen felt ill, came down and rang up the doctor, and thenââ

âBut she didnât ring up the doctor,â said Rosamund. âI asked himââ

Susan said sharply:

âWho did she ring up?â

âI donât know,â said Rosamund, a shade of vexation passing over her face. âBut I dare say I can find out,â she added hopefully.

II

Hercule Poirot was sitting in the Victorian summerhouse. He drew his large watch from his pocket and laid it on the table in front of him.

He had announced that he was leaving by the twelve oâclock train. There was still half an hour to go. Half an hour for someone to make up their mind and come to him. Perhaps more than one personâ¦.

The summerhouse was clearly visible from most of the windows of the house. Surely, soon, someone would come?

If not, his knowledge of human nature was deficient, and his main premises incorrect.

He waitedâand above his head a spider in its web waited for a fly.

It was Miss Gilchrist who came first. She was flustered and upset and rather incoherent.

âOh, Mr. PontarlierâI canât remember your other name,â she said. âI had to come and speak to you although I donât like doing itâbut really I feel I ought to. I mean, after what happened to poor Mrs. Leo this morningâand I think myself Mrs. Shane was quite rightâand not coincidence, and certainly not a strokeâas Mrs. Timothy suggested, because my own father had a stroke and it was quite a different appearance, and anyway the doctor said concussion quite clearly!â

She paused, took breath and looked at Poirot with appealing eyes.

âYes,â said Poirot gently and encouragingly. âYou want to tell me something?â

âAs I say, I donât like doing itâbecause sheâs been so kind. She found me the position with Mrs. Timothy and everything. Sheâs been really very kind. Thatâs why I feel so ungrateful. And even gave me Mrs. Lansquenetâs musquash jacket which is really most handsome and fits beautifully because it never matters if fur is a little on the large side. And when I wanted to return her amethyst brooch she wouldnât hear of itââ

âYou are referring,â said Poirot gently, âto Mrs. Banks?â

âYes, you seeââ Miss Gilchrist looked down, twisting her fingers unhappily. She looked up and said with a sudden gulp:

âYou see, I listened!â

âYou mean you happened to overhear a conversationââ

âNo.â Miss Gilchrist shook her head with an air of heroic determination. âIâd rather speak the truth. And itâs not so bad telling you because youâre not English.â

Hercule Poirot understood her without taking offence.

âYou mean that to a foreigner it is natural that people should listen at doors and open letters, or read letters that are left about?â

âOh, Iâd never open anybody elseâs letters,â said Miss Gilchrist in a shocked tone. âNot that. But I did listen that dayâthe day that Mr. Richard Abernethie came down to see his sister. I was curious, you know, about his turning up suddenly after all those years. And I did wonder whyâandâandâyou see when you havenât much life of your own or very many friends, you do tend to get interestedâwhen youâre living with anybody, I mean.â

âMost natural,â said Poirot.

âYes, I do think it was naturalâ¦ Though not, of course, at all right. But I did it! And I heard what he said!â

âYou heard what Mr. Abernethie said to Mrs. Lansquenet?â

âYes. He said something likeââItâs no good talking to Timothy. He pooh-poohs everything. Simply wonât listen. But I thought Iâd like to get it off my chest to you, Cora. We three are the only ones left. And though youâve always liked to play the simpleton youâve got a lot of common sense. So what would you do about it, if you were me?â

âI couldnât quite hear what Mrs. Lansquenet said, but I caught the word policeâand then Mr. Abernethie burst out quite loud, and said, âI canât do that. Not when itâs a question of my own niece.â And then I had to run in the kitchen for something boiling over and when I got back Mr. Abernethie was saying, âEven if I die an unnatural death I donât want the police called in, if it can possibly be avoided. You understand that, donât you, my dear girl? But donât worry. Now that I know, I shall take all possible precautions.â And he went on, saying heâd made a new will, and that she, Cora, would be quite all right. And then he said about her having been happy with her husband and how perhaps heâd made a mistake over that in the past.â

Miss Gilchrist stopped.

âPoirot said: âI seeâI seeâ¦.â

âBut I never wanted to sayâto tell. I didnât think Mrs. Lansquenet would have wanted me toâ¦ But nowâafter Mrs. Leo being attacked this morningâand then you saying so calmly it was coincidence. But, oh, M. Pontarlier, it wasnât coincidence!â

Poirot smiled. He said:

âNo, it wasnât coincidenceâ¦ Thank you, Miss Gilchrist, for coming to me. It was very necessary that you should.â

III

He had a little difficulty in getting rid of Miss Gilchrist, and it was urgent that he should, for he hoped for further confidences.

His instinct was right. Miss Gilchrist had hardly gone before Gregory Banks, striding across the lawn, came impetuously into the summerhouse. His face was pale and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead. His eyes were curiously excited.

âAt last!â he said. âI thought that stupid woman would never go. Youâre all wrong in what you said this morning. Youâre wrong about everything. Richard Abernethie was killed. I killed him.â

Hercule Poirot let his eyes move up and down over the excited young man. He showed no surprise.

âSo you killed him, did you? How?â

Gregory Banks smiled.

âIt wasnât difficult for me. You can surely realize that. There were fifteen or twenty different drugs I could lay my hands on that would do it. The method of administration took rather more thinking out, but I hit on a very ingenious idea in the end. The beauty of it was that I didnât need to be anywhere near at the time.â

âClever,â said Poirot.

âYes.â Gregory Banks cast his eyes down modestly. He seemed pleased. âYesâ I do think it was ingenious.â

Poirot asked with interest:

âWhy did you kill him? For the money that would come to your wife?â

âNo. No, of course not.â Greg was suddenly excitedly indignant. âIâm not a money grubber. I didnât marry Susan for her money!â

âDidnât you, Mr. Banks?â

âThatâs what he thought,â Greg said with sudden venom. âRichard Abernethie! He liked Susan, he admired her, he was proud of her as an example of Abernethie blood! But he thought sheâd married beneath herâhe thought I was no goodâhe despised me! I dare say I hadnât the right accentâI didnât wear my clothes the right way. He was a snobâa filthy snob!â

âI donât think so,â said Poirot mildly. âFrom all I have heard, Richard Abernethie was no snob.â

âHe was. He was.â The young man spoke with something approaching hysteria. âHe thought nothing of me. He sneered at meâalways very polite but underneath I could see that he didnât like me!â

âPossibly.â

âPeople canât treat me like that and get away with it! Theyâve tried it before! A woman who used to come and have her medicines made up. She was rude to me. Do you know what I did?â

âYes,â said Poirot.

Gregory looked startled.

âSo you know that?â

âYes.â

âShe nearly died.â He spoked in a satisfied manner. âThat shows you Iâm not the sort of person to be trifled with! Richard Abernethie despised meâand what happened to him? He died.â

âA most successful murder,â said Poirot with grave congratulation.

He added: âBut why come and give yourself awayâto me?â

âBecause you said you were through with it all! You said he hadnât been murdered. I had to show you that youâre not as clever as you think you areâand besidesâbesidesââ

âYes,â said Poirot. âAnd besides?â

Greg collapsed suddenly on the bench. His face changed. It took on a sudden ecstatic quality.

âIt was wrongâwickedâ¦ I must be punishedâ¦ I must go back thereâto the place of punishmentâ¦to atoneâ¦ Yes, to atone! Repentance! Retribution!â

His face was alight now with a kind of glowing ecstasy. Poirot studied him for a moment or two curiously.

Then he asked:

âHow badly do you want to get away from your wife?â

Gregoryâs face changed.

âSusan? Susan is wonderfulâwonderful!â

âYes. Susan is wonderful. That is a grave burden. Susan loves you devotedly. That is a burden, too?â

Gregory sat looking in front of him. Then he said, rather in the manner of a sulky child:

âWhy couldnât she let me alone?â

He sprang up.

âSheâs coming nowâacross the lawn. Iâll go now. But youâll tell her what I told you? Tell her Iâve gone to the police station. To confess.â

IV

Susan came in breathlessly.

âWhereâs Greg? He was here! I saw him.â

âYes.â Poirot paused a momentâbefore saying: âHe came to tell me that it was he who poisoned Richard Abernethieâ¦.â

âWhat absolute nonsense! You didnât believe him, I hope?â

âWhy should I not believe him?â

âHe wasnât even near this place when Uncle Richard died!â

âPerhaps not. Where was he when Cora Lansquenet died?â

âIn London. We both were.â

Hercule Poirot shook his head.

âNo, no, that will not do. You, for instance, took out your car that day and were away all the afternoon. I think I know where you went. You went to Lytchett St. Mary.â

âI did no such thing!â

Poirot smiled.

âWhen I met you here, Madame, it was not, as I told you, the first time I had seen you. After the inquest on Mrs. Lansquenet you were in the garage of the Kingâs Arms. You talk there to a mechanic and close by you is a car containing an elderly foreign gentleman. You did not notice him, but he noticed you.â

âI donât see what you mean. That was the day of the inquest.â

âAh, but remember what that mechanic said to you! He asked you if you were a relative of the victim, and you said you were her niece.â

âHe was just being a ghoul. Theyâre all ghouls.â

âAnd his next words were, âAh, wondered where Iâd seen you before.â Where did he see you before, Madame? It must have been in Lytchett St. Mary, since in his mind his seeing you before was accounted for by your being Mrs. Lansquenetâs niece. Had he seen you near her cottage? And when? It was a matter, was it not, that demands inquiry. And the result of the inquiry is, that you were thereâin Lytchett St. Maryâon the afternoon Cora Lansquenet died. You parked your car in the same quarry where you left it the morning of the inquest. The car was seen and the number was noted. By this time Inspector Morton knows whose car it was.â

Susan stared at him. Her breath came rather fast, but she showed no signs of discomposure.

âYouâre talking nonsense, M. Poirot. And youâre making me forget what I came here to sayâI wanted to try and find you aloneââ

âTo confess to me it was you and not your husband who committed the murder?â

âNo, of course not. What kind of a fool do you think I am? And Iâve already told you that Gregory never left London that day.â

âA fact which you cannot possibly know since you were away yourself. Why did you go down to Lytchett St. Mary, Mrs. Banks?â

Susan drew a deep breath.

âAll right, if you must have it! What Cora said at the funeral worried me. I kept on thinking about it. Finally I decided to run down in the car and see her, and ask her what had put the idea into her head. Greg thought it a silly idea, so I didnât even tell him where I was going. I got there about three oâclock, knocked and rang, but there was no answer, so I thought she must be out or gone away. Thatâs all there is to it. I didnât go round to the back of the cottage. If I had, I might have seen the broken window. I just went back to London without the faintest idea there was anything wrong.â

Poirotâs face was noncommittal. He said:

âWhy does your husband accuse himself of the crime?â

âBecause heâsââ a word trembled on Susanâs tongue and was rejected. Poirot seized on it.

âYou were going to say âbecause he is battyâ speaking in jestâbut the jest was too near the truth, was it not?â

âGregâs all right. He is. He is.â

âI know something of his history,â said Poirot. âHe was for some months in Forsdyke House Mental Home before you met him.â

âHe was never certified. He was a voluntary patient.â

âThat is true. He is not, I agree, to be classed as insane. But he is, very definitely, unbalanced. He has a punishment complexâhas had it, I suspect, since infancy.â

Susan spoke quickly and eagerly:

âYou donât understand, M. Poirot. Greg has never had a chance. Thatâs why I wanted Uncle Richardâs money so badly. Uncle Richard was so matter-of-fact. He couldnât understand. I knew Greg had got to set up for himself. He had got to feel he was someoneânot just a chemistâs assistant, being pushed around. Everything will be different now. He will have his own laboratory. He can work out his own formulas.â

âYes, yesâyou will give him the earthâbecause 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 beâ¦.â

âWhatâs that?â

âSusanâs husband.â

âHow cruel you are! And what nonsense you talk!â

âWhere Gregory Banks is concerned you are unscrupulous. You wanted your uncleâs moneyânot for yourselfâbut for your husband. How badly did you want it?â

Angrily, Susan turned and dashed away.

V

âI thought,â said Michael Shane lightly, âthat Iâd just come along and say good-bye.â

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

Poirot was aware of the manâs 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 of himself that he wanted to show.

âYour wife,â said Poirot conversationally, âis a very unusual woman.â

Michael raised his eyebrows.

âDo you think so? Sheâs a lovely, I agree. But not, or so Iâve found, conspicuous for brains.â

âShe will never try to be too clever,â Poirot agreed. âBut she knows what she wants.â He sighed. âSo few people do.â

âAh!â Michaelâs smile broke out again. âThinking of the malachite table?â

âPerhaps.â Poirot paused and added: âAnd of what was on it.â

âThe wax flowers, you mean?â

âThe wax flowers.â

Michael frowned.

âI donât always quite understand you, M. Poirot. However,â the smile was switched on again, âIâm more thankful than I can say that weâre all out of the wood. Itâs 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.â

âThat is how he seemed to you when you met him?â Poirot inquired. âPoor old Uncle Richard?â

âOf course he was very well-preserved and all thatââ

âAnd in full possession of his facultiesââ

âOh yes.â

âAnd, in fact, quite shrewd?â

âI dare say.â

âA shrewd judge of character.â

The smile remained unaltered.

âYou canât expect me to agree with that, M. Poirot. He didnât approve of me.â

âHe thought you, perhaps, the unfaithful type?â Poirot suggested.

Michael laughed.

âWhat an old-fashioned idea!â

âBut it is true, isnât it?â

âNow I wonder what you mean by that?â

Poirot placed the tips of his fingers together.

âThere have been inquiries made, you know,â he murmured.

âBy you?â

âNot only by me.â

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

âYou meanâthe police are interested?â

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

âAnd theyâve been making inquiries about me?â

Poirot said primly:

âThey are interested in the movements of Mrs. Lansquenetâs relations on the day that she was killed.â

âThatâs extremely awkward.â Michael spoke with a charming confidential rueful air.

âIs it, Mr. Shane?â

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

âWhen, in actual fact, you were not?â

âNo. Actually I motored down to see a woman called Sorrel Daintonâquite a well-known actress. I was with her in her last show. Rather awkward, you seeâfor though itâs quite satisfactory as far as the police are concerned, it wonât go down very well with Rosamund.â

âAh!â Poirot looked discreet. âThere has been a little trouble over this friendship of yours?â

âYesâ¦ In factâRosamund made me promise I wouldnât see her anymore.â

âYes, I can see that may be awkwardâ¦ Entre nous, you had an affair with the lady?â

âOh, just one of those things! Itâs not as though I cared for the woman at all.â

âBut she cares for you?â

âWell, sheâs been rather tiresomeâ¦ Women do cling so. However, as you say, the police at any rate will be satisfied.â

âYou think so?â

âWell, I could hardly be taking a hatchet to Cora if I was dallying with Sorrel miles and miles away. Sheâs got a cottage in Kent.â

âI seeâI seeâand this Miss Dainton, she will testify for you?â

âShe wonât like itâbut as itâs murder, I suppose sheâll have to do it.â

âShe will do it, perhaps, even if you were not dallying with her.â

âWhat do you mean?â Michael looked suddenly black as thunder.

âThe lady is fond of you. When they are fond, women will swear to what is trueâand also to what is untrue.â

âDo you mean to say that you donât believe me?â

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

âWho then?â

Poirot smiled.

âInspector Mortonâwho has just come out on the terrace through the side door.â

Michael Shane wheeled round sharply.

Twenty-three

I

âI heard you were here, M. Poirot,â said Inspector Morton.

The two men were pacing the terrace together.

âI came over with Superintendent Parwell from Matchfield. Dr. Larraby rang him up about Mrs. Leo Abernethie and heâs come over here to make a few inquiries. The doctor wasnât satisfied.â

âAnd you, my friend,â inquired Poirot, âwhere do you come in? You are a long way from your native Berkshire.â

âI wanted to ask a few questionsâand the people I wanted to ask them of seemed very conveniently assembled here.â He paused before adding, âYour doing?â

âYes, my doing.â

âAnd as a result Mrs. Leo Abernethie gets knocked out.â

âYou must not blame me for that. If she had come to meâ¦ But she did not. Instead she rang up her lawyer in London.â

âAnd was in the process of spilling the beans to him whenâWonk!â

âWhenâas you sayâWonk!â

âAnd what had she managed to tell him?â

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

âAh! well,â said Inspector Morton philosophically. âWomen will do it.â He looked sharply at Poirot. âThat suggests something to you?â

âYes, I think I know what it was she was going to tell him.â

âWonderful guesser, arenât you? You always were. Well, what was it?â

âExcuse me, are you inquiring into the death of Richard Abernethie?â

âOfficially, no. Actually, of course, if it has a bearing on the murder of Mrs. Lansquenetââ

âIt 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 imaginedâimagined only, you comprehendâis correct. If it isââ

âWell, if it is?â

âThen I may be able to place in your hands a piece of concrete evidence.â

âWe could certainly do with it,â said Inspector Morton with feeling. He looked askance at Poirot. âWhat have you been holding back?â

âNothing. 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,â said Poirot in a completely unconvinced tone, âbe wrong.â

Morton smiled.

âBut that doesnât often happen to you?â

âNo. Though I will admitâyes, I am forced to admitâthat it has happened to me.â

âI must say Iâm glad to hear it! To be always right must be sometimes monotonous.â

âI do not find it so,â Poirot assured him.

Inspector Morton laughed.

âAnd youâre asking me to hold off with my questioning?â

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

Morton shook his head.

âMuch too flimsy for that. Weâd have to get a decision from the Public Prosecutor firstâand weâre a long way from that. No, just statements from certain parties of their movements on the day in questionâin one case with a caution, perhaps.â

âI see. Mrs. Banks?â

âSmart, arenât you? Yes. She was there that day. Her car was parked in that quarry.â

âShe was not seen actually driving the car?â

âNo.â

The Inspector added, âItâs bad you know, that sheâs never said a word about being down there that day. Sheâs got to explain that satisfactorily.â

âShe is quite skilful at explanations,â said Poirot drily.

âYes. Clever young lady. Perhaps a thought too clever.â

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

âNothing definite. Heâs 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.â

He paused and went on: âWeâve had one piece of rather curious informationâfrom 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. Lansquenetâs cottage on the day before she was murdered, but couldnât make anyone hear when they knocked and rang. Thatâs natural enoughâshe 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. Iâve queried whether it wasnât a day later but the Mother Superior is quite definite that that couldnât be so. Itâs 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 donât 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 shouldnât have been there? And if so, who was it? All the Abernethie crowd were at the funeral.â

Poirot asked a seemingly irrelevant question:

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

âAs a matter of fact they did come againâabout a week later. Actually on the day of the inquest, I believe.â

âThat fits,â said Hercule Poirot. âThat fits very well.â

Inspector Morton looked at him.

âWhy this interest in nuns?â

âThey 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.â

âYou donât thinkâ Surely thatâs a ridiculous idea?â

âMy ideas are never ridiculous,â said Hercule Poirot severely. âAnd 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 Abernethieâs niece.â

âNow be careful what you go saying to Mrs. Banks.â

âI do not mean Mrs. Banks. I mean Richard Abernethieâs other niece.â

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.

âI do not, I trust, disturb an Ophelia,â said Poirot as he took his seat beside her. âYou are, perhaps, studying the role?â

âIâve never played in Shakespeare,â said Rosamund. âExcept once in Rep. I was Jessica in The Merchant. A lousy part.â

âYet not without pathos. âI am never merry when I hear sweet music.â 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 fatherâs ducats when she ran away to her lover. Jessica with gold was one thingâJessica without gold might have been another.â

Rosamund turned her head to look at him.

âI thought youâd gone,â she said with a touch of reproach. She glanced down at her wristwatch. âItâs past twelve oâclock.â

âI have missed my train,â said Poirot.

âWhy?â

âYou think I missed it for a reason?â

âI suppose so. Youâre rather precise, arenât you? If you wanted to catch a train, I should think youâd catch it.â

âYour judgement is admirable. Do you know, Madame, I have been sitting in the little summerhouse hoping that you would, perhaps, pay me a visit there?â

Rosamund stared at him.

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

âQuite so. And there was nothingâyou wanted to say to me?â

âNo.â Rosamund shook her head. âI had a lot I wanted to think about. Important things.â

âI see.â

âI donât often do much thinking,â said Rosamund. âIt seems a waste of time. But this is important. I think one ought to plan oneâs life just as one wants it to be.â

âAnd that is what you are doing?â

âWell, yesâ¦ I was trying to make a decision about something.â

âAbout your husband?â

âIn a way.â

Poirot waited a moment, then he said:

âInspector Morton has just arrived here.â He anticipated Rosamundâs question by going on: âHe is the police officer in charge of the inquiries about Mrs. Lansquenetâs death. He has come here to get statements from you all about what you were doing on the day she was murdered.â

âI see. Alibis,â said Rosamund cheerfully.

Her beautiful face relaxed into an impish glee.

âThat will be hell for Michael,â she said. âHe thinks I donât really know he went off to be with that woman that day.â

âHow did you know?â

âIt 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.â

âHow devoutly thankful I am I am not married to you, Madame!â

âAnd then, of course, I made sure by ringing up Oscar,â continued Rosamund. âMen always tell such silly lies.â

âHe is not, I fear, a very faithful husband?â Poirot hazarded.

Rosamund, however, did not reject the statement.

âNo.â

âBut you do not mind?â

âWell, itâs rather fun in a way,â said Rosamund. âI 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 wantedâlike poor Susan. Really Greg is so completely wet!â

Poirot was studying her.

âAnd suppose someone did succeedâin snatching your husband away from you?â

âThey wonât,â said Rosamund. âNot now,â she added.

âYou meanââ

âNot now that thereâs Uncle Richardâs money. Michael falls for these creatures in a wayâthat Sorrel Dainton woman nearly got her hooks into himâwanted him for keepsâbut with Michael the show will always come first. He can launch out now in a big wayâput his own shows on. Do some production as well as acting. Heâs ambitious, you know, and he really is good. Not like me. I adore actingâbut Iâm ham, though I look nice. No, Iâm not worried about Michael anymore. Because itâs my money, you see.â

Her eyes met Poirotâs calmly. He thought how strange it was that both Richard Abernethieâs 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.

âThe point is,â said Rosamund, âthat Iâve got to make a big decisionâabout the future. Michael doesnât know yet.â Her face curved into a smile. âHe found out that I wasnât shopping that day and heâs madly suspicious about Regentâs Park.â

âWhat is this about Regentâs Park?â Poirot looked puzzled.

âI 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!â

Rosamund smiled beatifically and added:

âHe didnât like that at all!â

âBut why should you not go to Regentâs Park?â asked Poirot.

âJust to walk there, you mean?â

âYes. Have you never done it before?â

âNever. Why should I? What is there to go to Regentâs Park for?â

Poirot looked at her and said:

âFor youânothing.â

He added:

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

Rosamundâs eyes opened very wide.

âWhy should I? I want it.â

âI know. I know. But youâyou will keep your husband. And the poor Susan, she will lose hers.â

âLose him? Do you mean Gregâs going off with someone? I wouldnât have believed it of him. He looks so wet.â

âInfidelity is not the only way of losing a husband, Madame.â

âYou donât meanâ?â Rosamund stared at him. âYouâre not thinking that Greg poisoned Uncle Richard and killed Aunt Cora and conked Aunt Helen on the head? Thatâs ridiculous. Even I know better than that.â

âWho did, then?â

âGeorge, of course. George is a wrong un, you know, heâs mixed up in some sort of currency swindleâI 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.â

Rosamund added complacently:

âIâve always known it was George.â

Twenty-four

I

The telegram came about six oâclock 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.

âThere are moments,â he said to Lanscombe, âwhen economy should be abandoned.â

âVery possibly, sir,â said Lanscombe politely.

âWhere is Inspector Morton?â asked Poirot.

âOne of the police gentlemen,â Lanscombe spoke with distasteâand indicated subtly that such things as names for police officers were impossible to rememberââhas left. The other is, I believe, in the study.â

âSplendid,â said Poirot. âI join him immediately.â

He once more clapped Lanscombe on the shoulder and said:

âCourage, we are on the point of arriving!â

Lanscombe looked slightly bewildered since departures, and not arrivals, had been in his mind.

He said:

âYou do not, then, propose to leave by the nine thirty train after all, sir?â

âDo not lose hope,â Poirot told him.

Poirot moved away, then wheeling round, he asked:

âI wonder, can you remember what were the first words Mrs. Lansquenet said to you when she arrived here on the day of your masterâs funeral?â

âI remember very well, sir,â said Lanscombe, his face lighting up. âMiss CoraâI beg pardon, Mrs. LansquenetâI always think of her as Miss Cora, somehowââ

âVery naturally.â

âShe said to me: âHallo, Lanscombe. Itâs a long time since you used to bring us out meringues to the huts.â All the children used to have a hut of their ownâdown 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 gentlemenâthe younger ones, you understand, sirâsome meringues. Miss Cora, sir, was always very fond of her food.â

Poirot nodded.

âYes,â he said, âthat was as I thought. Yes, it was very typical, that.â

He went into the study to find Inspector Morton and without a word handed him the telegram.

Morton read it blankly.

âI donât understand a word of this.â

âThe time has come to tell you all.â

Inspector Morton grinned.

âYou sound like a young lady in a Victorian melodrama. But itâs about time you came across with something. I canât hold out on this setup much longer. That Banks fellow is still insisting that he poisoned Richard Abernethie and boasting that we canât find out how. What beats me is why thereâs always somebody who comes forward when thereâs a murder and yells out that they did it! What do they think there is in it for them? Iâve never been able to fathom that.â

âIn this case, probably shelter from the difficulties of being responsible for oneselfâin other wordsâ Forsdyke Sanatorium.â

âMore likely to be Broadmoor.â

âThat might be equally satisfactory.â

âDid he do it, Poirot? The Gilchrist woman came out with the story sheâd 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 canât visualize that girl committing a lot of crimes. But thereâs nothing she wouldnât do to try and cover him.â

âI will tell you allââ

âYes, yes, tell me all! And for the Lordâs sake hurry up and do it!â

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 materialized 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:

âDamned little mountebank! Entwhistle must be gaga!âthatâs all I can say.â

It looked as though Hercule Poirot would have to work hard to make his proper effect.

He began in a slightly pompous manner.

âFor the second time, I announce my departure! This morning I announced it for the twelve oâclock train. This evening I announce it for the nine thirtyâimmediately, that is, after dinner. I go because there is nothing more here for me to do.â

âCould have told him that all along.â Timothyâs commentary was still in evidence. âNever was anything for him to do. The cheek of these fellows!â

âI 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.

âFirst, Mr. Richard Abernethie dies suddenly. Secondly, after his funeral, his sister Cora Lansquenet says, âHe was murdered, wasnât he?â 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 womanâs companion, is taken ill after eating a piece of wedding cake which contains arsenic. That, then, is the next step in the sequence.

âNow, as I told you this morning, in the course of my inquiries I have come across nothingânothing 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 murderedâa hatchet being the instrument employed. Now let us examine the fourth happening. The local post van driver is strongly of the beliefâthough he will not definitely swear to itâthat 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 âperson unknownââwe 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.

âNow I decided that I would start on the assumption that the postal van driverâs 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 Abernethieâs death and in only a very minute degree by Mrs. Lansquenetâsâin 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 arsenic poisoning.

âSusan Banks did benefit from Richard Abernethieâs death, and in a small degree from Mrs. Lansquenetâsâthough 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.

âMr. Entwhistle did not benefit by either of the deathsâbut he had had considerable control over Mr. Abernethieâs affairs, and the trust funds, and there might well be some reason why Richard Abernethie should not live too long. Butâyou will sayâif it is Mr. Entwhistle who was concerned, why should he come to me?

âAnd to that I will answerâit is not the first time that a murderer has been too sure of himself.

âWe 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?

âAnd I may say that there seems to be a curiousâmotifâone might call itâof a nun running through this business. A nun comes to the door of Mr. Timothy Abernethieâs house and Miss Gilchrist believes it is the same nun she has seen at Lytchett St. Mary. Also a nun, or nuns, called here the day before Mr. Abernethie diedâ¦.â

George Crossfield murmured, âThree to one, the nun.â

Poirot went on:

âSo here we have certain pieces of our patternâthe death of Mr. Abernethie, the murder of Cora Lansquenet, the poisoned wedding cake, the âmotifâ of the ânun.â

âI will add some other features of the case that engaged my attention:

âThe 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.

âIt was reflecting on these things that led me to the truthâand I am now about to tell you the truth.

âThe first part of it I told you this morning. Richard Abernethie died suddenlyâbut 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 Richardâs murder rested not only upon what Cora had said but upon Cora herself.

âAnd now I come to the question that I suddenly asked myself:

âHow well did you all know Cora Lansquenet?â

He was silent for a moment, and Susan asked sharply, âWhat do you mean?â

Poirot went on:

âNot well at allâthat 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.

âSo I said to myself: âSupposing it was not Cora Lansquenet who came to the funeral that day?ââ

âDo you mean that Aunt Coraâwasnât Aunt Cora?â Susan demanded incredulously. âDo you mean that it wasnât Aunt Cora who was murdered, but someone else?â

âNo, no, it was Cora Lansquenet who was murdered. But it was not Cora Lansquenet who came the day before to her brotherâs funeral. The woman who came that day came for one purpose onlyâto exploit, one may say, the fact that Richard died suddenly. And to create in the minds of his relations that he had been murdered. Which she managed to do most successfully!â

âNonsense! Why? What was the point of it?â Maude spoke bluffly.

âWhy? 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 lookâwhere? Close at home, will they not? Suspicion will tend to fall on the woman who shares the house with her.â

Miss Gilchrist protested in a tone that was almost bright:

âOh comeâreallyâMr. Pontarlierâyou donât suggest Iâd commit a murder for an amethyst brooch and a few worthless sketches?â

âNo,â said Poirot. âFor 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 realize, 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, canât 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 recognize 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 died suddenlyâand 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 yearsâand in twenty years people change so much that one often hears the remark: âI would never have known her!â But mannerisms are remembered, and Cora had certain very definite mannerisms, all of which you had practised carefully before the glass.

âAnd 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 Coraâs birdlike sidewise tilt of the head, you didnât realize that it was actually the wrong way round. You saw, let us say, Cora inclining her head to the rightâbut you forgot that actually your own head was inclined to the left to produce that effect in the glass.

âThat was what puzzled and worried Helen Abernethie at the moment when you made your famous insinuation. Something seemed to her âwrong.â I realized 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 âwrong,â it must be that something was wrong with Cora Lansquenet. The other evening, after talk about mirror images and âseeing oneself â 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 glassâwhen, of course, the image seemed to her âwrongâ and she realized, in a flash, just what had been wrong on the day of the funeral. She puzzled it outâeither Cora had taken to inclining her head in the opposite directionâmost unlikelyâor else Cora had not been Cora. Neither way seemed to her to make sense. But she was 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.â

Poirot paused and added:

âI may as well tell you now, Miss Gilchrist, that Mrs. Abernethieâs concussion is not serious. She will soon be able to tell us her own story.â

âI never did anything of the sort,â said Miss Gilchrist. âThe whole thing is a wicked lie.â

âIt was you that day,â said Michael Shane suddenly. He had been studying Miss Gilchristâs face. âI ought to have seen it soonerâ I felt in a vague kind of way I had seen you before somewhereâbut of course one never looks much atââ he stopped.

âNo, one doesnât bother to look at a mere companion-help,â said Miss Gilchrist. Her voice shook a little. âA drudge, a domestic drudge! Almost a servant! But go on, M. Poirot. Go on with this fantastic piece of nonsense!â

âThe suggestion of murder thrown out at the funeral was only the first step, of course,â said Poirot. âYou 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 to her after getting home. The ânunâ was another of your suggestions. The nunâor rather nunsâwho called at the cottage on the day of the inquest suggested to you a mention of a nun who was âfollowing you round,â 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 deviceâand I may say that it served to awaken Inspector Mortonâs suspicions of you.â

âBut the picture?â said Rosamund. âWhat kind of a picture was it?â

Poirot slowly unfolded a telegram.

âThis morning I rang up Mr. Entwhistle, a responsible person, to go to Stansfield Grange and, acting on authority from Mr. Abernethie himselfâ (here Poirot gave a hard stare at Timothy) âto look amongst the pictures in Miss Gilchristâs 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.â

He held up the telegram and read:

âDefinitely a Vermeer. Guthrie.â

Suddenly, with electrifying effect, Miss Gilchrist burst into speech.

âI knew it was a Vermeer. I knew it! She didnât know! Talking about Rembrandts and Italian Primitives and unable to recognize a Vermeer when it was under her nose! Always prating about Artâand really knowing nothing about it! She was a thoroughly stupid woman. Always maundering on about this placeâabout 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 donât know how boring it is listening to somebody going on about the same things, hour after hour and day after day. And saying, âOh, yes, Mrs. Lansquenetâ and âReally, Mrs. Lansquenet?â Pretending to be interested. And really boredâboredâboredâ¦ And nothing to look forward toâ¦ And thenâa Vermeer! I saw in the papers that a Vermeer sold the other day for over five thousand pounds!â

âYou killed herâin that brutal wayâfor five thousand pounds?â Susanâs voice was incredulous.

âFive thousand pounds,â said Poirot, âwould have rented and equipped a tea shopâ¦.â

Miss Gilchrist turned to him.

âAt least,â she said. âYou do understand. It was the only chance Iâd ever get. I had to have a capital sum.â Her voice vibrated with the force and obsession of her dream. âI was going to call it the Palm Tree. And have little camels as menu holders. One can occasionally get quite nice chinaâexport rejectsânot that awful white utility stuff. I meant to start it in some nice neighbourhood where nice people would come in. I had thought of Ryeâ¦ Or perhaps Chichesterâ¦ Iâm sure I could have made a success of it.â She paused a minute, then added musingly, âOak tablesâand little basket chairs with striped red and white cushionsâ¦.â

For a few moments, the tea shop that would never be, seemed more real than the Victorian solidity of the drawing room at Enderbyâ¦.

It was Inspector Morton who broke the spell.

Miss Gilchrist turned to him quite politely.

âOh, certainly,â she said. âAt once. I donât want to give any trouble, Iâm sure. After all, if I canât have the Palm Tree, nothing really seems to matter very muchâ¦.â

She went out of the room with him and Susan said, her voice still shaken:

âIâve never imagined a ladylike murderer. Itâs horribleâ¦.â

Twenty-five

âBut I donât understand about the wax flowers,â said Rosamund.

She fixed Poirot with large reproachful blue eyes.

They were at Helenâs flat in London. Helen herself was resting on the sofa and Rosamund and Poirot were having tea with her.

âI donât see that wax flowers had anything to do with it,â said Rosamund. âOr the malachite table.â

âThe malachite table, no. But the wax flowers were Miss Gilchristâs second mistake. She said how nice they looked on the malachite table. And you see, Madame, she could not have seen them there. Because they had been broken and put away before she arrived with the Timothy Abernethies. So she could only have seen them when she was there as Cora Lansquenet.â

âThat was stupid of her, wasnât it?â said Rosamund.

Poirot shook a forefinger at her.

âIt shows you, Madame, the dangers of conversations. It is a profound belief of mine that if you can induce a person to talk to you for long enough, on any subject whatever! sooner or later they will give themselves away. Miss Gilchrist did.â

âI shall have to be careful,â said Rosamund thoughtfully.

Then she brightened up.

âDid you know? Iâm going to have a baby.â

âAha! So that is the meaning of Harley Street and Regentâs Park?â

âYes. I was so upset, you know, and so surprisedâthat I just had to go somewhere and think.â

âYou said, I remember, that that does not very often happen.â

âWell, itâs much easier not to. But this time I had to decide about the future. And Iâve decided to leave the stage and just be a mother.â

âA role that will suit you admirably. Already I foresee delightful pictures in the Sketch and the Tatler.â

Rosamund smiled happily.

âYes, itâs wonderful. Do you know, Michael is delighted. I didnât really think he would be.â

She paused and added:

âSusanâs got the malachite table. I thought, as I was having a babyââ

She left the sentence unfinished.

âSusanâs cosmetic business promises well,â said Helen. âI think she is all set for a big success.â

âYes, she was born to succeed,â said Poirot. âShe is like her uncle.â

âYou mean Richard, I suppose,â said Rosamund. âNot Timothy?â

âAssuredly not like Timothy,â said Poirot.

They laughed.

âGregâs away somewhere,â said Rosamund. âHaving a rest cure Susan says?â

She looked inquiringly at Poirot who said nothing.

âI canât think why he kept on saying heâd killed Uncle Richard,â said Rosamund. âDo you think it was a form of Exhibitionism?â

Poirot reverted to the previous topic.

âI received a very amiable letter from Mr. Timothy Abernethie,â he said. âHe expressed himself as highly satisfied with the services I had rendered the family.â

âI do think Uncle Timothy is quite awful,â said Rosamund.

âI am going to stay with them next week,â said Helen. âThey seem to be getting the gardens into order, but domestic help is still difficult.â

âThey miss the awful Gilchrist, I suppose,â said Rosamund. âBut I dare say in the end, sheâd have killed Uncle Timothy too. What fun if she had!â

âMurder has always seemed fun to you, Madame.â

âOh! not really,â said Rosamund vaguely. âBut I did think it was George.â She brightened up. âPerhaps he will do one some day.â

âAnd that will be fun,â said Poirot sarcastically.

âYes, wonât it?â Rosamund agreed.

She ate another Ã©clair from the plate in front of her.

Poirot turned to Helen.

âAnd you, Madame, are off to Cyprus?â

âYes, in a fortnightâs time.â

âThen let me wish you a happy journey.â

He bowed over her hand. She came with him to the door, leaving Rosamund dreamily stuffing herself with cream pastries.

Helen said abruptly:

âI should like you to know, M. Poirot, that the legacy Richard left me meant more to me than theirs did to any of the others.â

âAs much as that, Madame?â

âYes. You seeâthere is a child in Cyprusâ¦ My husband and I were very devotedâit was a great sorrow to us to have no children. After he died my loneliness was unbelievable. When I was nursing in London at the end of the war, I met someoneâ¦ He was younger than I was and married, though not very happily. We came together for a little while. That was all. He went back to Canadaâto his wife and his children. He never knew aboutâour child. He would not have wanted it. I did. It seemed like a miracle to meâa middle-aged woman with everything behind her. With Richardâs money I can educate my so-called nephew, and give him a start in life.â She paused, then added, âI never told Richard. He was fond of me and I of himâbut he would not have understood. You know so much about us all that I thought I would like you to know this about me.â

Once again Poirot bowed over her hand.

He got home to find the armchair on the left of the fireplace occupied.

âHallo, Poirot,â said Mr. Entwhistle. âIâve just come back from the Assizes. They brought in a verdict of Guilty, of course. But I shouldnât be surprised if she ends up in Broadmoor. Sheâs gone definitely over the edge since sheâs been in prison. Quite happy, you know, and most gracious. She spends most her time making the most elaborate plans to run a chain of tea shops. Her newest establishment is to be the Lilac Bush. Sheâs opening it in Cromer.â

âOne wonders if she was always a little mad? But me, I think not.â

âGood Lord, no! Sane as you and I when she planned that murder. Carried it out in cold blood. Sheâs got a good head on her, you know, underneath the fluffy manner.â

Poirot gave a little shiver.

âI am thinking,â he said, âof some words that Susan Banks saidâthat she had never imagined a ladylike murderer.â

âWhy not?â said Mr. Entwhistle. âIt takes all sorts.â

They were silentâand Poirot thought of murderers he had knownâ¦.

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

Â 

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

Â 

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

Â 

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

Â 

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Â 

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

Â 

The Agatha Christie Collection

Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

Â 

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

www.AgathaChristie.com

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Credits

Cover design and illustration by Faith Laurel

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This title was previously published as Funerals Are Fatal.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ®POIROTÂ®AFTER THE FUNERALâ„¢. Copyright Â© 1953 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved.

AFTER THE FUNERAL Â© 1953. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207382-2

EPub Edition Â© MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-00-6-173991-0

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