Agatha Christie
AFTER
THE
FUNERAL

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

Collins 1953

Copyright © 1953 Agatha Christie Ltd.

All rights reserved.

www.agathachristie.com

The moral right of the author is asserted

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.

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Source ISBN: 9780007562695

Ebook Edition 2010 ISBN: 9780007422128

Version: 2018-09-26

For James

in memory of happy days

at Abney

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

After the Funeral: An introduction by Sophie Hannah

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

E-book Extra: The Poirots

The Monogram Murders

About Agatha Christie

The Agatha Christie Collection

About the Publisher

After the Funeral: An Introduction by Sophie Hannah

In a poll conducted by the Crime Writers’ Association in November 2013 to celebrate its sixtieth anniversary, Agatha Christie was voted ‘Best Ever Author’. Any other result would, frankly, have been rather a joke. Christie’s novels have sold more than two billion copies in 109 languages (and probably more). Her play The Mousetrap has been delighting audiences in the West End for over 60 years. It would be fair to say, I think, that no other crime novelist comes close to matching her achievement. For me, as a psychological thriller writer, Agatha Christie is and will always be the gold standard—a lifelong inspiration whose every inventive tale demonstrates exactly how it should be done. It was Christie who made me fall in love with mystery stories at the age of twelve and, rereading her work now at the age of 42, I still believe that she cranks up the excitement and the intellectual puzzlement like no other.

In the ‘Best Ever Novel’ category of the Crime Writers’ Association poll, Christie won again, with a story that many of her fans believe to be her best: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Indeed, it is a deserving winner for the boldness of its solution. Interestingly, the most popular Christie novels tend to be the ones with the high-concept seemingly-impossible- yet-possible solutions, the ones that take your breath away: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, And Then There Were None, Murder on the Orient Express. It’s easy to see why this might be. Christie, when conceiving these stories, gave her readers exactly what they wanted: the best story possible, the one most likely to elicit gasps of shock and astonishment when the genius solution is revealed at the end.

Sensibly, Christie didn’t give a damn about the tedious consideration of ‘Come on, how likely is this to happen, really?’ So long as it could happen in theory—as long as no law of science made it impossible—then she quite rightly deemed it to be plausible, and therefore acceptable fodder for fiction. She would, I suspect, have little sympathy for those contemporary readers who determinedly misunderstand the word ‘plausible’ and use it as if it were synonymous with ‘commonplace’, ‘everyday’ or ‘has happened to several people I know personally’.

I say ‘contemporary readers’ because I think our expectations of novels have changed. While Christie was alive and writing, my impression is that most readers of crime fiction shared her philosophy of ‘above all else, tell the most exciting story that you can’. Now, however, a far greater value is placed upon what many insist on calling ‘plausibility’ but what is in fact a worrying lack of imagination seeking to curtail the imaginations of others. Many, for example, might feel uncomfortable with a super-clever detective like Hercule Poirot, who always gets the right answer and proves himself over and over again to be a man of unparalleled genius. Some—having met no unparalleled geniuses themselves and therefore finding them impossible to believe in—might say, ‘No, this is not realistic—can’t you have the detective being a bit more ordinary in his capabilities, and maybe solving the case by… oh, I don’t know, maybe putting some fingerprints into the database and finding a match?’

Let’s imagine for a second that infallibly brilliant detectives like Poirot and Miss Marple could never exist in real life. Wouldn’t it then be all the more important to invent them? To use fiction as a way of enlarging life—making it bigger, better, more interesting, and—crucially—more satisfactory? Of course there has to be a Hercule Poirot! Isn’t it precisely the job of fiction to offer us what real life cannot, while at the same time enlightening us with regard to real life? If so, then this is exactly what Agatha Christie does. Her novels are packed with wisdom and experience and psychological insight. She understood that sometimes the best way to illuminate an important truth about reality was to frame it in a startlingly unusual way, using an outlandish, unforgettable story that would grab everyone’s attention.

Christie didn’t only tell great stories, however. Her true genius was to convey the story, once she’d come up with it, with palpable relish and irrepressible glee. When you read an Agatha Christie novel, you get a strong sense, all the way through, of how thrilled she is by the clues she’s strewn across your path for you to misinterpret or ignore. You can feel her presence behind the text, laughing and thinking, ‘Tee hee! You’re never going to get there before me—I’ve been too clever for you again!’

Christie’s tangible love of storytelling is not her only unique feature as a crime writer. She also manages to combine light and dark, without either of them ever detracting from the other, in a way that no other writer can. Her stories are in no way cosy or twee, though some of their village settings might be; she understands the depravity, ruthlessness and dangerous weakness of human beings. She knows all about warped minds, long grudges, agonising need; in each of her novels, a familiarity with the darkest parts of the human psyche underpins the narrative. Yet at the same time, on the surface of her stories there is fun, lightness, warmth, a puzzle to make readers say, ‘Ooh, this is a good challenge!’ The dark side of Christie’s work never undermines the feel-good effect in any way— reading an Agatha Christie novel is, above all else, great fun.

In September 2013, I was commissioned by Agatha Christie’s estate, family and publishers to write a new Hercule Poirot novel as a way of celebrating the character’s longevity on the printed page. As part of the publicity for the announcement, I was asked to name my favourite novel featuring Poirot. This was a tricky question to answer. I knew for certain that my favourite Miss Marple novel was Sleeping Murder—that was easy!—but with Poirot I wasn’t sure. I have a very soft spot for Murder on the Orient Express because I believe it has the best mystery-and-solution package of all detective fiction. However, when I thought about the Poirot stories as fullbodied novels and not simply as plot structures, I ended up deciding that After the Funeral was my favourite.

After the Funeral has a brilliant plot, meticulously planted clues, a memorably dysfunctional family at its centre, and a truly ingenious solution, but it also has something else that I prize highly: the non-transferable motive. Poirot is forever telling Hastings that motive is the most important feature of a crime, and I agree with him. A non-transferable motive is something that no other murderer in no other crime novel has ever had or would ever have—a motive that is unique to this character in this particular fictional situation. With a non-transferable motive, the reader should ideally think, ‘Well, although I would never commit murder for this reason, I can absolutely understand why this character did—it makes perfect sense because of their unique personality/predicament combination.’ On this score, After the Funeral works in the most superb way. It also does something else very clever on the motive front—it offers us a two-layer motive of the following sort: ‘X committed the murder(s) for reason Y. Ah, but why did X have reason Y as a motivation? Because of reason Z.’

I am being deliberately cryptic because I don’t want to give away any of the wonderful surprises this book contains. All I really want to say is read it! Read it now!

Chapter 1

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 mantel-piece of old Cornelius Abernethie for whom Enderby Hall had been built. Cornelius Abernethie’s 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, he’d 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 Mortimer’s 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. You’d 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 he’d 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 weak – that’s what it was – very old, these blinds were, like everything else in the house. And you couldn’t get these old things mended nowadays. Too old-fashioned, that’s what they’d say, shaking their heads in that silly superior way – as if the old things weren’t a great deal better than the new ones! He could tell them that! Gimcrack, half the new stuff was – came to pieces in your hands. The material wasn’t good, or the craftsmanship either. Oh yes, he could tell them.

Couldn’t do anything about this blind unless he got the steps. He didn’t like climbing up the steps much, these days, made him come over giddy. Anyway, he’d leave the blind for now. It didn’t matter, since the White Boudoir didn’t face the front of the house where it would be seen as the cars came back from the funeral – and it wasn’t as though the room was ever used nowadays. It was a lady’s room, this, and there hadn’t been a lady at Enderby for a long time now. A pity Mr Mortimer hadn’t 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 Lanscombe’s mind went ranging back to a time that stood out clearly and distinctly – much more distinctly than the last twenty years or so, which were all blurred and confused and he couldn’t 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 he’d 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 had – at least not quite because Mr Timothy was still alive and little Miss Cora who’d married that unpleasant artist chap. Twenty-five years since he’d seen her and she’d been a pretty young girl when she went off with that chap, and now he’d hardly have known her, grown so stout – and so arty-crafty in her dress! A Frenchman her husband had been, or nearly a Frenchman – and no good ever came of marrying one of them! But Miss Cora had always been a bit – well simple like you’d call it if she’d lived in a village. Always one of them in a family.

She’d remembered him all right. ‘Why, it’s Lanscombe!’ she’d said and seemed ever so pleased to see him. Ah, they’d all been fond of him in the old days and when there was a dinner party they’d crept down to the pantry and he’d given them jelly and Charlotte Russe when it came out of the dining-room. They’d 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 who’d been there a long time. A lot of strangers, he had thought, when they all arrived for the funeral – and a seedy lot of strangers at that!

Not Mrs Leo – she was different. She and Mr Leo had come here off and on ever since Mr Leo married. She was a nice lady, Mrs Leo – a 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 children . . .

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 he’d 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 they’d 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 soufflé and apple tart to follow. Hot soup first – and he’d better go along and see that Marjorie had got it on ready to serve, for they’d 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 mantelpiece – the 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 name – Coralie.

For over sixty years after their original appearance, Coral Cornplasters and the allied ‘Coral’ foot preparations still held their own. Whether there had ever been anything outstanding about Coral Cornplasters nobody could say – but 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, Lanscombe’s, position. She frequently called the house ‘a proper old mausoleum’ and complained of the immense area of the kitchen, scullery and larder, saying that it was a ‘day’s walk to get round them all’. 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 house-maid 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 ‘came in’ to lend assistance where it was wanted and who had much enjoyed the funeral.

‘Beautiful it was,’ she said with a decorous sniff as she replenished her cup. ‘Nineteen 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, there’s not many like him left in the world. Respected by all, he was.’

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: ‘Here they are.’

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 lawyer’s 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, ‘Getting very shaky, poor old chap – going on for ninety I shouldn’t wonder. Well, he’ll have that nice little annuity. Nothing for him to worry about. Faithful soul. No such thing as old-fashioned service nowadays. Household helps and baby sitters, God help us all! A sad world. Just as well, perhaps, poor Richard didn’t last his full time. He hadn’t much to live for.’

To Mr Entwhistle, who was seventy-two, Richard Abernethie’s 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 Abernethie’s 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 Leo’s 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 didn’t suit her – country tweeds were her wear. A big sensible capable-looking woman. She’d always been a good devoted wife to Timothy. Looking after his health, fussing over him – fussing 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. ‘Weak chest, of course, when he was a boy,’ he had said. ‘But blest if I think there’s much wrong with him now.’ Oh well, everybody had to have some hobby. Timothy’s hobby was the all absorbing one of his own health. Was Mrs Tim taken in? Probably not – but women never admitted that sort of thing. Timothy must be quite comfortably off. He’d never been a spendthrift. However, the extra would not come amiss – not in these days of taxation. He’d probably had to retrench his scale of living a good deal since the war.

Mr Entwhistle transferred his attention to George Crossfield, Laura’s 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 solicitor’s office – not a very reputable firm. Good-looking young fellow – but something a little shifty about him. He couldn’t have too much to live on. Laura had been a complete fool over her investments. She’d left next to nothing when she died five years ago. A handsome romantic girl she’d been, but no money sense.

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

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

Now Susan, Gordon’s 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, hazel – almost golden – eyes, a sulky attractive mouth. Beside her was the husband she had just married – a chemist’s assistant, he understood. Really, a chemist’s assistant! In Mr Entwhistle’s 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 wife’s 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. Richard’s 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 business – Pierre Lansquenet, half French, whom she had come across in an Art school where she had been having very correct lessons in painting flowers in water colours. 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 down – he hadn’t 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 Lansquenet’s 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 painters’ 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 brother’s death. But then, Mr Entwhistle reflected, Cora had never pretended.

Re-entering the room Lanscombe murmured in muted tones suitable to the occasion:

‘Luncheon is served.’

Chapter 2

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 Abernethie’s 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 business – in other words, The Will – would 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.

‘I have to catch the 3.30 train,’ he began.

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

‘As you know,’ said Mr Entwhistle, ‘I am the executor of Richard Abernethie’s will –’

He was interrupted.

‘I didn’t know,’ said Cora Lansquenet brightly. ‘Are you? Did he leave me anything?’

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:

‘Up to a year ago, Richard Abernethie’s will was very simple. Subject to certain legacies he left everything to his son Mortimer.’

‘Poor Mortimer,’ said Cora. ‘I do think all this infantile paralysis is dreadful.’

‘Mortimer’s 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.’

Maude Abernethie asked in her deep voice:

‘What would have happened if he hadn’t made a new will? Would it – would it all have gone to Timothy – as the next of kin, I mean?’

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

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

‘He had us upon appro,’ said Susan with a sudden rich laugh. ‘First George and then Greg and me, and then Rosamund and Michael.’

Gregory Banks said sharply, his thin face flushing: ‘I don’t think you ought to put it like that, Susan. On appro, indeed!’

‘But that was what it was, wasn’t it, Mr Entwhistle?’

‘Did he leave me anything?’ repeated Cora.

Mr Entwhistle coughed and spoke rather coldly:

‘I 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 estate – a very considerable one – is to be divided into six equal portions. Four of these, after all duties are paid, are to go to Richard’s 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.’

‘That’s very nice!’ said Cora Lansquenet with real appreciation. ‘An income! How much?’

‘I – er – can’t say exactly at present. Death duties, of course, will be heavy and –’

‘Can’t you give me any idea?’

Mr Entwhistle realized that Cora must be appeased.

‘Possibly somewhere in the neighbourhood of three to four thousand a year.’

‘Goody!’ said Cora. ‘I shall go to Capri.’

Helen Abernethie said softly:

‘How very kind and generous of Richard. I do appreciate his affection towards me.’

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

Helen said regretfully:

‘I wish I had realized how ill he was – I 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.’

‘It was always serious,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘But 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.’

‘“Suddenly, at his residence” that’s what it said in the paper,’ said Cora, nodding her head. ‘I wondered then.’

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

‘Still, it’s been hushed up very nicely, hasn’t it?’ said Cora.

Everybody stared at her and she seemed a little flustered.

‘I think you’re all quite right,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Quite right. I mean – it can’t do any good – making it public. Very unpleasant for everybody. It should be kept strictly in the family.’

The faces turned towards her looked even more blank.

Mr Entwhistle leaned forward:

‘Really, Cora, I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.’

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

‘But he was murdered, wasn’t he?’ she said.

Chapter 3

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 didn’t mean truths – that was quite the wrong word to use. Awkward statements – that 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, ‘Really, Cora!’ George had said, ‘My dear Aunt Cora.’ Somebody else had said, ‘What do you mean?’

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

‘Oh I’m sorry – I didn’t mean – oh, of course, it was very stupid of me, but I did think from what he said – Oh, of course I know it’s quite all right, but his death was so sudden – please forget that I said anything at all – I didn’t mean to be so stupid – I know I’m always saying the wrong thing.’

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

Cora’s unfortunate gaffe had been forgotten. After all, Cora had always been, if not subnormal, at any rate embarrassingly naı¨ve. 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 truths –

Mr Entwhistle’s 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 Cora’s outspoken comments had caused. It was because her naı¨ve 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 Cora’s mannerisms had persisted – the slight bird-like twist of the head as she brought out a particularly outrageous remark – a kind of air of pleased expectancy. In just such a way had Cora once commented on the figure of the kitchen-maid. ‘Mollie can hardly get near the kitchen table, her stomach sticks out so. It’s only been like that the last month or two. I wonder why she’s getting so fat?’

Cora had been quickly hushed. The Abernethie house-hold 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 memories – but they had their point . . .

Mr Entwhistle examined his uneasiness more closely. What was there in Cora’s ridiculous remarks that had remained to tease his subconscious in this manner? Presently he isolated two phrases. ‘I did think from what he said –’ and ‘his death was so sudden . . .’

Mr Entwhistle examined that last remark first. Yes, Richard’s death could, in a fashion, be considered sudden. Mr Entwhistle had discussed Richard’s 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 longer – but that was unlikely. In any case the doctor had anticipated no collapse in the near future.

Well, the doctor had been wrong – but 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 day’s illness in his life. He was on the point of becoming engaged to a very charming girl and his father’s 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 Abernethie’s 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 Richard’s 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 brief-case. 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 nieces’ husbands.

As far as Mr Entwhistle knew, he had not invited his sister, Cora Lansquenet, to visit him – and that brought the lawyer back to that first disturbing phrase that Cora had let slip so incoherently – ‘but I did think from what he said –’

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 been . . .

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:

‘But he was murdered, wasn’t he?’

II

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

‘That aunt of yours must be completely bats!’

‘Aunt Cora?’ Susan was vague. ‘Oh, yes, I believe she was always a bit simple or something.’

George Crossfield, sitting opposite, said sharply:

‘She really ought to be stopped from going about saying things like that. It might put ideas into people’s heads.’

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

‘I don’t suppose anyone would pay any attention to what a frump like that says. The most peculiar clothes and lashings and lashings of jet –’

‘Well, I think it ought to be stopped,’ said George. ‘All right, darling,’ laughed Rosamund, putting away her lipstick and contemplating her image with satisfaction in the mirror. ‘You stop it.’

Her husband said unexpectedly:

‘I think George is right. It’s so easy to set people talking.’

‘Well, would it matter?’ Rosamund contemplated the question. The cupid’s bow lifted at the corners in a smile. ‘It might really be rather fun.’

‘Fun?’ Four voices spoke.

‘Having a murder in the family,’ said Rosamund. ‘Thrilling, you know!’

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

‘If he was murdered,’ said Rosamund, ‘who do you think did it?’

Her gaze travelled thoughtfully round the carriage.

‘His death has been awfully convenient for all of us,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Michael and I are absolutely on our beam ends. Mick’s had a really good part offered to him in the Sandbourne show if he can afford to wait for it. Now we’ll be in clover. We’ll be able to back our own show if we want to. As a matter of fact there’s a play with a simply wonderful part –’

Nobody listened to Rosamund’s ecstatic disquisition. Their attention had shifted to their own immediate future.

‘Touch and go,’ thought George to himself. ‘Now I can put that money back and nobody will ever know . . . But it’s been a near shave.’

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

Susan said in her clear rather hard voice, ‘I’m very sorry, of course, for poor old Uncle Richard. But then he was very old, and Mortimer had died, and he’d 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.’

Her hard confident young eyes softened as they watched her husband’s absorbed face. She adored Greg. She sensed vaguely that Greg cared for her less than she cared for him – but that only strengthened her passion. Greg was hers, she’d do anything for him. Anything at all . . .

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 Richard’s personal things . . . There might be letters . . . 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 Richard’s 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 annoyed . . . 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 proportion . . . She wondered if she ought to speak to Dr Barton about it . . . Those sleeping pills – Timothy had been taking far too many of them lately – he got so angry when she wanted to keep the bottle for him. But they could be dangerous – Dr Barton had said so – you could get drowsy and forget you’d taken them – and then take more. And then anything might happen! There certainly weren’t as many left in the bottle as there ought to be . . . Timothy was really very naughty about medicines. He wouldn’t listen to her . . . He was very difficult sometimes.

She sighed – then brightened. Things were going to be much easier now. The garden, for instance –

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 son . . .

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 interests . . . 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 money – taxation – all those investments going wrong . . . Now, thanks to Richard’s money, all that was over . . .

Poor Richard. To die in his sleep like that had been really a great mercy . . . Suddenly on the 22nd – she supposed that that was what had put the idea into Cora’s 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 husband’s 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 couldn’t help it, and that husband of hers hadn’t treated her too well.

Helen’s 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.

‘But perhaps,’ thought Helen, ‘she was just less of a hyopcrite than the rest of us . . .’

Cora had never been one for observing the conventions. Look at the way she had plumped out that question: ‘But he was murdered, wasn’t he?’

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

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

Something . . . ?

Somebody . . . ?

Was it an expression on someone’s face? Was that it? Something that – how could she put it? – ought not to have been there . . . ?

She didn’t know . . . she couldn’t place it . . . but there had been something – somewhere – wrong.

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 London – and not so very much more expensive. Ah, but expense didn’t matter now. Still, she would have had to travel with the family – probably 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 delicious – and so was the cold soufflé.

How smug people were – and what hypocrites! All those faces – when she’d said that about murder! The way they’d 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 her . . . She smiled like a happy child.

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

Chapter 4

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.

‘Funerals!’ said his sister with deep disapproval. ‘Funerals are absolutely fatal for a man of your age! You’ll be taken off as suddenly as your precious Mr Abernethie was if you don’t take more care of yourself.’

The word ‘suddenly’ 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 her – and 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.

‘Look here, Entwhistle,’ said Mr Parrott, ‘I’ve just been rung up by the police from a place called Lytchett St Mary.’

‘Lytchett St Mary?’

‘Yes. It seems –’ Mr Parrott paused a moment. He seemed embarrassed. ‘It’s about a Mrs Cora Lansquenet. Wasn’t she one of the heirs of the Abernethie estate?’

‘Yes, of course. I saw her at the funeral yesterday.’

‘Oh? She was at the funeral, was she?’

‘Yes. What about her?’

‘Well,’ Mr Parrott sounded apologetic. ‘She’s – it’s really most extraordinary – she’s been well – murdered.’

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.

‘Murdered?’

‘Yes – yes – I’m afraid so. Well, I mean, there’s no doubt about it.’

‘How did the police get on to us?’

‘Her companion, or housekeeper, or whatever she is – a 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.’

‘What makes them think she was murdered?’ demanded Mr Entwhistle.

Mr Parrott sounded apologetic again.

‘Oh well, it seems there can’t be any doubt about that – I mean it was a hatchet or something of that kind – a very violent sort of crime.’

‘Robbery?’

‘That’s 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 something – well – phony about it.’

‘What time did it happen?’

‘Some time between two and four-thirty this afternoon.’

‘Where was the housekeeper?’

‘Changing library books in Reading. She got back about five o’clock and found Mrs Lansquenet dead. The police want to know if we’ve any idea of who could have been likely to attack her. I said,’ Mr Parrott’s voice sounded outraged, ‘that I thought it was a most unlikely thing to happen.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘It must be some half-witted local oaf – who thought there might be something to steal and then lost his head and attacked her. That must be it – eh, don’t you think so, Entwhistle?’

‘Yes, yes . . .’ Mr Entwhistle spoke absentmindedly. Parrott was right, he told himself. That was what must have happened . . .

But uncomfortably he heard Cora’s voice saying brightly:

‘He was murdered, wasn’t he?’

Such a fool, Cora. Always had been. Rushing in where angels fear to tread . . . Blurting out unpleasant truths . . .

Truths!

That blasted word again . . .

II

Mr Entwhistle and Inspector Morton looked at each other appraisingly.

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

‘Mr 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.’

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:

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

‘That is so, Inspector. I myself was there.’

‘There was nothing unusual in her manner – nothing strange – or apprehensive?’

Mr Entwhistle raised his eyebrows in well-simulated surprise.

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

The Inspector smiled rather ruefully.

‘I’m not thinking of her being “fey” or having a premonition. No, I’m just hunting around for something – well, something out of the ordinary.’

‘I don’t think I quite understand you, Inspector,’ said Mr Entwhistle.

‘It’s not a very easy case to understand, Mr Entwhistle. Say someone watched the Gilchrist woman come out of the house at about two o’clock 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 hatchet – and attacks her savagely. Six or eight blows were struck.’ Mr Entwhistle flinched – ‘Oh, yes, quite a brutal crime. Then the intruder pulls out a few drawers, scoops up a few trinkets – worth perhaps a tenner in all, and clears off.’

‘She was in bed?’

‘Yes. It seems she returned late from the North the night before, exhausted and very excited. She’d come into some legacy as I understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘She 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 lunch-time. 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. She’d 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.’

‘He may just have meant to threaten her with it,’ Mr Entwhistle suggested. ‘If she showed fight then –’

‘According 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.’

Mr Entwhistle shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘One does hear of these brutal and rather senseless murders,’ he pointed out.

‘Oh yes, yes, that’s probably what it will turn out to be. There’s an alert out, of course, for any suspicious character. Nobody local is concerned, we’re 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. There’s a maze of lanes all round the village. It was a fine morning and there has been no rain for some days, so there aren’t any distinctive car tracks to go by – in case anyone came by car.’

‘You think someone came by car?’ Mr Entwhistle asked sharply.

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. All I’m saying is there are curious features about the case. These, for instance –’ He shoved across his desk a handful of things – a trefoil-shaped brooch with small pearls, a brooch set with amethysts, a small string of pearls, and a garnet bracelet.

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

‘Yes – yes, that is rather curious. Perhaps if her assailant was frightened at what he had done –’

‘Quite. But he would probably then have left them upstairs in her room . . . Of course a panic may have come over him between the bedroom and the front gate.’

Mr Entwhistle said quietly:

‘Or they may, as you are suggesting, have only been taken as a blind.’

‘Yes, several possibilities . . . Of course this Gilchrist woman may have done it. Two women living alone together – you never know what quarrels or resentments or passions may have been aroused. Oh yes, we’re taking that possibility into consideration as well. But it doesn’t seem very likely. From all accounts they were on quite amicable terms.’ He paused before going on. ‘According to you, nobody stands to gain by Mrs Lansquenet’s death?’

The lawyer shifted uneasily.

‘I didn’t quite say that.’

Inspector Morton looked up sharply. ‘I thought you said that Mrs Lansquenet’s 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.’

‘That 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.

‘The cottage itself is rented, not her own, and the few sticks of furniture aren’t anything to write home about, even in these days. Some spurious “cottage oak” and some arty painted stuff. Whoever she’s left them to won’t gain much – if she’s made a will, that is to say.’

Mr Entwhistle shook his head.

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

‘Then, what exactly did you mean just now? You had something in mind, I think?’

‘Yes. Yes, I did. I wished to be strictly accurate.’

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

‘No, 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 Abernethie’s will. That is what I meant. All five of them will benefit automatically by her death.’

The Inspector looked disappointed.

‘Oh, 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 it’s some chap with a screw loose – one of these adolescent criminals, perhaps – a lot of them about. And then he lost his nerve and bushed the trinkets and ran . . . Yes, it must be that. Unless it’s the highly respectable Miss Gilchrist, and I must say that seems unlikely.’

‘When did she find the body?’

‘Not until just about five o’clock. 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 Lansquenet’s 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 Lansquenet’s 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 don’t 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-thirty – and probably much nearer two o’clock, so it looks as though whoever it was, was hanging round waiting for Miss Gilchrist to leave the cottage.’

The lawyer’s face twitched slightly. Inspector Morton went on: ‘You’ll be going to see Miss Gilchrist, I suppose?’

‘I thought of doing so.’

‘I should be glad if you would. She’s told us, I think, everything that she can, but you never know. Sometimes, in conversation, some point or other may crop up. She’s a trifle old maidish – but quite a sensible, practical woman – and she’s really been most helpful and efficient.’

He paused and then said:

‘The body’s at the mortuary. If you would like to see it –’

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 Entwhistle’s 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 done – and enjoyed doing – with the money.

Poor Cora . . . How short a time those anticipations had lasted.

No one had gained by her death – not even the brutal assailant who had thrust away those trinkets as he fled. Five people had a few thousands more of capital – but 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 Cora’s mind the very day before she herself was murdered.

‘He was murdered, wasn’t he?’

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

Of course, after he had seen Miss Gilchrist . . .

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

‘I thought from what he said –’ What had Richard said?

‘I must see Miss Gilchrist at once,’ said Mr Entwhistle to himself.

III

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

She greeted Mr Entwhistle warmly.

‘I’m so glad you have come, Mr Entwhistle. I really know so little about Mrs Lansquenet’s family, and of course I’ve never, never had anything to do with a murder before. It’s too dreadful!’

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.

‘One reads about them, of course,’ said Miss Gilchrist, relegating crimes to their proper sphere. ‘And even that I’m not very fond of doing. So sordid, most of them.’

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 water-colour sketches as well, and one or two still lifes. Smaller pictures were stacked on the window-seat.

‘Mrs Lansquenet used to buy them at sales,’ Miss Gilchrist explained. ‘It 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 worth while. She used to say that this was an Italian Primitive that might be worth a lot of money.’

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

‘Of course,’ said Miss Gilchrist, noticing his expression, and quick to sense his reaction, ‘I don’t know much myself, though my father was a painter – not a very successful one, I’m afraid. But I used to do water-colours 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 who’d understand. Poor dear soul, she cared so much about artistic things.’

‘You were fond of her?’

A foolish question, he told himself. Could she possibly answer ‘no’? Cora, he thought, must have been a tiresome woman to live with.

‘Oh yes,’ said Miss Gilchrist. ‘We 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 don’t know that her judgement was always very good –’

One does not say of the dead – ‘She was a thoroughly silly woman’ – Mr Entwhistle said, ‘She was not in any sense an intellectual woman.’

‘No – no – perhaps not. But she was very shrewd, Mr Entwhistle. Really very shrewd. It quite surprised me sometimes – how she managed to hit the nail on the head.’

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

‘You were with Mrs Lansquenet for some years, I think?’

‘Three and a half.’

‘You – er – acted as companion and also did the – er – well – looked after the house?’

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

‘Oh yes, indeed. I did most of the cooking – I quite enjoy cooking – and did some dusting and light housework. None of the rough, of course.’ Miss Gilchrist’s tone expressed a firm principle. Mr Entwhistle, who had no idea what ‘the rough’ was, made a soothing murmur.

‘Mrs 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 failed – such a disaster – it was the war, you know. A delightful place. I called it the Willow Tree and all the china was blue willow pattern – sweetly pretty – and the cakes really good – I’ve 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 bankrupt – a 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. I’d never been trained for anything. So I went to one lady but it didn’t answer at all – she was so rude and overbearing – and then I did some office work – but I didn’t like that at all, and then I came to Mrs Lansquenet and we suited each other from the start – her husband being an artist and everything.’ Miss Gilchrist came to a breathless stop and added mournfully: ‘But how I loved my dear, dear little tea-shop. Such nice people used to come to it!’

Looking at Miss Gilchrist, Mr Entwhistle felt a sudden stab of recognition – a 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 Home – a lady-like tea-shop of Ye Olde Worlde variety with a suitable genteel clientèle. 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:

‘But 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 Lake’s down the lane but I said “No.” I felt it my duty to stay here with all Mrs Lansquenet’s nice things in the house. They took the – the –’ Miss Gilchrist gulped a little – ‘the 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 night – because of the broken window – it has been reglazed this morning, I am glad to say – where 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 window-sill. One never knows – and if by any chance it was a maniac – one does hear of such things . . .’

Here Miss Gilchrist ran down. Mr Entwhistle said quickly:

‘I 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 account –?’

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

‘Mrs Lansquenet got back from the funeral the night before last,’ Mr Entwhistle prompted.

‘Yes, her train didn’t get in until quite late. I had ordered a taxi to meet it as she told me to. She was very tired, poor dear – as was only natural – but on the whole she was in quite good spirits.’

‘Yes, yes. Did she talk about the funeral at all?’

‘Just a little. I gave her a cup of hot milk – she didn’t want anything else – and she told me that the church had been quite full and lots and lots of flowers – oh! and she said that she was sorry not to have seen her other brother – Timothy – was it?’

‘Yes, Timothy.’

‘She 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 she’d never been able to stand Maude – oh dear, I do beg your pardon, Mr Entwhistle – it just slipped out – I never meant –’

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

‘Well, she almost said as much. “I always knew Maude would grow into one of those bossy interfering women,” is what she said. And then she was very tired and said she’d go to bed at once – I’d got her hot-water bottle in all ready – and she went up.’

‘She said nothing else that you can remember specially?’

‘She had no premonition, Mr Entwhistle, if that is what you mean. I’m sure of that. She was really, you know, in remarkably good spirits – apart from tiredness and the – the sad occasion. She asked me how I’d like to go to Capri. To Capri! Of course I said it would be too wonderful – it’s a thing I’d never dreamed I’d ever do – and she said, “We’ll go!” Just like that. I gathered – of course it wasn’t actually mentioned – that her brother had left her an annuity or something of the kind.’

Mr Entwhistle nodded. ‘Poor dear. Well, I’m glad she had the pleasure of planning – at all events.’ Miss Gilchrist sighed and murmured wistfully, ‘I don’t suppose I shall ever go to Capri now . . .’

‘And the next morning?’ Mr Entwhistle prompted, oblivious of Miss Gilchrist’s disappointments.

‘The next morning Mrs Lansquenet wasn’t at all well. Really, she looked dreadful. She’d hardly slept at all, she told me. Nightmares. “It’s because you were overtired yesterday,” I told her, and she said maybe it was. She had her breakfast in bed, and she didn’t get up all the morning, but at lunch-time she told me that she still hadn’t been able to sleep. “I feel so restless,” she said. “I keep thinking of things and wondering.” And then she said she’d 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 she’d finished them both on the train journey and she hadn’t got anything to read. Usually two books lasted her nearly a week. So I went off just after two and that – and that – was the last time –’ Miss Gilchrist began to sniff. ‘She must have been asleep, you know. She wouldn’t have heard anything and the Inspector assures me that she didn’t suffer . . . He thinks the first blow killed her. Oh dear, it makes me quite sick even to think of it!’

‘Please, please. I’ve 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.’

‘Very natural, I’m sure. Do tell her relations that apart from having such a bad night she was really very happy and looking forward to the future.’

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

‘She did not mention any of her relations in particular?’

‘No, no, I don’t think so.’ Miss Gilchrist considered. ‘Except what she said about being sorry not to see her brother Timothy.’

‘She did not speak at all about her brother’s decease? The – er – cause of it? Anything like that?’

‘No.’

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

‘He’d been ill for some time, I think,’ said Miss Gilchrist vaguely, ‘though I must say I was surprised to hear it. He looked so very vigorous.’

Mr Entwhistle said quickly:

‘You saw him – when?’

‘When he came down here to see Mrs Lansquenet. Let me see – that was about three weeks ago.’

‘Did he stay here?’

‘Oh – no – just came for luncheon. It was quite a surprise. Mrs Lansquenet hadn’t expected him. I gather there had been some family disagreement. She hadn’t seen him for years, she told me.’

‘Yes, that is so.’

‘It quite upset her – seeing him again – and probably realizing how ill he was –’

‘She knew he was ill?’

‘Oh yes, I remember quite well. Because I wondered – only in my own mind, you understand – if perhaps Mr Abernethie might be suffering from softening of the brain. An aunt of mine –’

Mr Entwhistle deftly side-tracked the aunt. ‘Something Mrs Lansquenet said caused you to think of softening of the brain?’

‘Yes. Mrs Lansquenet said something like “Poor Richard. Mortimer’s 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.” And of course, as I knew, that is only too true. This aunt that I was telling you about – was convinced the servants were trying to poison her in her food and at last would eat only boiled eggs – because, she said, you couldn’t get inside a boiled egg to poison it. We humoured her, but if it had been nowadays I don’t know what we should have done. With eggs so scarce and mostly foreign at that, so that boiling is always risky.’

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

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

‘I suppose Mrs Lansquenet didn’t take all this too seriously?’

‘Oh no, Mr Entwhistle, she quite understood.’

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 hard-headed business man – and 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 t’s and dotted the i’s 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 child’s 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 Lansquenet’s will was at the Bank.

With that and after making certain further arrangements he took his leave. He insisted on Miss Gilchrist’s 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 flinch – they 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.

‘Polperro,’ said Miss Gilchrist proudly. ‘We were there last year and Mrs Lansquenet was delighted with its picturesqueness.’

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

‘Mrs Lansquenet promised to leave me her sketches,’ said Miss Gilchrist wistfully. ‘I admired them so much. One can really see the waves breaking in this one, can’t one? Even if she forgot, I might perhaps have just one as a souvenir, do you think?’

‘I’m sure that could be arranged,’ 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.

Chapter 5

‘Worn out,’ that’s what you are,’ said Miss Entwhistle in the indignant and bullying tones adopted by devoted sisters towards brothers for whom they keep house. ‘You shouldn’t do it, at your age. What’s it all got to do with you, I’d like to know? You’ve retired, haven’t you?’

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

‘I dare say. But Richard Abernethie’s dead, isn’t 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 can’t see why they sent for you at all.’

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

‘Funerals! One funeral after another, and that reminds me. Another of these precious Abernethies has been ringing you up – Timothy, I think he said. From somewhere in Yorkshire – and that’s about a funeral, too! Said he’d ring again later.’

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

‘Thank goodness I’ve got hold of you at last! Timothy has been in the most terrible state. This news about Cora has upset him dreadfully.’

‘Quite understandable,’ said Mr Entwhistle.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said it was quite understandable.’

‘I suppose so.’ Maude sounded more than doubtful. ‘Do you mean to say it was really murder?’

(‘It was murder, wasn’t it?’ Cora had said. But this time there was no hesitation about the answer.)

‘Yes, it was murder,’ said Mr Entwhistle.

‘And with a hatchet, so the papers say?’

‘Yes.’

‘It seems quite incredible to me,’ said Maude, ‘that Timothy’s sister – his own sister – can have been murdered with a hatchet!’

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

‘I’m afraid one has to face the fact,’ said Mr Entwhistle mildly.

‘I am really very worried about Timothy. It’s so bad for him, all this! I’ve got him to bed now but he insists on my persuading you to come up and see him. He wants to know a hundred things – whether 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 will –’

Mr Entwhistle interrupted before the catalogue got too long.

‘There is a will, yes. She left Timothy her executor.’

‘Oh dear, I’m afraid Timothy can’t undertake anything –’

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

‘To Susan? Now I wonder why Susan? I don’t believe she ever saw Susan – not since she was a baby anyway.’

‘I imagine that it was because Susan was reported to have made a marriage not wholly pleasing to the family.’

Maude snorted.

‘Even 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 day – but a chemist’s shop is much better than a haberdasher’s – and at least Gregory seems quite respectable.’ She paused and added: ‘Does this mean that Susan gets the income Richard left to Cora?’

‘Oh no. The capital of that will be divided according to the instructions of Richard’s 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.’ He went on: ‘There will have to be an inquest, of course. That is fixed for next Thursday. If Timothy is agreeable, we’ll send down young Lloyd to watch the proceedings on behalf of the family.’ He added apologetically: ‘I’m afraid it may attract some notoriety owing to the – er – circumstances.’

‘How very unpleasant! Have they caught the wretch who did it?’

‘Not yet.’

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

‘No, no,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘The police are by no means incompetent. Don’t imagine that, for a moment.’

‘Well, it all seems to me quite extraordinary. And so bad for Timothy. I suppose you couldn’t possibly come down here, Mr Entwhistle? I should be most grateful if you could. I think Timothy’s mind might be set at rest if you were here to reassure him.’

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

‘There is something in what you say,’ he admitted. ‘And I shall need Timothy’s signature as executor to certain documents. Yes, I think it might be quite a good thing.’

‘That is splendid. I am so relieved. Tomorrow? And you’ll stay the night? The best train is the 11.20 from St Pancras.’

‘It will have to be an afternoon train, I’m afraid. I have,’ said Mr Entwhistle, ‘other business in the morning . . .’

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:

‘I’ve just come up from Lytchett St Mary.’

‘Then it really was Aunt Cora? I read about it in the papers and I just couldn’t believe it. I thought it must be someone of the same name.’

‘Lansquenet is not a common name.’

‘No, of course it isn’t. I suppose there is a natural aversion to believing that anyone of one’s own family can be murdered. Sounds to me rather like that case last month on Dartmoor.’

‘Does it?’

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

‘The value of money is always relative,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘It is the need that counts.’

‘Yes – yes, I suppose you’re right.’

‘If you need ten pounds desperately – then 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 it’s thousands you need, then hundreds are not enough.’

George said with a sudden flicker of the eyes: ‘I’d say any money came in useful these days. Everyone’s hard up.’

‘But not desperate,’ Mr Entwhistle pointed out. ‘It’s the desperation that counts.’

‘Are you thinking of something in particular?’

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

‘As 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.’

Again there came that flicker in George’s 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 Mortimer’s 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? George’s father, so the family had thought, had been a poor choice on Laura’s part. A stockbroker who had had other rather mysterious activities. George took after his father rather than after the Abernethies.

Perhaps misinterpreting the old lawyer’s silence, George said with an uneasy laugh:

‘Truth is, I’ve not been very lucky with my investments lately. I took a bit of a risk and it didn’t come off. More or less cleaned me out. But I’ll be able to recoup myself now. All one needs is a bit of capital. Ardens Consolidated are pretty good, don’t you think?’

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 prosecution –

Mr Entwhistle said precisely:

‘I tried to reach you the day after the funeral, but I suppose you weren’t in the office.’

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

‘The good news?’

George reddened.

‘Oh look here, I didn’t mean Uncle Richard’s death. But knowing you’ve 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 luck’s in, it’s in! Only a matter of fifty quid, but it all helps.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘It all helps. And there will now be an additional sum coming to you as a result of your Aunt Cora’s death.’

George looked concerned.

‘Poor old girl,’ he said. ‘It does seem rotten luck, doesn’t it? Probably just when she was all set to enjoy herself.’

‘Let us hope the police will find the person responsible for her death,’ said Mr Entwhistle.

‘I expect they’ll get him all right. They’re good, our police. They round up all the undesirables in the neighbourhood and go through ’em with a tooth comb – make them account for their actions at the time it happened.’

‘Not so easy if a little time has elapsed,’ said Mr Entwhistle. He gave a wintry little smile that indicated he was about to make a joke. ‘I myself was in Hatchard’s bookshop at 3.30 on the day in question. Should I remember that if I were questioned by the police in ten days’ time? I very much doubt it. And you, George, you were at Hurst Park. Would you remember which day you went to the races in – say – a month’s time?’

‘Oh I could fix it by the funeral – the day after.’

‘True – true. 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?’

‘Let me see. Gaymarck and Frogg II. Yes, I shan’t forget them in a hurry.’

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

III

‘It’s lovely to see you, of course,’ said Rosamund without any marked enthusiasm. ‘But it’s frightfully early in the morning.’

She yawned heavily.

‘It’s eleven o’clock,’ said Mr Entwhistle.

Rosamund yawned again. She said apologetically:

‘We had the hell of a party last night. Far too much to drink. Michael’s got a terrible hangover still.’

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 attractive – and 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 Shanes’ way of living. The rather ramshackle flat on the first floor of a Chelsea house – the bottles and glasses and cigarette ends that lay about in profusion – the 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.

‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Do 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 now –’

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

‘Because there’s the most wonderful chance of a play. Michael’s got an option on it. It’s a most wonderful part for him and even a small part for me, too. It’s about one of these young criminals, you know, they are really saints – it’s absolutely full of the latest modern ideas.’

‘So it would seem,’ said Mr Entwhistle stiffly.

‘He robs, you know, and he kills, and he’s hounded by the police and by society – and then in the end, he does a miracle.’

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.

‘Mr Entwhistle doesn’t want to hear all our rhapsodies, Rosamund,’ he said. ‘Shut up for a bit and let him tell us why he’s come to see us.’

‘There are just one or two little matters to straighten out,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘I have just come back from Lytchett St Mary.’

‘Then it was Aunt Cora who was murdered? We saw it in the paper. And I said it must be because it’s 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 that – and now she is dead. They absolutely wouldn’t believe it last night when I told them that that murder with the hatchet in the paper was actually my aunt! They just laughed, didn’t they, Michael?’

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

‘Two murders one after another. It’s almost too much, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t be a fool, Rosamund, your Uncle Richard wasn’t murdered.’

‘Well, Cora thought he was.’

Mr Entwhistle intervened to ask:

‘You came back to London after the funeral, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, we came by the same train as you did.’

‘Of course . . . Of course. I ask because I tried to get hold of you,’ he shot a quick glance at the telephone – ‘on the following day – several times in fact, and couldn’t get an answer.’

‘Oh dear – I’m so sorry. What were we doing that day? The day before yesterday. We were here until about twelve, weren’t 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 shopping – and then we dined at the Castile. We got back here about ten o’clock, I suppose.’

‘About that,’ said Michael. He was looking thoughtfully at Mr Entwhistle. ‘What did you want to get hold of us for, sir?’

‘Oh! Just some points that had arisen about Richard Abernethie’s estate – papers to sign – all that.’

Rosamund asked: ‘Do we get the money now, or not for ages?’

‘I’m afraid,’ said Mr Entwhistle, ‘that the law is prone to delays.’

‘But we can get an advance, can’t we?’ Rosamund looked alarmed. ‘Michael said we could. Actually it’s terribly important. Because of the play.’

Michael said pleasantly:

‘Oh, there’s no real hurry. It’s just a question of deciding whether or not to take up the option.’

‘It will be quite easy to advance you some money,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘As much as you need.’

‘Then that’s all right.’ Rosamund gave a sigh of relief. She added as an afterthought: ‘Did Aunt Cora leave any money?’

‘A little. She left it to your Cousin Susan.’

‘Why Susan, I should like to know! Is it much?’

‘A few hundred pounds and some furniture.’

‘Nice furniture?’

‘No,’ said Mr Entwhistle.

Rosamund lost interest. ‘It’s all very odd, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘There was Cora, after the funeral, suddenly coming out with “He was murdered!” and then, the very next day, she goes and gets herself murdered? I mean, it is odd, isn’t it?’

There was a moment’s rather uncomfortable silence before Mr Entwhistle said quietly:

‘Yes, it is indeed very odd . . .’

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 woman’s mouth and her body was very decidedly a woman’s – emphatically 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, Rosamund – could he not have found in Susan what he was seeking – an heir of his own mettle?

If not, the cause must be – yes, it followed logically – the husband . . .

Mr Entwhistle’s eyes slid gently over Susan’s shoulder to where Gregory Banks stood absently whittling at a pencil.

A thin, pale, nondescript young man with reddish sandy hair. So overshadowed by Susan’s colourful personality that it was difficult to realize what he himself was really like. Nothing to take hold of in the fellow – quite pleasant, ready to be agreeable – a ‘yes’ 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 match – yet Susan had insisted on marrying him – had overborne all opposition – why? What had she seen in him?

And now, six months after the marriage – ‘She’s crazy about the fellow,’ 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.

‘– because 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!’

‘There has to be evidence, my dear,’ said Mr Entwhistle.

Susan paid no attention.

‘And that other case – a retired nurse – that was a hatchet or an axe – just like Aunt Cora.’

‘Dear me, you appear to have made quite a study of these crimes, Susan,’ said Mr Entwhistle mildly.

‘Naturally one remembers these things – and when someone in one’s own family is killed – and in very much the same way – well, it shows that there must be a lot of these sorts of people going round the countryside, breaking into places and attacking lonely women – and that the police just don’t bother!’

Mr Entwhistle shook his head.

‘Don’t belittle the police, Susan. They are a very shrewd and patient body of men – persistent, too. Just because it isn’t still mentioned in the newspapers doesn’t mean that a case is closed. Far from it.’

‘And yet there are hundreds of unsolved crimes every year.’

‘Hundreds?’ Mr Entwhistle looked dubious. ‘A 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.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Susan. ‘I believe if you knew definitely who committed a crime you could always get the evidence.’

‘I wonder now.’ Mr Entwhistle sounded thoughtful. ‘I very much wonder . . .’

‘Have they any idea at all – in Aunt Cora’s case – of who it might be?’

‘That I couldn’t say. Not as far as I know. But they would hardly confide in me – and it’s early days yet – the murder took place only the day before yesterday, remember.’

‘It’s definitely got to be a certain kind of person,’ Susan mused. ‘A brutal, perhaps slightly half-witted type – a discharged soldier or a gaol bird. I mean, using a hatchet like that.’

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

‘Lizzie Borden with an axe

Gave her father fifty whacks.

When she saw what she had done

She gave her mother fifty-one.’

‘Oh,’ Susan flushed angrily, ‘Cora hadn’t got any relations living with her – unless you mean the companion. And anyway Lizzie Borden was acquitted. Nobody knows for certain she killed her father and stepmother.’

‘The rhyme is quite definitely libellous,’ Mr Entwhistle agreed.

‘You mean the companion did do it? Did Cora leave her anything?’

‘An amethyst brooch of no great value and some sketches of fishing villages of sentimental value only.’

‘One has to have a motive for murder – unless one is half-witted.’

Mr Entwhistle gave a little chuckle.

‘As far as one can see, the only person who had a motive is you, my dear Susan.’

‘What’s that?’ 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. ‘What’s Sue got to do with it? What do you mean – saying things like that?’

Susan said sharply:

‘Shut up, Greg. Mr Entwhistle doesn’t mean anything –’

‘Just my little joke,’ said Mr Entwhistle apologetically. ‘Not in the best taste, I’m 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.’

‘She left her money to me?’ Susan sounded surprised. ‘How extraordinary. She didn’t even know me! Why did she do it, do you think?’

‘I think she had heard rumours that there had been a little difficulty – er – over your marriage.’ Greg, back again at sharpening his pencil, scowled. ‘There had been a certain amount of trouble over her own marriage – and I think she experienced a fellow feeling.’

Susan asked with a certain amount of interest:

‘She married an artist, didn’t she, whom none of the family liked? Was he a good artist?’

Mr Entwhistle shook his head very decidedly.

‘Are there any of his paintings in the cottage?’

‘Yes.’

Then I shall judge for myself,’ said Susan.

Mr Entwhistle smiled at the resolute tilt of Susan’s chin.

‘So be it. Doubtless I am an old fogey and hopelessly old-fashioned in matters of art, but I really don’t think you will dispute my verdict.’

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

‘I have arranged with Miss Gilchrist to remain there until further notice.’

Greg said: ‘She must have a pretty good nerve – to stay in a cottage where a murder’s been committed.’

‘Miss Gilchrist is quite a sensible woman, I should say. Besides,’ added the lawyer drily, ‘I don’t think she has anywhere else to go until she gets another situation.’

‘So Aunt Cora’s death left her high and dry? Did she – were she and Aunt Cora – on intimate terms –?’

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

‘Moderately so, I imagine,’ he said. ‘She never treated Miss Gilchrist as a servant.’

‘Treated her a damned sight worse, I dare say,’ said Susan. ‘These wretched so called “ladies” are the ones who get it taken out of them nowadays. I’ll try and find her a decent post somewhere. It won’t be difficult. Anyone who’s willing to do a bit of housework and cook is worth their weight in gold – she does cook, doesn’t she?’

‘Oh yes. I gather it is something she called, er “the rough” that she objected to. I’m afraid I don’t quite know what “the rough” is.’

Susan appeared to be a good deal amused.

Mr Entwhistle, glancing at his watch, said:

‘Your aunt left Timothy her executor.’

‘Timothy,’ said Susan with scorn. ‘Uncle Timothy is practically a myth. Nobody ever sees him.’

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

‘It will only take me a day or two, I imagine. I don’t want to be long away from London. I’ve got various schemes in hand. I’m going into business.’

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.

‘What are your plans for the future, if I may ask?’

‘I’ve 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.’

‘That can be managed,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘I rang you up the day after the funeral several times – but could get no answer. I thought perhaps you might care for an advance. I wondered whether you might perhaps have gone out of Town.’

‘Oh no,’ said Susan quickly. ‘We were in all day. Both of us. We didn’t go out at all.’

Greg said gently: ‘You know Susan, I think our telephone must have been out of order that day. You remember how I couldn’t get through to Hard and Co. in the afternoon. I meant to report it, but it was all right the next morning.’

‘Telephones,’ said Mr Entwhistle, ‘can be very unreliable sometimes.’

Susan said suddenly:

‘How did Aunt Cora know about our marriage? It was at a Registry Office and we didn’t tell anyone until afterwards!’

‘I 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) – just about the time he had been down to see her.’

Susan looked startled.

‘Did Uncle Richard go down to see her? I’d no idea of that?’

‘I hadn’t any idea of it myself,’ said Mr Entwhistle.

‘So that was when –’

‘When what?’

‘Nothing,’ said Susan.

Chapter 6

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

Mr Entwhistle had not yet considered his friend’s 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.

‘To begin with, it was a shock – Timothy was really very attached to Richard. And then unfortunately it put the idea of death into Timothy’s head. Being such an invalid has made him rather nervous about himself. He realized that he was the only one of the brothers left alive – and he started saying that he’d be the next to go – and that it wouldn’t be long now – all very morbid talk, as I told him.’

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

‘Sorry about our old rattletrap,’ she said. ‘We’ve wanted a new car for years, but really we couldn’t afford it. This has had a new engine twice – and these old cars really stand up to a lot of hard work.

‘I hope it will start,’ she added. ‘Sometimes one has to wind it.’

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.

‘That’s that,’ she said. ‘The old brute’s 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 weren’t good for much – just 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 couldn’t be back till the next day. Fussed him terribly. One tries to keep things from him as much as possible – but some things one can’t do anything about – Cora’s 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 Timothy’s state of health. I gather Cora was always a fool.’

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

‘I don’t think I’d seen Cora since our marriage,’ said Maude. ‘I didn’t like to say to Timothy at the time: “Your youngest sister’s batty,” not just like that. But it’s what I thought. There she was saying the most extraordinary things! One didn’t know whether to resent them or whether to laugh. I suppose the truth is she lived in a kind of imaginary world of her own – full of melodrama and fantastic ideas about other people. Well, poor soul, she’s paid for it now. She didn’t have any protégés, did she?’

‘Protégés? What do you mean?’

‘I just wondered. Some young cadging artist, or musician – or something of that kind. Someone she might have let in that day, and who killed her for her loose cash. Perhaps an adolescent – they’re so queer at that age sometimes – especially if they’re 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 you’d do it at night.’

‘There would have been two women there then.’

‘Oh yes, the companion. But really I can’t believe that anyone would deliberately wait until she was out of the way and then break in and attack Cora. What for? He can’t have expected she’d 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 it’s absolutely necessary.’

‘And Cora’s murder, you feel, was unnecessary?’

‘It all seems so stupid.’

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 business-like cheerfulness.

Maude’s voice broke into his meditations.

‘If I could only keep the newspapers from Timothy! But he will insist on reading them – and then, of course, it upsets him. You do understand, don’t you, Mr Entwhistle, that there can be no question of Timothy’s attending the inquest? If necessary, Dr Barton can write out a certificate or whatever it is.’

‘You can set your mind at rest about that.’

‘Thank goodness!’

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

‘We had to let this go to seed during the war. Both gardeners called up. And now we’ve only got one old man – and he’s not much good. Wages have gone up so terribly. I must say it’s a blessing to realize that we’ll be able to spend a little money on the place now. We’re both so fond of it. I was really afraid that we might have to sell it . . . Not that I suggested anything of the kind to Timothy. It would have upset him – dreadfully.’

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

‘No servants,’ said Maude bitterly, as she led the way in. ‘Just a couple of women who come in. We had a resident maid until a month ago – slightly hunchbacked and terribly adenoidal and in many ways not too bright, but she was there which was such a comfort – and 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 (it’s a larger house than this and more work) because she was “so fond of little doggies,” she said. Dogs, indeed! Being sick and making messes all the time I’ve 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.’

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 minutes’ time with a teapot and silver kettle, and proceeded to minister to Mr Entwhistle’s needs. It was a good tea with homemade cake and fresh buns. Mr Entwhistle murmured:

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

‘And now,’ said Maude, ‘he 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.’

Mr Entwhistle assured her that he would exercise every precaution.

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