After the Funeral

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.’