After the Funeral. Agatha Christie
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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,