After the Funeral. Agatha Christie
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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