After the Funeral. Agatha Christie
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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