For JamesIn memory of happy days at Abney
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 mantelpiece 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 hand. The material wasn't good, or the craftsmanship either. Oh yes, 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 while 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 gave 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 ben 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 soufflй 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. Whther 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 ther 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 housemaid 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 Aberenthie, 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 of 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 bigg 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 livefor."To Mr Entwhistle, who was seventy-two, Richard Abernethie's death at sixty-eight was definitively 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 for 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 stoodnear 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 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. 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, 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 embarassment, 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 anyonethat 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 lifein 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 month 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 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 realised 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 realised 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 naпve. 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 naпve 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 household 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 judgment.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 Sandborne 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 activities and friends and interests. Yes, her 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 hypocrite 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 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 soufflй.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 of 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?""Sometime 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 murderd, wasn't he?"Such a fool, Cora. Always had been. Rushing in where angels fear to tread... Blurting out unpleasnt 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 ncecessary."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, deliberatly taken up with him from outside seems excessive.""He may just have meant to threatne 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 seed 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."
