After the Funeral hp-29 Read online

  "Whenever yon like, Miss Gilchrist."

  A happy clatter of kitchen implements began and Susan went into the sitting-room. She had only been there a few minutes when the bell sounded and was succeeded by a very precise little rat-tat-tat.

  Susan came out into the hall and Miss Gilchrist appeared at the kitchen door wearing an apron and wiping floury hands on it.

  "Oh dear, who do you think that can be?"

  "More reporters, I expect," said Susan.

  "Oh dear, how annoying for you, Mrs Banks."

  "Oh well, never mind, I'll attend to it."

  "I was just going to make a few scones for tea."

  Susan went towards the front door and Miss Gilchrist hovered uncertainly. Susan wondered whether she thought a man with a hatchet was waiting outside.

  The visitor, however proved to be an elderly gentleman who raised his hat when Susan opened the door and said, beaming at her in avuncular style.

  "Mrs Banks, I think?"

  "Yes."

  "My name is Guthrie – Alexander Guthrie. I was a friend – a very old friend, of Mrs Lansquenet's. You, I think, are her niece, formerly Miss Susan Abernethie?"

  "That's quite right."

  "Then since we know who we are, I may come in?"

  "Of course."

  Mr Guthrie wiped his feet carefully on the mat, stepped inside, divested himself of his overcoat, laid it down with his hat on a small oak chest and followed Susan into the sitting-room

  "This is a melancholy occasion," said Mr Guthrie, to whom melancholy did not seem to come naturally, his own inclination being to beam. "Yes, a very melancholy occasion. I was in this part of the world and I felt the least I could do was to attend the inquest – and of course the funeral. Poor Cora – poor foolish Cora. I have known her, my dear Mrs Banks, since the early days of her marriage. A high-spirited girl – and she took art very seriously – took Pierre Lansquenet seriously, too – as an artist, I mean. All things considered he didn't make her too bad a husband. He strayed, if you know what I mean, yes, he strayed – but fortunately Cora took it as part of the artistic temperament. He was an artist and therefore immoral! In fact I'm not sure she didn't go further: he was immoral and therefore he must be an artist! No kind of sense in artistic matters, poor Cora – though in other ways, mind you, Cora had a lot of sense – yes, a surprising lot of sense."

  "That's what everybody seems to say," said Susan. "I didn't really know her."

  "No, no, cut herself off from her family because they didn't appreciate her precious Pierre. She was never a pretty girl – but she had something. She was good company! You never knew what she'd say next and you ever knew if her naiveté was genuine or whether she was doing it deliberately. She made us all laugh a good deal. The eternal child – that's what we always felt about her. And really the last time I saw her (I have seen her from time to time since Pierre died) she struck me as still behaving very much like a child."

  Susan offered Mr Guthrie a cigarette, but the old gentleman shook his head.

  "No thank you, my dear. I don't smoke. You must wonder why I've come? To tell you the truth I was feeling rather conscience-stricken. I promised Cora to come and see her, some weeks ago. I usually called upon her once a year, and just lately she'd taken up the hobby of buying pictures at local sales, and wanted me to look at some of them. My profession is that of art critic, you know. Of course most of Cora's purchases were horrible daubs, but take it all in all, it isn't such a bad speculation. Pictures go for next to nothing at these country sales and the frames alone are worth more than you pay for the picture. Naturally any important sale is attended by dealers and one isn't likely to get hold of masterpieces. But only the other day, a small Cuyp was knocked down for a few pounds at a farmhouse sale. The history of it was quite, interesting. It had been given to an old nurse by the family she had served faithfully for many years – they had no idea of it's value. Old nurse gave it to farmer nephew who liked the horse in it but thought it was a dirty old thing! Yes, yes, these things sometimes happen, and Cora was convinced that she had an eye for pictures. She hadn't, of course. Wanted me to come and look at a Rembrandt she had picked the last year. A Rembrandt! Not even a respectable copy of one! But she had got hold of a quite nice Bartolozzi engraving – damp spotted unfortunately. I sold it for her for thirty pounds and of course that spurred her on. She wrote to me with great gusto about an Italian Primitive she had bought at some sale and I promised I'd come along and see it."

  "That's it over there, I expect," said Susan, gesturing to the wall behind him.

  Mr Guthrie got up, put on a pair of spectacles, and went over to study the picture.

  "Poor dear Cora," he said at last.

  "There are a lot more," said Susan.

  Mr Guthrie proceeded to a leisurely inspection of the art treasures acquired by the hopeful Mrs Lansquenet. Occasionally he said, "Tchk, Tchk," occasionally he sighed.

  Finally he removed his spectacles.

  "Dirt," he said, "is a wonderful thing, Mrs Banks! It gives a patina of romance to the most horrible examples of the painter's art. I'm afraid that Bartolozzi was beginner's luck. Poor Cora. Still it gave her an interest in life. I am really thankful that I did not have to disillusion her."

  "There are some pictures in, the dining-room," said Susan, "but I think they are all her husband's work."

  Mr Guthrie shuddered slightly and held up a protesting hand.

  "Do not force me to look at those again. Life classes have much to answer for! I always tried to spare Cora's feelings. A devoted wife – a very devoted wife. Well, dear Mrs Banks, I must not take up more of your time."

  "Oh, do stay and have some tea. I think it's nearly ready."

  "That is very kind of you." Mr Guthrie sat down again promptly.

  "I'll just go and see."

  In the kitchen, Miss Gilchrist was just lifting a last batch of scones from the oven. The tea-tray stood ready and the kettle was just gently rattling its lid.

  "There's a Mr Guthrie here, and I've asked him to stay for tea."

  "Mr Guthrie? Oh, yes, he was a great friend of dear Mrs Lansquenet's. He's the celebrated art critic. How fortunate; I've made a nice lot of scones and that's some home-made strawberry jam, and I just whipped up some little drop cakes. I'll just make the tea – I've warmed the pot. Oh, please, Mrs Banks, don't carry that heavy tray. I can manage everything."

  However, Susan took in the tray and Miss Gilchrist followed with teapot and kettle, greeted Mr Guthrie, and they set to.

  "Hot scones, that is a treat," said Mr Guthrie, "and what delicious jam! Really, the stuff one buys nowadays."

  Miss Gilchrist was flushed and delighted. The little cakes were excellent and so were the scones, and everyone did justice to them. The ghost of the Willow Tree hung over the party. Here, it was clear, Miss Gilchrist was in her element.

  "Well, thank you, perhaps I will," said Mr Guthrie as he accepted the last cake, pressed upon him by Miss Gilchrist. "I do feel rather guilty, though – enjoying my tea here, where poor Cora was so brutally murdered."

  Miss Gilchrist displayed an unexpected Victorian reaction to this.

  "Oh, but Mrs Lansquenet would have wished you to take a good tea. You've got to keep your strength up."

  "Yes, yes, perhaps you are right. The fact is, you know, that one cannot really bring oneself to believe that someone you knew – actually knew – can have been murdered!"

  "I agree," said Susan. "It just seems – fantastic."

  "And certainly not by some casual tramp who broke in and attacked her. I can imagine, you know, reasons why Cora might have been murdered."

  Susan said quickly, "Can you? What reasons?"

  "Well, she wasn't discreet," said Mr Guthrie. "Cora was never discreet. And she enjoyed – how shaw I put it – showing how sharp she could be? Like a child who's got hold of somebody's secret. If Cora got hold of a secret she'd want to talk about it. Even if she promised not to, she'd still do it. She wouldn't be
able to help herself."

  Susan did not speak. Miss Gilchrist did not either. She looked worried. Mr Guthrie went on:

  "Yes, a little dose of arsenic in a cup of tea – that would not have surprised me, or a box of chocolates by post. But sordid robbery and assault – that seems highly incongruous. I may be wrong but I should have thought she had very little to take that would be worth a burglar's while. She didn't keep much money in the house, did she?"

  Miss Gilchrist said, "Very little."

  Mr Guthrie sighed and rose to his feet.

  "Ah! well, there's a lot of lawlessness about since the war. Times have changed."

  Thanking them for the tea he took a polite farewell of the two women. Miss Gilchrist saw him out and helped him on with his overcoat. From the window of the sitting-room, Susan watched him trot briskly down the front path to the gate.

  Miss Gilchrist came back into the room with a small parcel in her hand.

  "The postman must have been while we were at the inquest. He pushed it through the letter-box and it had fallen in the corner behind the door. Now I wonder – why, of course, it must be wedding cake."

  Happily Miss Gilchrist ripped off the paper. Inside was a small white box tied with silver ribbon.

  "It is!" She pulled off the ribbon, inside was a modest wedge of rich cake with almond paste and white icing. "How nice! Now who -" She consulted the card attached. "John and Mary. Now who can that be? How silly to put no surname."

  Susan, rousing herself from contemplation, said vaguely:

  "It's quite difficult sometimes with people just using Christian names. I got a postcard the other day signed Joan. I counted up I knew eight Joans – and with telephoning so much, one often doesn't know their handwriting."

  Miss Gilchrist was happily going over the possible Johns or Marys of her acquaintance.

  "It might be Dorothy's daughter – her name was Mary, but I hadn't heard of an engagement, still less of a marriage. Then there's little John Banfield – I suppose he's grown up and old enough to be married – or the Enfield girl – no, her name was Margaret. No address or anything. Oh well, I dare say it will come to me…"

  She picked up the tray and went out to the kitchen.

  Susan roused herself and said:

  "Well – I suppose I'd better go and put the car somewhere."

  Chapter 10

  Susan retrieved the car from the quarry where she had left it and drove it into the village. There was a petrol pump but no garage and she was advised to take it to the King's Arms. They had room for it there and she left it by a big Daimler which was preparing to go out. It was chauffeur driven and inside it, very much muffled up, was an elderly foreign gentleman with a large moustache.

  The boy to whom Susan was talking about the car was staring at her with such rapt attention the he did not seem to be taking in half of what she said.

  Finally he said in an awe-stricken voice:

  "You're her niece, aren't you?"

  "What?"

  "You're the victim's niece," the boy repeated with relish.

  "Oh – yes – yes, I am."

  "Ar! Wondered where I'd seen you before."

  "Ghoul," thought Susan as she retraced her steps to the cottage.

  Miss Gilchrist greeted her with:

  "Oh, you're safely back," in tones of relief which further annoyed her. Miss Gilchrist added anxiously:

  "You can eat spaghetti, can't you? I thought for tonight -"

  "Oh yes, anything. I don't want much."

  "I really flatter myself that I can make a very tasty spaghetti au gratin."

  The boast was not an idle one. Miss Gilchrist, Susan reflected, was really an excellent cook. Susan offered to help wash up but Miss Gilchrist, though clearly gratified by the offer, assured Susan that there was very little to do.

  She came in a little while later with coffee. The coffee was less excellent, being decidedly weak. Miss Gilchrist offered Susan a piece of the wedding cake which Susan refused.

  "It's really very good cake," Miss Gilchrist insisted, tasting it. She had settled to her own satisfaction that it must have been sent by someone whom she alluded to as "dear Ellen's daughter who I know was engaged to be married but I can't remember her name."

  Susan let Miss Gilchrist chirrup away into silence before starting her own subject of conversation. This moment, after supper, sitting before the fire, was a companionable one.

  She said at last:

  "My Uncle Richard came down here before he died, didn't he?"

  "Yes, he did."

  "When was that exactly?"

  "Let me see – it must have been one, two – nearly three weeks before his death was announced."

  "Did he seem – ill?"

  "Well, no, I wouldn't say he seemed exactly ill. He had a very hearty vigorous manner. Mrs Lansquenet was very surprised to see him. She said, 'Well, really, Richard, after all these years!' And he said, 'I came to see for myself exactly how things are with you.' And Mrs Lansquenet said, 'I'm all right.' I think, you know, she was a teeny bit offended by his turning up so casually – after the long break. Anyway Mr Abernethie said, 'No use keeping up old grievances. You and I and Timothy are the only ones left – and nobody can talk to Timothy except about his own health.' And he said, ' Pierre seems to have made you happy, so it seems I was in the wrong. There, will that content you?' Very nicely he said it. A handsome man, though elderly, of course."

  "How long was he here?"

  "He stayed for lunch. Beef olives, I made. Fortunately it was the day the butcher called."

  Miss Gilchrist's memory seemed to be almost wholly culinary.

  "They seemed to be getting on well together?"

  "Oh, yes."

  Susan paused and then said:

  "Was Aunt Cora surprised when – he died?"

  "Oh yes, it was quite sudden, wasn't it?"

  "Yes, it was sudden… I meant – she was surprised. He hadn't given her any indication how ill he was."

  "Oh – I see what you mean." Miss Gilchrist paused a moment. "No, no, I think perhaps you are right. She did say that he had got very old – I think she said senile…"

  "But you didn't think he was senile?"

  "Well, not to look at. But I didn't talk to him much, naturally I left them alone together."

  Susan looked at Miss Gilchrist speculatively. Was Miss Gilchrist the kind of woman who listened at doors? She was honest, Susan felt sure, she wouldn't ever pilfer, or cheat over the housekeeping, or open letters. But inquisitiveness can drape itself in a mantle of rectitude. Miss Gilchrist might have found it necessary to garden near an open window, or to dust the hall… That would be within the permitted lengths. And then, of course, she could not have helped hearing something…

  "You didn't hear any of their conversation?" Susan asked.

  Too abrupt. Miss Gilchrist flushed angrily.

  "No, indeed, Mrs Banks. It has never been my custom to listen at doors!"

  That means she does, thought Susan, otherwise she'd just say "No."

  Aloud she said: "I'm so sorry, Miss Gilchrist. I didn't mean it that way. But sometimes, in these small flimsily built cottages, one simply can't help hearing nearly everything that goes on, and now that they are both dead, it's really rather important to the family to know just what was said at that meeting between them."

  The cottage was anything but flimsily built – it dated from a sturdier era of building, but Miss Gilchrist accepted the bait, and rose to the suggestion held out.

  "Of course what you say is quite true, Mrs Banks – this is a very small place and I do appreciate that you would want to know what passed between them, but really I'm afraid I can't help very much. I think they were talking about Mr Abernethie's health – and certain – well, fancies he had. He didn't look it, but he must have been a sick man and as is so often the case, he put his ill-health down to outside agencies. A common symptom, I believe. My aunt -"

  Miss Gilchrist described her aunt.

&n
bsp; Susan, like Mr Entwhistle, side-tracked the aunt.

  "Yes," she said. "That is just what we thought. My uncle's servants were all very attached to him and naturally they are upset by his thinking -" She paused.

  "Oh, of course! Servants are very touchy, about anything of that kind. I remember that my aunt -"

  Again Susan interrupted.

  "It was the servants he suspected, I suppose? Of poisoning him, I mean?"

  "I don't know… I – really -"

  Susan noted her confusion.

  "It wasn't the servants. Was it one particular person?"

  "I don't know, Mrs Banks. Really I don't know -"

  But her eye avoided Susan's. Susan thought to herself that Miss Gilchrist knew more than she was willing to admit.

  It was possible that Miss Gilchrist knew a good deal…

  Deciding not to press the point for the moment, Susan said:

  "What are your own plans for the future, Miss Gilchrist?"

  "Well, really, I was going to speak to you about that, Mrs Banks. I told Mr Entwhistle I would be willing to stay on until everything here was cleared up."

  "I know. I'm very grateful."

  "And I wanted to ask you how long that was likely to be, because, of course, I must start looking about for another post."

  Susan considered.

  "There's really not very much to be done here. In a couple of days I can get things sorted and notifiy the auctioneer."

  "You have decided to sell up everything, then?"

  "Yes. I don't suppose there will be any difficulty in letting the cottage?"

  "Oh, no – people will queue up for it, I'm sure. There are so few cottages to rent. One nearly always has to buy."

  "So it's all very simple, you see." Susan hesitated a moment before saying, "I wanted to tell you – that I hope you'll accept three months' salary."

  "That's very generous of you, I'm sure, Mrs Banks. I do appreciate it. And you would be prepared to – I mean I could ask you – if necessary – to – to recommend me? To say that I had been with a relation of yours and that I had – proved satisfactory?"