After the Funeral Read online

  “I don’t want to believe that it wasn’t—I mean—that it was—”

  She paused, confused.

  “And yet,” said Poirot shrewdly, “you do believe.”

  “Oh, I don’t. I don’t!”

  “But I think you do. That is why you are frightened… You are still frightened, are you not?”

  “Oh, no, not since I came here. So many people. And such a nice family atmosphere. Oh, no, everything seems quite all right here.”

  “It seems to me—you must excuse my interest—I am an old man, somewhat infirm and a great part of my time is given to idle speculation on matters which interest me—it seems to me that there must have been some definite occurrence at Stansfield Grange which, so to speak, brought your fears to a head. Doctors recognize nowadays how much takes place in our subconscious.”

  “Yes, yes— I know they say so.”

  “And I think your subconscious fears might have been brought to a point by some small concrete happening, something, perhaps, quite extraneous, serving, shall we say, as a focal point.”

  Miss Gilchrist seemed to lap this up eagerly.

  “I’m sure you are right,” she said.

  “Now what, should you think, was this—er—extraneous circumstance?”

  Miss Gilchrist pondered a moment, and then said, unexpectedly:

  “I think, you know, M. Pontarlier, it was the nun.”

  Before Poirot could take this up, Susan and her husband came in, closely followed by Helen.

  “A nun,” thought Poirot… “Now where, in all this, have I heard something about a nun?”

  He resolved to lead the conversation on to nuns some time in the course of the evening.

  Nineteen

  The family had all been polite to M. Pontarlier, the representative of U.N.A.R.C.O. And how right he had been to have chosen to designate himself by initials. Everyone had accepted U.N.A.R.C.O. as a matter of course—had even pretended to know all about it! How averse human beings were ever to admit ignorance! An exception had been Rosamund, who had asked him wonderingly: “But what is it? I never heard of it?” Fortunately no one else had been there at the time. Poirot had explained the organization in such a way that anyone but Rosamund would have felt abashed at having displayed ignorance of such a well-known worldwide institution. Rosamund, however, had only said vaguely, “Oh! refugees all over again. I’m so tired of refugees.” Thus voicing the unspoken reaction of many, who were usually too conventional to express themselves so frankly.

  M. Pontarlier was, therefore, now accepted—as a nuisance but also as a nonentity. He had become, as it were, a piece of foreign décor. The general opinion was that Helen should have avoided having him here this particular weekend, but as he was here they must make the best of it. Fortunately this queer little foreigner did not seem to know much English. Quite often he did not understand what you said to him, and when everyone was speaking more or less at once he seemed completely at sea. He appeared to be interested only in refugees and postwar conditions, and his vocabulary only included those subjects. Ordinary chit-chat appeared to bewilder him. More or less forgotten by all, Hercule Poirot leant back in his chair, sipped his coffee and observed, as a cat may observe the twitterings and comings and goings of a flock of birds. The cat is not ready yet to make its spring.

  After twenty-four hours of prowling round the house and examining its contents, the heirs of Richard Abernethie were ready to state their preferences, and, if need be, to fight for them.

  The subject of conversation was, first, a certain Spode dinner dessert service off which they had just been eating dessert.

  “I don’t suppose I have long to live,” said Timothy in a faint melancholy voice. “And Maude and I have no children. It is hardly worthwhile our burdening ourselves with useless possessions. But for sentiment’s sake I should like to have the old dessert service. I remember it in the dear old days. It’s out of fashion, of course, and I understand dessert services have very little value nowadays—but there it is. I shall be quite content with that—and perhaps the Boule Cabinet in the White Boudoir.”

  “You’re too late, Uncle,” George spoke with debonair insouciance. “I asked Helen to mark off the Spode service to me this morning.”

  Timothy became purple in the face.

  “Mark it off—mark it off? What do you mean? Nothing’s been settled yet. And what do you want with a dessert service? You’re not married.”

  “As a matter of fact I collect Spode. And this is really a splendid specimen. But it’s quite all right about the Boule Cabinet, Uncle. I wouldn’t have that as a gift.”

  Timothy waved aside the Boule Cabinet.

  “Now look here, young George. You can’t go butting in, in this way. I’m an older man than you are—and I’m Richard’s only surviving brother. That dessert service is mine.”

  “Why not take the Dresden service, Uncle? A very fine example and I’m sure just as full of sentimental memories. Anyway, the Spode’s mine. First come, first served.”

  “Nonsense—nothing of the kind!” Timothy spluttered.

  Maude said sharply:

  “Please don’t upset your uncle, George. It’s very bad for him. Naturally he will take the Spode if he wants to! The first choice is his, and you young people must come afterwards. He was Richard’s brother, as he says, and you are only a nephew.”

  “And I can tell you this, young man.” Timothy was seething with fury. “If Richard had made a proper will, the disposal of the contents of this place would have been entirely in my hands. That’s the way the property should have been left, and if it wasn’t, I can only suspect undue influence. Yes—and I repeat it—undue influence.”

  Timothy glared at his nephew.

  “A preposterous will,” he said. “Preposterous!”

  He leant back, placed a hand to his heart, and groaned:

  “This is very bad for me. If I could have—a little brandy.”

  Miss Gilchrist hurried to get it and returned with the restorative in a small glass.

  “Here you are, Mr. Abernethie. Please—please don’t excite youself. Are you sure you oughtn’t to go up to bed?”

  “Don’t be a fool.” Timothy swallowed the brandy. “Go to bed? I intend to protect my interests.”

  “Really, George, I’m surprised at you,” said Maude. “What your uncle says is perfectly true. His wishes come first. If he wants the Spode dessert service he shall have it!”

  “It’s quite hideous anyway,” said Susan.

  “Hold your tongue, Susan,” said Timothy.

  The thin young man who sat beside Susan raised his head. In a voice that was a little shriller than his ordinary tones, he said:

  “Don’t speak like that to my wife!”

  He half rose from his seat.

  Susan said quickly: “It’s all right, Greg. I don’t mind.”

  “But I do.”

  Helen said: “I think it would be graceful on your part, George, to let your uncle have the dessert service.”

  Timothy spluttered indignantly: “There’s no ‘letting’ about it!”

  But George, with a slight bow to Helen said, “Your wish is law, Aunt Helen. I abandon my claim.”

  “You didn’t really want it, anyway, did you?” said Helen.

  He cast a sharp glance at her, then grinned:

  “The trouble with you, Aunt Helen, is that you’re too sharp by half! You see more than you’re meant to see. Don’t worry, Uncle Timothy, the Spode is yours. Just my idea of fun.”

  “Fun, indeed.” Maude Abernethie was indignant. “Your uncle might have had a heart attack!”

  “Don’t you believe it,” said George cheerfully. “Uncle Timothy will probably outlive us all. He’s what is known as a creaking gate.”

  Timothy leaned forward balefully.

  “I don’t wonder,” he said, “that Richard was disappointed in you.”

  “What’s that?” The good humour went out of George’s face.

 
; “You came up here after Mortimer died, expecting to step into his shoes—expecting that Richard would make you his heir, didn’t you? But my poor brother soon took your measure. He knew where the money would go if you had control of it. I’m surprised that he even left you a part of his fortune. He knew where it would go. Horses, gambling, Monte Carlo, foreign casinos. Perhaps worse. He suspected you of not being straight, didn’t he?”

  George, a white dint appearing each side of his nose, said quietly:

  “Hadn’t you better be careful of what you are saying?”

  “I wasn’t well enough to come here for the funeral,” said Timothy slowly, “but Maude told me what Cora said. Cora always was a fool—but there may have been something in it! And if so, I know who I’d suspect—”

  “Timothy!” Maude stood up, solid, calm, a tower of forcefulness. “You have had a very trying evening. You must consider your health. I can’t have you getting ill again. Come up with me. You must take a sedative and go straight to bed. Timothy and I, Helen, will take the Spode dessert service and the Boule Cabinet as mementoes of Richard. There is no objection to that, I hope?”

  Her glance swept round the company. Nobody spoke, and she marched out of the room supporting Timothy with a hand under his elbow, waving aside Miss Gilchrist who was hovering half-heartedly by the door.

  George broke the silence after they had departed.

  “Femme formidable!” he said. “That describes Aunt Maude exactly. I should hate ever to impede her triumphal progress.”

  Miss Gilchrist sat down again rather uncomfortably and murmured:

  “Mrs. Abernethie is always so kind.”

  The remark fell rather flat.

  Michael Shane laughed suddenly and said: “You know, I’m enjoying all this! ‘The Voysey Inheritance’ to the life. By the way, Rosamund and I want that malachite table in the drawing room.”

  “Oh, no,” cried Susan. “I want that.”

  “Here we go again,” said George, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

  “Well, we needn’t get angry about it,” said Susan. “The reason I want it is for my new Beauty shop. Just a note of colour—and I shall put a great bouquet of wax flowers on it. It would look wonderful. I can find wax flowers easily enough, but a green malachite table isn’t so common.”

  “But, darling,” said Rosamund, “that’s just why we want it. For the new set. As you say, a note of colour—and so absolutely period. And either wax flowers or stuffed hummingbirds. It will be absolutely right.”

  “I see what you mean, Rosamund,” said Susan. “But I don’t think you’ve got as good a case as I have. You could easily have a painted malachite table for the stage—it would look just the same. But for my salon I’ve got to have the genuine thing.”

  “Now, ladies,” said George. “What about a sporting decision? Why not toss for it? Or cut the cards? All quite in keeping with the period of the table.”

  Susan smiled pleasantly.

  “Rosamund and I will talk about it tomorrow,” she said.

  She seemed, as usual, quite sure of herself. George looked with some interest from her face to that of Rosamund. Rosamund’s face had a vague, rather faraway expression.

  “Which one will you back, Aunt Helen?” he asked. “An even money chance, I’d say. Susan has determination, but Rosamund is so wonderfully single-minded.”

  “Or perhaps not hummingbirds,” said Rosamund. “One of those big Chinese vases would make a lovely lamp, with a gold shade.”

  Miss Gilchrist hurried into placating speech.

  “This house is full of so many beautiful things,” she said. “That green table would look wonderful in your new establishment, I’m sure, Mrs. Banks. I’ve never seen one like it. It must be worth a lot of money.”

  “It will be deducted from my share of the estate, of course,” said Susan.

  “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—” Miss Gilchrist was covered with confusion.

  “It may be deducted from our share of the estate,” Michael pointed out. “With the wax flowers thrown in.”

  “They look so right on that table,” Miss Gilchrist murmured. “Really artistic. Sweetly pretty.”

  But nobody was paying any attention to Miss Gilchrist’s well-meant trivialities.

  Greg said, speaking again in that high nervous voice:

  “Susan wants that table.”

  There was a momentary stir of unease, as though, by his words, Greg had set a different musical key.

  Helen said quickly:

  “And what do you really want, George? Leaving out the Spode service.”

  George grinned and the tension relaxed.

  “Rather a shame to bait old Timothy,” he said. “But he really is quite unbelievable. He’s had his own way in everything so long that he’s become quite pathological about it.”

  “You have to humour an invalid, Mr. Crossfield,” said Miss Gilchrist.

  “Ruddy old hypochondriac, that’s what he is,” said George.

  “Of course he is,” Susan agreed. “I don’t believe there’s anything whatever the matter with him, do you, Rosamund?”

  “What?”

  “Anything the matter with Uncle Timothy.”

  “No—no, I shouldn’t think so.” Rosamund was vague. She apologized. “I’m sorry. I was thinking about what lighting would be right for the table.”

  “You see?” said George. “A woman of one idea. Your wife’s a dangerous woman, Michael. I hope you realize it.”

  “I realize it,” said Michael rather grimly.

  George went on with every appearance of enjoyment.

  “The Battle of the Table! To be fought tomorrow—politely—but with grim determination. We ought all to take sides. I back Rosamund who looks so sweet and yielding and isn’t. Husbands, presumably back their own wives. Miss Gilchrist? On Susan’s side, obviously.”

  “Oh, really, Mr. Crossfield, I wouldn’t venture to—”

  “Aunt Helen?” George paid no attention to Miss Gilchrist’s flutterings. “You have the casting vote. Oh, er—I forgot. M. Pontarlier?”

  “Pardon?” Hercule Poirot looked blank.

  George considered explanations, but decided against it. The poor old boy hadn’t understood a word of what was going on. He said: “Just a family joke.”

  “Yes, yes, I comprehend.” Poirot smiled amiably.

  “So yours is the casting vote, Aunt Helen. Whose side are you on?”

  Helen smiled.

  “Perhaps I want it myself, George.”

  She changed the subject deliberately, turning to her foreign guest.

  “I’m afraid this is all very dull for you, M. Pontarlier?”

  “Not at all, Madame. I consider myself privileged to be admitted to your family life—” he bowed. “I would like to say—I cannot quite express my meaning—my regret that this house had to pass out of your hands into the hands of strangers. It is without doubt—a great sorrow.”

  “No, indeed, we don’t regret at all,” Susan assured him.

  “You are very amiable, Madame. It will be, let me tell you, perfection here for my elderly sufferers of persecution. What a haven! What peace! I beg you to remember that, when the harsh feelings come to you as assuredly they must. I hear that there was also the question of a school coming here—not a regular school, a convent—run by religieuses—by ‘nuns,’ I think you say? You would have preferred that, perhaps?”

  “Not at all,” said George.

  “The Sacred Heart of Mary,” continued Poirot. “Fortunately, owing to the kindness of an unknown benefactory we were able to make a slightly higher offer.” He addressed Miss Gilchrist directly. “You do not like nuns, I think?”

  Miss Gilchrist flushed and looked embarrassed.

  “Oh, really, Mr. Pontarlier, you mustn’t—I mean, it’s nothing personal. But I never do see that it’s right to shut yourself up from the world in that way—not necessary, I mean, and really almost selfish, though not teaching ones, of course, or
the ones that go about amongst the poor—because I’m sure they’re thoroughly unselfish women and do a lot of good.”

  “I simply can’t imagine wanting to be a nun,” said Susan.

  “It’s very becoming,” said Rosamund. “You remember—when they revived The Miracle last year. Sonia Wells looked absolutely too glamorous for words.”

  “What beats me,” said George, “is why it should be pleasing to the Almighty to dress oneself up in medieval dress. For after all, that’s all a nun’s dress is. Thoroughly cumbersome, unhygienic and impractical.”

  “And it makes them look so alike, doesn’t it?” said Miss Gilchrist. “It’s silly, you know, but I got quite a turn when I was at Mrs. Abernethie’s and a nun came to the door, collecting. I got it into my head she was the same as the nun who came to the door on the day of the inquest on poor Mrs. Lansquenet at Lytchett St. Mary. I felt, you know, almost as though she had been following me round!”

  “I thought nuns always collected in couples,” said George. “Surely a detective story hinged on that point once?”

  “There was only one this time,” said Miss Gilchrist. “Perhaps they’ve got to economize,” she added vaguely. “And anyway it couldn’t have been the same nun, for the other one was collecting for an organ for St—Barnabas, I think—and this one was for something quite different—something to do with children.”

  “But they both had the same type of features?” Hercule Poirot asked. He sounded interested. Miss Gilchrist turned to him.

  “I suppose that must be it. The upper lip—almost as though she had a moustache. I think, you know, that that is really what alarmed me—being in a rather nervous state at the time, and remembering those stories during the war of nuns who were really men and in the Fifth Column and landed by parachute. Of course it was very foolish of me. I knew that afterwards.”

  “A nun would be a good disguise,” said Susan thoughtfully. “It hides your feet.”

  “The truth is,” said George, “that one very seldom looks properly at anyone. That’s why one gets such wildly differing accounts of a person from different witnesses in court. You’d be surprised. A man is often described as tall—short; thin—stout; fair—dark; dressed in a dark—light—suit, and so on. There’s usually one reliable observer, but one has to make up one’s mind who that is.”