After the Funeral Page 3

  Who would buy it, she wondered? Would it be turned into an hotel, or an institute, or perhaps one of those hostels for young people? That was what happened to these vast houses nowadays. No one would buy them to live in. It would be pulled down, perhaps, and the whole estate built over. It made her sad to think of that, but she pushed the sadness aside resolutely. It did one no good to dwell on the past. This house, and happy days here, and Richard, and Leo, all that was good, but it was over. She had her own interests… And now, with the income Richard had left her, she would be able to keep on the villa in Cyprus and do all the things she had planned to do.

  How worried she had been lately over money—taxation—all those investments going wrong… Now, thanks to Richard’s money, all that was over….

  Poor Richard. To die in his sleep like that had been really a great mercy… Suddenly on the 22nd—she supposed that that was what had put the idea into Cora’s head. Really Cora was outrageous! She always had been. Helen remembered meeting her once abroad, soon after her marriage to Pierre Lansquenet. She had been particularly foolish and fatuous that day, twisting her head sideways, and making dogmatic statements about painting, and particularly about her husband’s painting, which must have been most uncomfortable for him. No man could like his wife appearing such a fool. And Cora was a fool! Oh, well, poor thing, she couldn’t help it, and that husband of hers hadn’t treated her too well.

  Helen’s gaze rested absently on a bouquet of wax flowers that stood on a round malachite table. Cora had been sitting beside it when they had all been sitting round waiting to start for the church. She had been full of reminiscences and delighted recognitions of various things and was clearly so pleased at being back in her old home that she had completely lost sight of the reason for which they were assembled.

  “But perhaps,” thought Helen, “she was just less of a 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 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.

  Four

  I

  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?”

&nb
sp; “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 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 lunchtime. 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, deliberately taken up with him from outside, seems excessive.”

  “He may just have meant to threaten 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 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.”

  “When did she find the body?”

  “Not until just about five o’clock. She came back from Reading by the 4:50 bus. She arrived back at the cottage, let herself in by the front door, and went into the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. There was no sound from Mrs. Lansquenet’s room, but Miss Gilchrist assumed that she was still sleeping. Then Miss Gilchrist noticed the kitchen window; the glass was all over the floor. Even then, she thought at first it might have been done by a boy with a ball or a c
atapult. She went upstairs and peeped very gently into Mrs. Lansquenet’s room to see if she were asleep or if she was ready for some tea. Then of course, she let loose, shrieked, and rushed down the lane to the nearest neighbour. Her story seems perfectly consistent and there was no trace of blood in her room or in the bathroom, or on her clothes. No. I don’t think Miss Gilchrist had anything to do with it. The doctor got there at half past five. He puts the time of death not later than four thirty—and probably much nearer two o’clock, so it looks as though whoever it was, was hanging round waiting for Miss Gilchrist to leave the cottage.”

  The lawyer’s face twitched slightly. Inspector Morton went on: “You’ll be going to see Miss Gilchrist, I suppose?”

  “I thought of doing so.”

  “I should be glad if you would. She’s told us, I think, everything that she can, but you never know. Sometimes, in conversation, some point or other may crop up. She’s a trifle old maidish—but quite a sensible, practical woman—and she’s really been most helpful and efficient.”

  He paused and then said:

  “The body’s at the mortuary. If you would like to see it—”

  Mr. Entwhistle assented, though with no enthusiasm.

  Some few minutes later he stood looking down at the mortal remains of Cora Lansquenet. She had been savagely attacked and the henna dyed fringe was clotted and stiffened with blood. Mr. Entwhistle’s lips tightened and he looked away queasily.

  Poor little Cora. How eager she had been the day before yesterday to know whether her brother had left her anything. What rosy anticipations she must have had of the future. What a lot of silly things she could have done—and enjoyed doing—with the money.

  Poor Cora… How short a time those anticipations had lasted.

  No one had gained by her death—not even the brutal assailant who had thrust away those trinkets as he fled. Five people had a few thousands more of capital—but the capital they had already received was probably more than sufficient for them. No, there could be no motive there.

  Funny that murder should have been running in Cora’s mind the very day before she herself was murdered.