After the Funeral hp-29 Page 8

  "Susan? She is a very different type from Rosamund – a girl of remarkable ability, I should say. She and her husband were at home together that day. I said (falsely) that I had tried to get them on the telephone on the afternoon in question. Greg said very quickly that the telephone had been out of order all day. He had tried to get someone and failed."

  "So again it is not conclusive… You cannot eliminate as you hoped to do… What is the husband like?"

  "I find him hard to make out. He has a somewhat unpleasing personality though one cannot say exactly why he makes this impression. As for Susan -"

  "Yes?"

  "Susan reminds me of her uncle. She has the vigour, the drive, the mental capacity of Richard Abernethie. It may be my fancy that she lacks some of the kindliness and the warmth of my old friend."

  "Women are never kind," remarked Poirot. "Though they can sometimes be tender. She loves her husband?"

  "Devotedly, I should say. But really, Poirot, I can't believe – I won't believe for one moment that Susan -"

  "You prefer George?" said Poirot. "It is natural! As for me, I am not so sentimental about beautiful young ladies. Now tell me about your visit to the older generation?"

  Mr Entwhistle described his visit to Timothy and Maude at some length. Poirot summarised the result.

  "So Mrs Abernethie is a good mechanic. She knows all about the inside of a car. And Mr Abernethie is not the invalid he likes to think himself. He goes out for walks and is, according to you, capable of vigorous action. He is also a bit of an ego maniac and he resented his brother's success and superior character."

  "He spoke very affectionately of Cora."

  "And ridiculed her silly remark after the funeral. What of the sixth beneficiary?"

  "Helen? Mrs Leo? I do not suspect her for a moment. In any case, her innocence will be easy to prove. She was at Enderby. With three servants in the house."

  "Eh bien, my friend," said Poirot. "Let us be practical. What do you want me to do?"

  "I want to know the truth, Poirot."

  "Yes. Yes, I should feel the same in your place."

  "And you're the man to find it out for me. I know you don't take cases any more, but I ask you to take this one. This is a matter of business. I will be responsible for your fees. Come now, money is always useful."

  Poirot grinned.

  "Not if it all goes in the taxes! But I will admit, your problem interests me! Because it is not easy… It is all so nebulous… One thing, my friend, had better be done by you. After that, I will occupy myself of everything. But I think it will be best if you yourself seek out the doctor who attended Mr Richard Abernethie. You know him?"

  "Slightly."

  "What is he like?"

  "Middle-aged G.P. Quite competent. On very friendly terms with Richard. A thoroughly good fellow."

  "Then seek him out. He will speak more freely to you than to me. Ask him about Mr Abernethie's illness. Find out what medicines Mr Abernethie was taking at the time of his death and before. Find out if Richard Abernethie ever said anything to his doctor about fancying himself being poisoned. By the way, this Miss Gilchrist is sure that he used the term poisoned in talking to his sister?"

  Mr Entwhistle reflected.

  "It was the word she used – but she is the type of witness who often changes the actual words used, because she is convinced she is keeping to the sense of them. If Richard had said he was afraid someone wanted to kill him, Miss Gilchrist might have assumed poison because she connected his fears with those of an aunt of hers who thought her food was being tampered with. I can take up the point with her again some time."

  "Yes. Or I will do so." He paused and then said in a different voice: "Has it occurred to you, my friend, that your Miss Gilchrist may be in some danger herself?"

  Mr Entwhistle looked surprised.

  "I can't say that it had."

  "But, yes. Cora voiced her suspicions on the day of the funeral. The question in the murderer's mind will be, did she voice them to anybody when she first heard of Richard's death? And the most likely person for her to have spoken to about them will be Miss Gilchrist. I think, mon cher, that she had better not remain alone in that cottage."

  "I believe Susan is going down."

  "Ah, so Mrs Banks is going down?"

  "She wants to look through Cora's things."

  "I see… I see… Well, my friend, do what I have asked of you. You might also prepare Mrs Abernethie – Mrs Leo Abernethie, for the possibility that I may arrive in the house. We will see. From now on I occupy myself of everything."

  And Poirot twirled his moustaches with enormous energy.

  Chapter 8

  I

  Mr Entwhistle looked at Dr Larraby thoughtfully.

  He had had a lifetime of experience in summing people up. There had been frequent occasions on which it had been necessary to tackle a difficult situation or a delicate subject. Mr Entwhistle was an adept by now in the art of how exactly to make the proper approach. How would it be best to tackle Dr Larraby on what was certainly a very difficult subject and one which the doctor might very well resent as reflecting upon his own professional skill?

  Frankness, Mr Entwhistle thought – or at least a modified frankness. To say that suspicions had arisen because of a haphazard suggestion thrown out by a silly woman would be ill-advised. Dr Larraby had not known Cora.

  Mr Entwhistle cleared his throat and plunged bravely.

  "I want to consult you on a very delicate matter," he said. "You may be offended, but I sincerely hope not. You are a sensible man and you will realise, I'm sure, that a – er – preposterous suggestion is best dealt with by finding a reasonable answer and not by condemning it out of hand. It concerns my client, the late Mr Abernethie. I'll ask you my question flat out. Are you certain, absolutely certain, that he died what is termed a natural death?"

  Dr Larraby's good-humoured, rubicund middle-aged face turned in astonishment on his questioner.

  "What on earth – Of course he did. I gave a certificate, didn't I? If I hadn't been satisfied -"

  Mr Entwhistle cut in adroitly:

  "Naturally, naturally. I assure you that I am not assuming anything to the contrary. But I would be glad to have your positive assurance – in face of the – er – rumours that are flying around."

  "Rumours? What rumours?"

  "One doesn't know quite how these things start," said Mr Entwhistle mendaciously. "But my feeling is that they should be stopped – authoritatively, if possible."

  "Abernethie was a sick man. He was suffering from a disease that would have proved fatal within, I should say, at the earliest, two years. It might have come much sooner. His son's death had weakened his will to live, and his powers of resistance. I admit that I did not expect his death to come so soon, or indeed so suddenly, but there are precedents – plenty of precedents. Any medical man who predicts exactly when a patient will die, or exactly how long he will live, is bound to make a fool of himself. The human factor is always incalculable. The weak have often unexpected powers of resistance, the strong sometimes succumb."

  "I understand all that. I am not doubting your diagnosis. Mr Abernethie was, shall we say (rather melodramatically, I'm afraid) under sentence of death. All I'm asking you is, is it quite impossible that a man, knowing or suspecting that he is doomed, might of his own accord shorten that period of life? Or that someone else might do it for him?"

  Dr Larraby frowned.

  "Suicide, you mean? Abernethie wasn't a suicidal type."

  "I see. You can assure me, medically speaking, that such a suggestion is impossible."

  The doctor stirred uneasily.

  "I wouldn't use the word impossible. After his son's death life no longer held the interest for Abernethie that it had done. I certainly don't feel that suicide is likely – but I can't say that it's impossible."

  "You are speaking from the psychological angle. When I said medically, I really meant: do the circumstances of his death make su
ch a suggestion impossible?"

  "No, oh no. No, I can't say that. He died in his sleep, as people often do. There was no reason to suspect suicide, no evidence of his state of mind. If one were to demand an autopsy every time a man who is seriously ill died in his sleep -"

  The doctor's face was getting redder and redder. Mr Entwhistle hastened to interpose.

  "Of course. Of course. But if there had been evidence – evidence of which you yourself were not aware? If, for instance, he had said something to someone -"

  "Indicating that he was contemplating suicide? Did he? I must say it surprises me."

  "But if it were so – my case is purely hypothetical – could you rule out the possibility?"

  Dr Larraby said slowly:

  "No – no – I could not do that. But I say again, I should be very much surprised."

  Mr Entwhistle hastened to follow up his advantage.

  "If, then, we assume that his death was not natural – all this is purely hypothetical – what could have caused it? What kind of a drug, I mean?"

  "Several. Some kind of a narcotic would be indicated. There was no sign of cyanosis, the attitude was quite peaceful."

  "He had sleeping draughts or pills? Something of that kind."

  "Yes. I had prescribed Slumberyl – a very safe and dependable hypnotic. He did not take it every night. And he only had a small bottle of tablets at a time. Three or even four times the prescribed dose would not have caused death. In fact, I remember seeing the bottle on his wash-stand after his death still nearly full."

  "What else had you prescribed for him?"

  "Various things – a medicine containing a small quantity of morphia to be taken when he had an attack of pain. Some vitamin capsules. An indigestion mixture."

  Mr Entwhistle interrupted.

  "Vitamin capsules? I think I was once prescribed a course of those. Small round capsules of gelatine."

  "Yes. Containing adexoline."

  "Could anything else have been introduced into – say – one of those capsules?"

  "Something lethal, you mean?" The doctor was looking more and more surprised. "But surely no man would ever – look here, Entwhistle, what are you getting at? My God, man, are you suggesting murder?"

  "I don't quite know what I'm suggesting… I just want to know what would be possible."

  "But what evidence have you for even suggesting such a thing?"

  "I haven't any evidence," said Mr Entwhistle in a tired voice. "Mr Abernethie is dead – and the person to whom he spoke is also dead. The whole thing is rumour – vague, unsatisfactory rumour, and I want to scotch it if I can. If you tell me that no one could possibly have poisoned Abernethie in any way whatsoever, I'll be delighted! It would be a big weight off my mind, I can assure you."

  Dr Larraby got up and walked up and down.

  "I can't tell you what you want me to tell you," he said at last. "I wish I could. Of course it could have been done. Anybody could have extracted the oil from a capsule and replaced it with – say – pure nicotine or half a dozen other things. Or something could have been put in his food or drink? Isn't that more likely?"

  "Possibly. But you see, there were only the servants in the house when he died – and I don't think it was any of them – in fact I'm quite sure it wasn't. So I'm looking for some delayed action possibility. There's no drug, I suppose, that you can administer and then the person dies weeks later?"

  "A convenient idea – but untenable, I'm afraid," said the doctor dryly. "I know you're a responsible person, Entwhistle, but who is making this suggestion? It seems to me wildly far fetched."

  "Abernethie never said anything to you? Never hinted that one of his relations might be wanting him out of the way?"

  The doctor looked at him curiously.

  "No, he never said anything to me. Are you sure, Entwhistle, that somebody hasn't been – well, playing up the sensational? Some hysterical subjects can give an appearance of being quite reasonable and normal, you know."

  "I hope it was like that. It might well be."

  "Let me understand. Someone claims that Abernethie told her – it was a woman, I suppose?"

  "Oh yes, it was a woman."

  "- told her that someone was trying to kill him?"

  Cornered, Mr Entwhistle reluctantly told the tale of Cora's remark at the funeral. Dr Larraby's face lightened.

  "My dear fellow. I shouldn't pay any attention! The explanation is quite simple. The woman's at a certain time of life – craving for sensation, unbalanced, unreliable – might say anything. They do, you know."

  Mr Entwhistle resented the doctor's easy assumption. He himself had had to deal with plenty of sensation-hunting and hysterical women.

  "You may be quite right," he said, rising. "Unfortunately we can't tackle her on the subject, as she's been murdered herself."

  "What's that – murdered?" Dr Larraby looked as though he had grave suspicions of Mr Entwhistle's own stability of mind.

  "You've probably read about it in the paper. Mrs Lanquenet at Lytchett St Mary in Berkshire."

  "Of course – I'd no idea she was a relation of Richard Abernethie's!" Dr Larraby was looking quite shaken.

  Feeling that he had revenged himself for the doctor's professional superiority, and unhappily conscious that his own suspicions had not been assuaged as a result of the visit, Mr Entwhistle took his leave.

  II

  Back at Enderby, Mr Entwhistle decided to talk to Lanscombe.

  He started by asking the old butler what his plans were.

  "Mrs Leo has asked me to stay on here until the house is sold, sir, and I'm sure I shall be very pleased to oblige her. We are all very fond of Mrs Leo." He sighed. "I feel it very much, sir, if you will excuse me mentioning it, that the house has to be sold. I've known it for so very many years, and seen all the young ladies and gentlemen grow up in it. I always thought that Mr Mortimer would come after his father and perhaps bring up a family here, too. It was arranged, sir, that I should go to the North Lodge when I got past doing my work here. A very nice little place, the North Lodge – and I looked forward to having it very spick and span. But I suppose that's all over now."

  "I'm afraid so, Lanscombe. The estate will all have to be sold together. But with your legacy -"

  "Oh I'm not complaining, sir, and I'm very sensible of Mr Abernethie's generosity. I'm well provided for, but it's not so easy to find a little place to buy nowadays and though my married niece has asked me to make my home with them, well, it won't be quite the same thing as living on the estate."

  "I know," said Mr Entwhistle. "It's a hard new world for us old fellows. I wish I'd seen more of my old friend before he went. How did he seem those last few months?"

  "Well, he wasn't himself, sir. Not since Mr Mortimer's death."

  "No, it broke him up. And then he was a sick man – sick men have strange fancies sometimes. I imagine Mr Abernethie suffered from that sort of thing in his last days. He spoke of enemies sometimes, of somebody wishing to do him harm – perhaps? He may even have thought his food was being tampered with?"

  Old Lanscombe looked surprised – surprised and offended.

  "I cannot recall anything of that kind, sir."

  Entwhistle looked at him keenly.

  "You're a very loyal servant, Lanscombe, I know that. But such fancies, on Mr Abernethie's part would be quite – er – unimportant – a natural symptom in some – er – diseases."

  "Indeed, sir? I can only say Mr Abernethie never said anything like that to me, or in my hearing."

  Mr Entwhistle slid gently to another subject.

  "He had some of his family down to stay with him, didn't he, before he died. His nephew and his two nieces and their husbands?"

  "Yes, sir, that is so."

  "Was he satisfied with those visits? Or was he disappointed?"

  Lanscombe's eyes became remote, his old back stiffened.

  "I really could not say, sir."

  "I think you could, you know," sai
d Mr Entwhistle gently. "It's not your place to say anything of that kind – that's what you really mean. But there are times when one has to do violence to one's sense of what is fitting. I was one of your master's oldest friends. I cared for him very much. So did you. That's why I'm asking you for your opinion as a man, not as a butler."

  Lanscombe was silent for a moment, then he said in a colourless voice:

  "Is there anything – wrong, sir?"

  Mr Entwhistle replied truthfully.

  "I don't know," he said. "I hope not. I would like to make sure. Have you yourself felt that something was – wrong?"

  "Only since the funeral, sir. And I couldn't say exactly what it is. But Mrs Leo and Mrs Timothy, too, they didn't seem quite themselves that evening after the others had gone."

  "You know the contents of the will?"

  "Yes, sir. Mrs Leo thought I would like to know. It seemed to me, if I may permit myself to comment, a very fair will."

  "Yes, it was a fair will. Equal benefits. But it is not, I think, the will that Mr Abernethie originally intended to make after his son died. Will you answer now the question that I asked you just now?"

  "As a matter of personal opinion -"

  "Yes, yes, that is understood."

  "The master, sir, was very much disappointed after Mr George had been here. He had hoped, I think, that Mr George might resemble Mr Mortimer. Mr George, if I may say so, did not come up to standard. Miss Laura's husband was always considered unsatisfactory, and I'm afraid Mr George took after him." Lanscombe paused and then went on, "Then the young ladies came with their husbands. Miss Susan he took to at once – a very spirited and handsome young lady, but it's my opinion he couldn't abide her husband. Young ladies make funny choices nowadays, sir."

  "And the other couple?"

  "I couldn't say much about that. A very pleasant and good-looking young pair. I think the master enjoyed having them here – but I don't think -" The old man hesitated.

  "Yes, Lanscombe?"

  "Well, the master had never had much truck with the stage. He said to me one day, 'I can't understand why anyone gets stage-struck. It's a foolish kind of life. Seems to deprive people of what little sense they have. I don't know what it does to your moral sense. You certainly lose your sense of proportion.' Of course he wasn't referring directly -"