"It's lovely to see you, of course," said Rosamund without any marked enthusiasm. "But it's frightfully early in the morning."
She yawned heavily.
"It's eleven o'clock," said Mr Entwhistle.
Rosamund yawned again. She said apologetically:
"We had the hell of a party last night. Far too much to drink. Michael's got a terrible hangover still."
Michael appeared at this moment, also yawning. He had a cup of
black coffee in his hand and was wearing a very smart dressing-gown. He
looked haggard and attractive - and his smile had the usual charm.
Rosamund was wearing a black skirt, a rather dirty yellow pullover, and
nothing else as far as Mr Entwhistle could judge.
The precise and fastidious lawyer did not approve at all of the
young Shanes' way of living. The rather ramshackle flat on the first
floor of a Chelsea house - the bottles and glasses and cigarette ends
that lay about in profusion - the stale air, and the general air of dust
and dishevelment.
In the midst of this discouraging setting Rosamund and Michael
bloomed with their wonderful good looks. They were certainly a very
handsome couple and they seemed, Mr Entwhistle thought, very fond of
each other. Rosamund was certainly adoringly fond of Michael.
"Darling," she said. "Do you think just a teeny sip of champagne?
Just to pull us together and toast the future. Oh, Mr Entwhistle, it
really is the most marvellous luck Uncle Richard leaving us all that
lovely money just now -"
Mr Entwhistle noted the quick, almost scowling frown that Michael gave, but Rosamund went on serenely:
"Because there's the most wonderful chance of a play. Michael's got
an option on it. It's a most wonderful part for him and even a small
part for me, too. It's about one of these young criminals, you know,
that are really saints - it's absolutely full of the latest modern
ideas."
"So it would seem," said Mr Entwhistle stiffly.
"He robs, you know, and he kills, and he's hounded by the police and by society - and then in the end, he does a miracle."
Mr Entwhistle sat in outraged silence. Pernicious nonsense these young fools talked! And wrote.
Not that Michael Shane was talking much. There was still a faint scowl on his face.
"Mr Entwhistle doesn't want to hear all our rhapsodies, Rosamund,"
he said. "Shut up for a bit and let him tell us why he's come to see
us."
"There are just one or two little matters to straighten out," said Mr Entwhistle. "I have just come back from Lytchett St Mary."
"Then it was Aunt Cora who was murdered? We saw it in the paper.
And I said it must be because it's a very uncommon name. Poor old Aunt
Cora. I was looking at her at the funeral that day and thinking what a
frump she was and that really one might as well be dead if one looked
like that - and now she is dead. They absolutely wouldn't believe it
last night when I told them that that murder with the hatchet in the
paper was actually my aunt! They just laughed, didn't they, Michael?"
Michael Shane did not reply and Rosamund with every appearance of enjoyment said:
"Two murders one after another. It's almost too much, isn't it?"
"Don't be a fool, Rosamund, your Uncle Richard wasn't murdered."
"Well, Cora thought he was."
Mr Entwhistle intervened to ask:
"You came back to London after the funeral, didn't you?"
"Yes, we came by the same train as you did."
"Of course... of course. I ask because I tried to get hold of you,"
he shot a quick glance at the telephone - "on the following day -
several times in fact, and couldn't get an answer."
"Oh dear - I'm so sorry. What were we doing that day? The day
before yesterday. We were here until about twelve, weren't we? And then
you went round to try and get hold of Rosenheim and you went on to lunch
with Oscar and I went out to see if I could get some nylons and round
the shops. I was to meet Janet but we missed each other. Yes, I had a
lovely afternoon shopping - and then we dined at the Castile. We got
back here about ten o'clock, I suppose."
"About that," said Michael. He was looking thoughtfully at Mr Entwhistle. "What did you want to get hold of us for, sir?"
"Oh! Just some points that had arisen about Richard Abernethie's estate - papers to sign - all that."
Rosamund asked: "Do we get the money now, or not for ages?"
"I'm afraid," said Mr Entwhistle, "that the law is prone to delays."
"But we can get an advance, can't we?" Rosamund looked alarmed.
"Michael said we could. Actually it's terribly important. Because of the play."
Michael said pleasantly:
"Oh, there's no real hurry. It's just a question of deciding whether or not to take up the option."
"It will be quite easy to advance you some money," said Mr Entwhistle.
"As much as you need."
"Then that's all right." Rosamund gave a sigh of relief. She added as an afterthought: "Did Aunt Cora leave any money?"
"A little. She left it to your Cousin Susan."
"Why Susan, I should like to know! Is it much?"
"A few hundred pounds and some furniture."
"Nice furniture?"
"No," said Mr Entwhistle.
Rosamund lost interest. "It's all very odd, isn't it?" she said.
"There was Cora, after the funeral, suddenly coming out with 'He was
murdered!' and then, the very next day, she goes and gets herself
murdered? I mean, it is odd, isn't it?"
There was a moment's rather uncomfortable silence before Mr Entwhistle said quietly:
"Yes, it is indeed very odd..."
IV
Mr Entwhistle studied Susan Banks as she leant forward across the table talking in her animated manner.
None of the loveliness of Rosamund here. But it was an attractive
face and its attraction lay, Mr Entwhistle decided, in its vitality. The
curves of the mouth were rich and full. It was a woman's mouth and her
body was very decidedly a woman's - emphatically so. Yet in many ways
Susan reminded him of her uncle, Richard Abernethie. The shape of her
head, the line of her jaw, the deep-set reflective eyes. She had the
same kind of dominant personality that Richard had had, the same driving
energy, the same foresightedness and forthright judgment. Of the three
members of the younger generation she alone seemed to be made of the
metal that had raised up the vast Abernethie fortunes. Had Richard
recognised in this niece a kindred spirit to his own? Mr Entwhistle
thought he must have done. Richard had always had a keen appreciation of
character. Here, surely, were exactly the qualities of which he was in
search. And yet, in his will, Richard Abernethie had made no distinction
in her favour. Distrustful, as Mr Entwhistle believed, of George,
passing over that lovely dimwit, Rosamund - could he not have found in
Susan what he was seeking - an heir of his own mettle?
If not, the cause must be - yes, it followed logically - the husband...
Mr Entwhistle's eyes slid gently over Susan's shoulder to where Gregory Banks stood absently whittling at a pencil.
A thin, pale, nondescript young man with reddish sandy hair. So
overshadowed by Susan's colourful personality that it was difficult to
realise what he himself was really like. Nothing to take hold of in the
fellow - quite pleasant, ready to be agreeable - a "yes" man, as the
modern term went. And yet that did not seem to describe him
satisfactorily. There was something vaguely disquieting about the
unobtrusiveness of Gregory Banks. He had been an unsuitable match - yet
Susan had insisted on marrying him - had overborne all opposition - why?
What had she seen in him?
And now, six months after the marriage - "She's crazy about the
fellow," Mr Entwhistle said to himself. He knew the signs. A large
number of wives with matrimonial troubles had passed through the office
of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard. Wives madly devoted
to
unsatisfactory
and
often
what
appeared
quite
unprepossessing husbands, wives contemptuous of, and bored by, apparently attractive and impeccable husbands. What any woman saw
in some particular man was beyond the comprehension of the average
intelligent male. It just was so. A woman who could be intelligent about
everything else in the world could be a complete fool when it came to
some particular man. Susan, thought Mr Entwhistle, was one of those
women. For her the world revolved around Greg. And that had its dangers
in more ways than one.
Susan was talking with emphasis and indignation.
"-because it is disgraceful. You remember that woman who was
murdered in Yorkshire last year? Nobody was ever arrested. And the old
woman in the sweet shop who was killed with a crowbar. They detained
some man, and then they let him go!"
"There has to be evidence, my dear," said Mr Entwhistle.
Susan paid no attention.
"And that other case - a retired nurse - that was a hatchet or an axe - just like Aunt Cora."
"Dear me, you appear to have made quite a study of these crimes, Susan," said Mr Entwhistle mildly.
"Naturally one remembers these things - and when someone in one's
own family is killed - and in very much the same way - well, it shows
that there must be a lot of these sort of people going round the
countryside, breaking into places and attacking lonely women - and that
the police just don't bother!"
Mr Entwhistle shook his head.
"Don't belittle the police, Susan. They are a very shrewd and
patient body of men - persistent, too. Just because it isn't still
mentioned in the newspapers doesn't mean that a case is closed. Far from
it."
"And yet there are hundreds of unsolved crimes every year."
"Hundreds?" Mr Entwhistle looked dubious. "A certain number, yes.
But there are many occasions when the police know who has committed a
crime but where the evidence is insufficient for a prosecution."
"I don't believe it," said Susan. "I believe if you knew definitely who committed a crime you could always get the evidence."
"I wonder now." Mr Entwhistle sounded thoughtful. "I very much wonder..."
"Have they any idea at all - in Aunt Cora's case - of who it might be?"
"That I couldn't say. Not as far as I know. But they would hardly
confide in me - and it's early days yet - the murder took place only the
day before yesterday, remember."
"It's definitely got to be a certain kind of person," Susan mused.
"A brutal, perhaps slightly half-witted type - a discharged soldier or a
gaol bird. I mean, using a hatchet like that."
Looking slightly quizzical, Mr Entwhistle raised his eyebrows and murmured:
"Lizzie Borden with an axe
Gave her father fifty whacks
When she saw what she had done
She gave her mother fifty-one."
