c12

The photographs interested Susan, but she laid them aside, sorted all the papers she had found into a heap and began to go through them methodically. About a quarter way through she came on a letter. She read it through twice and was still staring at it when a voice speaking behind her caused her to give a cry of alarm.

 

"And what may you have got hold of there, Susan? Hallo, what's the matter?"

 

Susan reddened with annoyance. Her cry of alarm had been quite involuntary and she felt ashamed and anxious to explain.

 

"George? How you startled me!"

 

Her cousin smiled lazily.

 

"So it seems."

 

"How did you get here?"

 

"Well, the door downstairs was open, so I walked in. There seemed to be nobody about on the ground floor, so I came up here. If you mean how did I get to this part of the world, I started down this morning to come to the funeral."

 

"I didn't see you there?"

 

"The old bus played me up. The petrol feed seemed choked. I tinkered with it for some time and finally it seemed to clear itself. I was too late for the funeral by then, but I thought I might as well come on down. I knew you were here."

 

He paused and then went on:

 

"I rang you up, as a matter of fact - and Greg told me you'd come down to take possession, as it were. I thought I might give you a hand."

 

Susan said, "Aren't you needed in the office? Or can you take days off whenever you like?"

 

"A funeral has always been a recognised excuse for absenteeism. And this funeral is indubitably genuine. Besides, a murder always fascinates people. Anyway, I shan't be going much to the office in future - not now that I'm a man of means. I shall have better things to do."

 

He paused and grinned, "Same as Greg," he said.

 

Susan looked at George thoughtfully. She had never seen much of this cousin of hers and when they did meet she had always found him rather difficult to make out.

 

She asked, "Why did you really come down here, George?"

 

"I'm not sure it wasn't to do a little detective work. I've been thinking a good deal about the last funeral we attended. Aunt Cora certainly threw a spanner into the works that day. I've wondered whether it was sheer irresponsibility and auntly joie de vivre that prompted her words, or whether she really had something to go upon. What actually is in that letter that you were reading so attentively when I came in?"

 

Susan said slowly, "It's a letter that Uncle Richard wrote to Cora after he'd been down here to see her."

 

How very black George's eyes were. She'd thought of them as brown but they were black, and there was something curiously impenetrable about black eyes. They concealed the thoughts that lay behind them.

 

George drawled slowly, "Anything interesting in it?"

 

"No, not exactly..."

 

"Can I see?"

 

She hesitated for a moment, then put the letter into his outstretched hand.

 

He read it, skimming over the contents in a low monotone.

 

"Glad to have seen you again after all these years... looking very well... had a good journey home and arrived back not too tired..."

 

His voice changed suddenly, sharpened:

 

"Please don't say anything to anyone about what I told you. It may be a mistake. Your loving brother, Richard."

 

He looked up at Susan. "What does that mean?"

 

"It might mean anything... It might be just about his health. Or it might be some gossip about a mutual friend."

 

"Oh yes, it might be a lot of things. It isn't conclusive - but it's suggestive... What did he tell Cora? Does anyone know what he told her?"

 

"Miss Gilchrist might know," said Susan thoughtfully. "I think she listened."

 

"Oh, yes, the Companion help. Where is she, by the way?"

 

"In hospital, suffering from arsenic poisoning."

 

George stared.

 

"You don't mean it?"

 

"I do. Someone sent her some poisoned wedding cake."

 

George sat down on one of the bedroom chairs and whistled.

 

"It looks," he said, "as though Uncle Richard was not mistaken."

 

III

 

On the following morning Inspector Morton called at the cottage.

 

He was a quiet middle-aged man with a soft country burr in his voice. His manner was quiet and unhurried, but his eyes were shrewd.

 

"You realise what this is about, Mrs Banks?" he said. "Dr Proctor has already told you about Miss Gilchrist. The few crumbs of wedding cake that he took from here have been analysed and show traces of arsenic."

 

"So somebody deliberately wanted to poison her?"

 

"That's what it looks like. Miss Gilchrist herself doesn't seem able to help us. She keeps repeating that it's impossible - that nobody would do such a thing. But somebody did. You can't throw any light on the matter?"

 

Susan shook her head.

 

"I'm simply dumbfounded," she said. "Can't you find out anything from the postmark? Or the handwriting?"

 

"You've forgotten - the wrapping paper was presumably burnt. And there's a little doubt whether it came through the post at all. Young Andrews, the driver of the postal van, doesn't seem able to remember delivering it. He's got a big round, and he can't be sure - but there it is - there's a doubt about it."

 

"But - what's the alternative?"

 

"The alternative, Mrs Banks, is that an old piece of brown paper was used that already had Miss Gilchrist's name and address on it and a cancelled stamp, and that the package was pushed through the letter box or deposited inside the door by hand to create the impression that it had come by post."

c11

"No, I have to go through my aunt's things. I shall be here for a few days."

 

"Good. You understand the police will probably want to ask some questions. You don't know of anyone who - well, might have had it in for Miss Gilchrist?"

 

Susan shook her head.

 

"I don't really know much about her. She was with my aunt for some years - that's all I know."

 

"Quite, quite. Always seemed a pleasant unassuming woman - quite ordinary. Not the kind, you'd say, to have enemies or anything melodramatic of that kind. Wedding cake through the post. Sounds like some jealous woman - but who'd be jealous of Miss Gilchrist? Doesn't seem to fit."

 

"No."

 

"Well, I must be on my way. I don't know what's happening to us in quiet little Lytchett St Mary. First a brutal murder and now attempted poisoning through the post. Odd, the one following the other."

 

He went down the path to his car. The cottage felt stuffy and Susan left the door standing open as she went slowly upstairs to resume her task.

 

Cora Lansquenet had not been a tidy or methodical woman. Her drawers held a miscellaneous assortment of things. There were toilet accessories and letters and old handkerchiefs and paint brushes mixed up together in one drawer. There were a few old letters and bills thrust in amongst a bulging drawer of underclothes. In another drawer under some woollen jumpers was a cardboard box holding two false fringes. There was another drawer full of old photographs and sketching books. Susan lingered over a group taken evidently at some French place many years ago and which showed a younger, thinner Cora clinging to the arm of a tall lanky man with a straggling beard dressed in what seemed to be a velveteen coat and whom Susan took

 

to be the late Pierre Lansquenet.

c11

The doctor threw her a sharp glance. Then he seemed to come to a decision.

 

"It was arsenic," he said.

 

"Arsenic?" Susan stared. "You mean somebody gave her arsenic?"

 

"That's what it looks like."

 

"Could she have taken it herself? Deliberately, I mean?"

 

"Suicide? She says not and she should know. Besides, if she wanted to commit suicide she wouldn't be likely to choose arsenic. There are sleeping pills in this house. She could have taken an overdose of them."

 

"Could the arsenic have got into something by accident?"

 

"That's what I'm wondering. It seems very unlikely, but such things have been known. But if you and she ate the same things -"

 

Susan nodded. She said, "It all seems impossible -" then she gave a sudden gasp. "Why, of course, the wedding cake!"

 

"What's that? Wedding cake?"

 

Susan explained. The doctor listened with close attention.

 

"Odd. And you say she wasn't sure who sent it? Any of it left? Or is the box it came in lying around?"

 

"I don't know. I'll look."

 

They searched together and finally found the white cardboard box with a few crumbs of cake still in it lying on the kitchen dresser. The doctor packed it away with some care.

 

"I'll take charge of this. Any idea where the wrapping paper it came in might be?"

 

Here they were not successful and Susan said that it had probably gone into the Ideal boiler.

 

"You won't be leaving here just yet, Mrs Banks?"

 

His tone was genial, but it made Susan feel a little uncomfortable.

c11

"Miss Gilchrist, what's the matter. Are you ill?"

 

"Yes. I don't know what - I -" she tried to get out of bed, was seized with a fit of vomiting and then collapsed back on the pillows.

 

She murmured: "Please - ring up doctor. Must have eaten something..."

 

"I'll get you some bicarbonate. We can get the doctor in the morning if you're not better."

 

Miss Gilchrist shook her head.

 

"No, get doctor now. I - I feel dreadful."

 

"Do you know his number? Or shall I look in the book?"

 

Miss Gilchrist gave her the number. She was interrupted by another fit of retching.

 

Susan's call was answered by a sleepy male voice.

 

"Who? Gilchrist? In Mead's Lane. Yes, I know. I'll be right along."

 

He was as good as his word. Ten minutes later Susan heard his car draw up outside and she went to open the door to him.

 

She explained the case as she took him upstairs. "I think," she said,

 

"she must have eaten something that disagreed with her. But she seems pretty bad."

 

The doctor had had the air of one keeping his temper in leash and who has had some experience of being called out unnecessarily on more than one occasion. But as soon as he examined the moaning woman his manner changed. He gave various curt orders to Susan and presently came down and telephoned. Then he joined Susan in the sitting-room.

 

"I've sent for an ambulance. Must get her into hospital."

 

"She's really bad then?"

 

"Yes. I've given her a shot of morphia to ease the pain. But it looks -" He broke off. "What's she eaten?"

 

"We had macaroni au gratin for supper and a custard pudding. Coffee afterwards."

 

"You have the same things?"

 

"Yes."

 

"And you're all right? No pain or discomfort?"

 

"No."

 

"She's taken nothing else? No tinned fish? Or sausages?"

 

"No. We had lunch at the King's Arms - after the inquest."

 

"Yes, of course. You're Mrs Lansquenet's niece?"

 

"Yes."

 

"That was a nasty business. Hope they catch the man who did it."

 

"Yes, indeed."

 

The ambulance came. Miss Gilchrist was taken away and the doctor went with her. He told Susan he would ring her up in the morning. When he had left she went upstairs to bed. This time she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

 

II

 

The funeral was well attended. Most of the village had turned out. Susan and Mr Entwhistle were the only mourners, but various wreaths had been sent by the other members of the family. Mr Entwhistle asked where Miss Gilchrist was, and Susan explained the circumstances in a hurried whisper. Mr Entwhistle raised his eyebrows.

 

"Rather an odd occurrence?"

 

"Oh, she's better this morning. They rang up from the hospital. People do get these bilious turns. Some make more fuss than others."

 

Mr Entwhistle said no more. He was returning to London immediately after the funeral.

 

Susan went back to the cottage. She found some eggs and made herself an omelette. Then she went up to Cora's room and started to sort through the dead woman's things.

 

She was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor.

 

The doctor was looking worried. He replied to Susan's inquiry by saying that Miss Gilchrist was much better.

 

"She'll be out and around in a couple of days," he said. "But it was lucky I got called in so promptly. Otherwise - it might have been a near thing."

 

Susan stared. "Was she really so bad?"

 

"Mrs Banks, will you tell me again exactly what Miss Gilchrist had to eat and drink yesterday. Everything."

 

Susan reflected and gave a meticulous account. The doctor shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

 

"There must have been something she had and you didn't?"

 

"I don't think so... Cakes, scones, jam, tea - and then supper. No, I can't remember anything."

 

The doctor rubbed his nose. He walked up and down the room.

 

"Was it definitely something she ate? Definitely food poisoning?"

c11

Susan lay in bed and waited for sleep to come. It had been a long day and she was tired. She had been quite sure that she would go to sleep at once. She never had any difficulty in going to sleep. And yet here she lay, hour after hour, wide awake, her mind racing.

 

She had said she did not, mind sleeping in this room, in this bed. This bed where Cora Abernethie -

 

No, no, she must put all that out of her mind. She had always prided herself on having no nerves. Why think of that afternoon less than a week ago? Think ahead the future. Her future and Greg's. Those premises in Cardigan Street - just what they wanted. The business on the ground floor and a charming flat upstairs. The room out at the back a laboratory for Greg. For purposes of income tax it would be an excellent set-up. Greg would get calm and well again. There would be no more of those alarming brainstorms. The times when he looked at her without seeming to know who she was. Once or twice she'd been quite frightened... And old Mr Cole - he'd hinted - threatened: "If this happens again..." And it might have happened again - it would have happened again. If Uncle Richard hadn't died just when he did...

 

Uncle Richard - but really why look at it like that? He'd nothing to live for. Old and tired and ill. His son dead. It was a mercy really. To die in his sleep quietly like that. Quietly... in his sleep... If only she could sleep. It was so stupid lying awake hour after hour... hearing the furniture creak, and the rustling of trees and bushes outside the window and the occasional queer melancholy hoot - an owl, she supposed. How sinister the country was, somehow. So different from the big noisy indifferent town. One felt so safe there - surrounded by people - never alone. Whereas here...

 

Houses where a murder had been committed were sometimes

 

haunted. Perhaps this cottage would come to be known as the haunted cottage. Haunted by the spirit of Cora Lansquenet... Aunt Cora. Odd, really, how ever since she had arrived she had felt as though Aunt Cora were quite close to her... within reach. All nerves and fancy. Cora Lansquenet was dead, tomorrow she would be buried. There was no one in the cottage except Susan herself and Miss Gilchrist. Then why did she feel that there was someone in this room, someone close beside her...

 

She had lain on this bed when the hatchet fell... Lying there trustingly asleep... Knowing nothing till the hatchet fell... And now she wouldn't let Susan sleep...

 

The furniture creaked again... was that a stealthy step? Susan switched on the light. Nothing. Nerves, nothing but nerves. Relax... close your eyes...

 

Surely that was a groan - a groan or a faint moan... Someone in pain - someone dying...

 

"I mustn't imagine things, I mustn't, I mustn't," Susan whispered to herself.

 

Death was the end - there was no existence after death. Under no circumstances could anyone come back. Or was she reliving a scene from the past - a dying woman groaning...

 

There it was again... stronger... someone groaning in acute pain...

 

But - this was real. Once again Susan switched on the light, sat up in bed and listened. The groans were real groans and she was hearing them through the wall. They came from the room next door.

 

Susan jumped out of bed, flung on a dressing-gown and crossed to the door. She went out on to the landing, tapped for a moment on Miss Gilchrist's door and then went in. Miss Gilchrist's light was on. She was sitting up in bed. She looked ghastly. Her face was distorted with pain.

c10

"Uncle Timothy? I'm Susan Banks."

 

"Susan who?"

 

"Banks. Formerly Abernethie. Your niece Susan."

 

"Oh, you're Susan, are you? What's the matter? What are you ringing up for at this time of night?"

 

"It's quite early still."

 

"It isn't. I was in bed."

 

"You must go to bed very early. How's Aunt Maude?"

 

"Is that all you rang up to ask? Your aunt's in a good deal of pain and she can't do a thing. Not a thing. She's helpless. We're in a nice mess, I can tell you. That fool of a doctor says he can't even get a nurse. He wanted to cart Maude off to hospital. I stood out against that. He's trying to get hold of someone for us. I can't do anything - I daren't even try. There's a fool from the village staying in the house tonight but she's murmuring about getting back to her husband. Don't know what we're going to do."

 

"That's what I rang up about. Would you like Miss Gilchrist?"

 

"Who's she? Never heard of her."

 

"Aunt Cora's companion. She's very nice and capable."

 

"Can she cook?"

 

"Yes, she cooks very well, and she could look after Aunt Maude."

 

"That's all very well, but when could she come? Here I am, all on my own, with only these idiots of village women popping in and out at odd hours, and it's not good for me. My heart's playing me up."

 

"I'll arrange for her to get off to you as soon as possible. The day after tomorrow, perhaps?"

 

"Well, thanks very much," said the voice rather grudgingly. "You're a good girl, Susan - er - thank you."

 

Susan rang off and went into the kitchen.

 

"Would you be willing to go up to Yorkshire and look after my aunt?

 

She fell and broke her ankle and my uncle is quite useless. He's a bit of a pest but Aunt Maude is a very good sort. They have help in from the village, but you could cook and look after Aunt Maude."

 

Miss Gilchrist dropped the coffee pot in her agitation.

 

"Oh, thank you, thank you - that really is kind. I think I can say of myself that I am really good in the sickroom, and I'm sure I can manage your uncle and cook him nice little meals. It's really very kind of you, Mrs Banks, and I do appreciate it."

c10

"I don't know whether I ought to ask it." Miss Gilchrist's hands began to shake and she tried to steady her voice. "But would it be possible not to - to mention the circumstances - or even the name?"

 

Susan stared.

 

"I don't understand."

 

"That's because you haven't thought, Mrs Banks. It's murder. A murder that's been in the papers and that everybody has read about. Don't you see? People might think. 'Two women living together, and one of them is killed - and perhaps the companion did it.' Don't you see, Mrs Banks?

 

I'm sure that if I was looking for someone, I'd - well, I'd think twice before engaging myself - if you understand what I mean. Because one never knows! It's been worrying me dreadfully, Mrs Banks; I've been lying awake at night thinking that perhaps I'll never get another job - not of this kind. And what else is there that I can do?"

 

The question came out with unconscious pathos. Susan felt suddenly stricken. She realised the desperation of this pleasant-spoken commonplace woman who was dependent for existence on the fears and whims of employers. And there was a lot of truth in what Miss Gilchrist had said. You wouldn't, if you could help it, engage a woman to share domestic intimacy who had figured, however innocently, in a murder case.

 

Susan said: "But if they find the man who did it -"

 

"Oh then, of course, it will be quite all right. But will they find him? I don't think, myself, the police have the least idea. And if he's not caught - well, that leaves me as - as not quite the most likely person, but as a person who could have done it."

 

Susan nodded thoughtfully. It was true that Miss Gilchrist did not benefit from Cora Lansquenet's death but who was to know that? And besides, there were so many tales - ugly tales - of animosity arising between women who lived together - strange pathological motives for sudden violence. Someone who had not known them might imagine that Cora Lansquenet and Miss Gilchrist had lived on those terms...

 

Susan spoke with her usual decision.

 

"Don't worry, Miss Gilchrist," she said, speaking briskly and cheerfully. "I'm sure I can find you a post amongst my friends. There won't be the least difficulty."

 

"I'm afraid, said Miss Gilchrist, regaining some of her customary manner, "that I couldn't undertake any really rough work. Just a little plain cooking and housework -"

 

The telephone rang and Miss Gilchrist jumped.

 

"Dear me, I wonder who that can be."

 

"I expect it's my husband," said Susan, jumping up. "He said he'd ring me tonight."

 

She went to the telephone.

 

"Yes? - yes, this is Mrs Banks speaking personally..."

 

There was a pause and then her voice changed. It became soft and warm. "Hallo, darling - yes, it's me... Oh, quite well... Murder by someone unknown... the usual thing... Only Mr Entwhistle... What?... it's difficult to say, but I think so... Yes, just as we thought... Absolutely according to plan... I shall sell the stuff. There's nothing we'd want... Not for a day or two... Absolutely frightful... Don't fuss. I know what I'm doing... Greg, you didn't... You were careful to... No, it's nothing. Nothing at all. Good night, darling."

 

She rang off. The nearness of Miss Gilchrist had hampered her a little. Miss Gilchrist could probably hear from the kitchen, where she had tactfully retired, exactly what went on. There were things she had wanted to ask Greg, but she hadn't liked to.

 

She stood by the telephone, frowning abstractedly. Then suddenly an idea came to her.

 

"Of course," she murmured. "Just the thing."

 

Lifting the receiver she asked for Trunk Enquiry.

 

Some quarter of an hour later a weary voice from the exchange was saying:

 

"I'm afraid there's no reply."

 

"Please go on ringing them."

 

Susan spoke autocratically. She listened to the far off buzzing of a telephone bell. Then, suddenly it was interrupted and a man's voice, peevish and slightly indignant, said:

 

"Yes, yes, what is it?"

 

"Uncle Timothy?"

 

"What's that? I can't hear you."

c10

"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.

 

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?"

 

"Oh, of course."

 

"I don't know whether I ought to ask it." Miss Gilchrist's ha

c10

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?"

 

c9

"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."

c9

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?"

c9

"No, no, indeed."

 

"You'll want to go through her things? After the inquest, perhaps?"

 

"I thought I'd stay here a couple of days, go through things, and clear everything up."

 

"Sleep here, you mean?"

 

"Yes. Is there any difficulty?"

 

"Oh no, Mrs Banks, of course not. I'll put fresh sheets on my bed, and I can doss down here on the couch quite well."

 

"But there's Aunt Cora's room, isn't there? I can sleep in that."

 

"You - you wouldn't mind?"

 

"You mean because she was murdered there? Oh no, I wouldn't mind. I'm very tough, Miss Gilchrist. It's been - I mean - it's all right again?"

 

Miss Gilchrist understood the question.

 

"Oh yes, Mrs Banks. All the blankets sent away to the cleaners and Mrs Panter and I scrubbed the whole room out thoroughly. And there are plenty of spare blankets. But come up and see for yourself."

 

She led the way upstairs and Susan followed her.

 

The room where Cora Lansquenet had died was clean and fresh and curiously devoid of any sinister atmosphere. Like the sitting-room it contained a mixture of modern utility and elaborately painted furniture. It represented Cora's cheerful tasteless personality. Over the mantelpiece an oil painting showed a buxom young woman about to enter her bath.

 

Susan gave a slight shudder as she looked at it and Miss Gilchrist said:

 

"That was painted by Mrs Lansquenet's husband. There are a lot of more of his pictures in the dining-room downstairs."

 

"How terrible."

 

"Well, I don't care very much for that style of painting myself - but Mrs Lansquenet was very proud of her husband as an artist and thought that his work was sadly unappreciated."

 

"Where are Aunt Cora's own pictures?"

 

"In my room. Would you like to see them?"

 

Miss Gilchrist displayed her treasures proudly.

 

Susan remarked that Aunt Cora seemed to have been fond of sea coast resorts.

 

"Oh yes. You see, she lived for many years with Mr Lansquenet at a small fishing village in Brittany. Fishing boats are always so picturesque, are they not?"

 

"Obviously," Susan murmured. A whole series of picture postcards could, she thought, have been made from Cora Lansquenet's paintings which were faithful to detail and very highly coloured. They gave rise to the suspicion that they might actually have been painted from picture postcards.

 

But when she hazarded this opinion Miss Gilchrist was indignant. Mrs Lansquenet always painted from Nature! Indeed, once she had had a touch of the sun from reluctance to leave a subject when the light was just right.

 

"Mrs Lansquenet was a real artist," said Miss Gilchrist reproachfully.

 

She glanced at her watch and Susan said quickly:

 

"Yes, we ought to start for the inquest. Is it far? Shall I get the car?"

 

It was only five minutes' walk, Miss Gilchrist assured her. So they set out together on foot. Mr Entwhistle, who had come down by train, met them and shepherded them into the Village Hall.

 

There seemed to be a large number of strangers present. The inquest was not sensational. There was evidence of identification of the deceased. Medical evidence as to the nature of the wounds that had killed her. There were no signs of a struggle. Deceased was probably under a narcotic at the time she was attacked and would have been taken quite unawares. Death was unlikely to have occurred later than four-thirty.

 

Between

 

two

 

and

 

four-thirty

 

was

 

the

 

nearest

 

approximation. Miss Gilchrist testified to finding the body. A police constable and Inspector Morton gave their evidence. The Coroner summed up briefly. The jury made no bones about the verdict, "Murder by some person or persons unknown."

 

It was over. They came out again into the sunlight. Half a dozen cameras clicked. Mr Entwhistle shepherded Susan and Miss Gilchrist into the King's Arms, where he had taken the precaution to arrange for lunch to be served in a private room behind the bar.

 

"Not a very good lunch, I am afraid," he said apologetically.

 

But the lunch was not at all bad. Miss Gilchrist sniffed a little and murmured that "it was all so dreadful," but cheered up and tackled the Irish stew with appetite after Mr Entwhistle had insisted on her drinking a glass of sherry. He said to Susan:

 

"I'd no idea you were coming down today, Susan. We could have come together."

 

"I know I said I wouldn't. But it seemed rather mean for none of the family to be there. I rang up George but he said he was very busy and couldn't possibly make it, and Rosamund had an audition and Uncle Timothy, of course, is a crock. So it had to be me."

 

"Your husband didn't come with you?"

 

"Greg had to settle up with his tiresome shop."

 

Seeing a startled look in Miss Gilchrist's eye, Susan said: "My husband works in a chemist's shop."

 

A husband in retail trade did not quite square with Miss Gilchrist's impression of Susan's smartness, but she said valiantly: "Oh yes, just like Keats."

 

"Greg's no poet," said Susan.

 

She added:

 

"We've got great plans for the future - a double-barrelled establishment - Cosmetics and Beauty parlour and a laboratory for special preparations."

 

"That will be much nicer," said Miss Gilchrist approvingly. Something like Elizabeth Arden who is really a Countess, so I have been told - or is that Helena Rubinstein? In any case," she added kindly, "a pharmacist's is not in the least like an ordinary shop - a draper, for instance, or a grocer."

 

"You kept a tea-shop, you said, didn't you?"

 

"Yes, indeed," Miss Gilchrist's face lit up. That the Willow Tree had ever been "trade" in the sense that a shop was trade, would never have occurred to her. To keep a tea-shop was in her mind the essence of gentility. She started telling Susan about the Willow Tree.

 

Mr Entwhistle, who had heard about it before, let his mind drift to other matters. When Susan had spoken to him twice without his answering he hurriedly apologised.

 

"Forgive me, my dear, I was thinking, as a matter of fact, about your Uncle Timothy. I am a little worried."

 

"About Uncle Timothy? I shouldn't be. I don't believe really there's anything the matter with him. He's just a hypochondriac."

 

"Yes - yes, you may be right. I confess it was not his health that was worrying me. It's Mrs Timothy. Apparently she's fallen downstairs and twisted her ankle. She's laid up and your uncle is in a terrible state."

 

"Because he'll have to look after her instead of the other way about?

 

Do him a lot of good," said Susan.

 

"Yes - yes, I dare say. But will your poor aunt get any looking after?

 

That is really the question. With no servants in the house."

 

"Life is really hell for elderly people," said Susan. "They live in a kind of Georgian Manor house, don't they?"

 

Mr Entwhistle nodded.

 

They came rather warily out of the King's Arms, but the Press seemed to have dispersed.

 

A couple of reporters were lying in wait for Susan by the cottage door. Shepherded by Mr Entwhistle she said a few necessary and non- committal words. Then she and Miss Gilchrist went into the cottage and Mr Entwhistle returned to the King's Arms where he had booked a room. The funeral was to be on the following day.

 

"My car's still in the quarry," said Susan. "I'd forgotten about it. I'll drive it along to the village later."

 

Miss Gilchrist said anxiously:

 

"Not too late. You won't go out after dark, will you?"

 

Susan looked at her and laughed.

 

"You don't think there's a murderer still hanging about, do you?"

 

"No - no, I suppose not." Miss Gilchrist looked embarrassed.

 

"But it's exactly what she does think," thought Susan. "How amazing!"

 

Miss Gilchrist had vanished towards the kitchen.

 

"I'm sure you'd like tea early. In about half an hour, do you think, Mrs Banks?"

 

Susan thought that tea at half-past three was overdoing it, but she was charitable enough to realise that "a nice cup of tea" was Miss Gilchrist's idea of restoration for the nerves and she had her own reasons for wishing to please Miss Gilchrist, so she said:

 

"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.

c9

Miss Gilchrist pulled her black felt hat down firmly on her head and tucked in a wisp of grey hair. The inquest was set for twelve o'clock and it was not quite twenty-past eleven. Her grey coat and skirt looked quite nice, she thought, and she had bought herself a black blouse. She wished she could have been all in black, but that would have been far beyond her means. She looked round the small neat bedroom and at the walls hung with representations of Brixham harbour, Cockington Forge, Anstey's Cove, Kyance Cove, Polflexan harbour, Babbacombe Bay, etc., all signed in a dashing way, Cora Lansquenet. Her eyes rested with particular fondness on Polflexan harbour. On the chest of drawers a faded photograph carefully framed represented the Willow Teashop. Miss Gilchrist looked at it lovingly and sighed.

 

She was disturbed from her reverie by the sound of the door bell below.

 

"Dear me," murmured Miss Gilchrist," I wonder who -"

 

She went out of her room and down the rather rickety stairs. The bell sounded again and there was a sharp knock.

 

For some reason Miss Gilchrist felt nervous. For a moment or two her steps slowed up, then she went rather unwillingly to the door, adjuring herself not to be so silly.

 

A young woman dressed smartly in black and carrying a small suitcase was standing on the step. She noticed the alarmed look on Miss Gilchrist's face and said quickly:

 

"Miss Gilchrist? I am Mrs Lansquenet's niece - Susan Banks."

 

"Oh dear, yes, of course. I didn't know. Do come in, Mrs Banks. Mind the hall-stand - it sticks out a little. In here, yes. I didn't know you were coming down for the inquest. I'd have had something ready - some coffee or something."

 

Susan Banks said briskly:

 

"I don't want anything. I'm so sorry if I startled you."

 

"Well, you know you did, in a way. It's very silly of me. I'm not usually nervous. In fact I told the lawyer that I wasn't nervous, and that I wouldn't be nervous staying on here alone, and really I'm not nervous. Only - perhaps it's just the inquest and - and thinking of things, but I have been jumpy all this morning. Just about half an hour ago the bell rang and I could hardly bring myself to open the door - which was really very stupid and so unlikely that a murderer would come back - and why should he? - and actually it was only a nun, collecting for an orphanage - and I was so relieved I gave her two shillings although I'm not a Roman Catholic and indeed have no sympathy with the Roman Church and all these monks and nuns though I believe the Little Sisters of the Poor do really do good work. But do please sit down, Mrs - Mrs -"

 

"Banks."

 

"Yes, of course, Banks. Did you come down by train?"

 

"No, I drove down. The lane seemed so narrow I ran the car on a little way and found a sort of old quarry I backed it into."

 

"This lane is very narrow, but there's hardly ever any traffic along here. It's rather a lonely road."

 

Miss Gilchrist gave a little shiver as she said those last words.

 

Susan Banks was looking round the room.

 

"Poor old Aunt Cora," she said. "She left what she had to me, you know."

 

"Yes, I know. Mr Entwhistle told me. I expect you'll be glad of the furniture. You're newly married, I understand, and furnishing is such an expense nowadays. Mrs Lansquenet had some very nice things."

 

Susan did not agree. Cora had had no taste for the antique. The contents varied between "modernistic" pieces and the "arty" type.

 

"I shan't want any of the furniture," she said. "I've got my own, you know. I shall put it up for auction. Unless - is there any of it you would like? I'd be very glad..."

 

She stopped, a little embarrassed. But Miss Gilchrist was not at all embarrassed. She beamed.

 

"Now really, that's very kind of you, Mrs Banks - yes, very kind indeed. I really do appreciate it. But actually, you know, I have my own things. I put them in store in case - some day - I should need them. There are some pictures my father left too. I had a small tea-shop at one time, you know - but then the war came - it was all very unfortunate. But I didn't sell up everything, because I did hope to have my own little home again one day, so I put the best things in store with my father's pictures and some relics of our old home. But I would like very much, if you really wouldn't mind, to have that little painted tea table of dear Mrs Lansquenet's. Such a pretty thing and we always had tea on it."

 

Susan, looking with a slight shudder at a small green table painted with large purple clematis, said quickly that she would be delighted for Miss Gilchrist to have it.

 

"Thank you wry much, Mrs Banks. I feel a little greedy. I've got all her beautiful pictures, you know, and a lovely amethyst brooch, but I feel that perhaps I ought to give that back to you."

 

c8

"But you have no doubts about the wife?"

 

"No - no - there is a certain rather startling callousness... ut no, I really cannot envisage the hatchet. She is a fragile looking creature."

 

"And beautiful!" said Poirot with a faint cynical smile. "And the other niece?"

 

"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.

c8

"Oh, no, no, my friend, we cannot go so fast. We agree on this - Cora thought he had been murdered. She was quite sure he had been murdered. It was, to her, more a certainty than a surmise. And so, we come to this, she must have had some reason for the belief. We agree, by your knowledge of her, that it was not just a bit of mischief making. Now tell me - when she said what she did, there was, at once, a kind of chorus of protest - that is right?"

 

"Quite right."

 

"And she then became confused, abashed, and retreated from the position - saying - as far as you can remember, something like 'But I thought from what he told me -'"

 

The lawyer nodded.

 

"I wish I could remember more clearly. But I am fairly sure of that. She used the words 'he told me' or 'he said -'"

 

"And the matter was then smoothed over and everyone spoke of something else. You can remember, looking back, no special expression on anyone's face? Anything that remains in your memory as shall we say - unusual?"

 

"No."

 

"And the very next day, Cora is killed - and you ask yourself: 'Can it be cause and effect?'"

 

The lawyer stirred.

 

"I suppose that seems to you quite fantastic?"

 

"Not at all," said Poirot. "Given that the original assumption is correct, it is logical. The perfect murder, the murder of Richard Abernethie, has been committed, all has gone off smoothly - and suddenly it appears that there is one person who has a knowledge of the truth!

 

Clearly that person must be silenced as quickly as possible."

 

"Then you do think that it was murder?"

 

Poirot said gravely:

 

"I think, mon cher, exactly as you thought - that there is a case for investigation. Have you taken any steps? You have spoken of these matters to the police?"

 

"No." Mr Entwhistle shook his head. "It did not seem to me that any good purpose could be achieved. My position is that I represent the family. If Richard Abernethie was murdered, there seems only one method by which it could be done."

 

"By poison?"

 

"Exactly. And the body has been cremated. There is now no evidence available. But I decided that I, myself, must be satisfied on the point. That is why, Poirot, I have come to you."

 

"Who was in the house at the time of his death?"

 

"An old butler who has been with him for years, a cook and a housemaid. It would seem, perhaps, as though it must necessarily be one of them -"

 

"Ah! do not try to pull the wool upon my eyes. This Cora, she knows Richard Abernethie was killed, yet she acquiesces in the hushing up. She says 'I think you are all quite right. Therefore it must be one of the family who is concerned, someone whom the victim himself might prefer not to have openly accused. Otherwise, since Cora was fond of her brother, she would not agree to let the sleeping murderer lie. You agree to that, yes?"

 

"It was the way I reasoned - yes," confessed Mr Entwhistle. "Though how any of the family could possibly -"

 

Poirot cut him short.

 

"Where poison is concerned there are all sorts of possibilities. It must, presumably, have been a narcotic of some sort if he died in his sleep and if there were no suspicious appearances. Possibly he was already having some narcotic administered to him."

 

"In any case," said Mr Entwhistle, "the how hardly matters. We shall never be able to prove anything."

 

"In the case of Richard Abernethie, no. But the murder of Cora Lansquenet is different. Once we know 'who' then evidence ought to be possible to get." He added with a sharp glance, "You have, perhaps, already done something."

 

"Very little. My purpose was mainly, I think, elimination. It is distasteful to me to think that one of the Abernethie family is a murderer. I still can't quite believe it. I hoped that by a few apparently idle questions I could exonerate certain members of the family beyond question. Perhaps, who knows, all of them? In which case, Cora would have been wrong in her assumption and her own death could be ascribed to some casual prowler who broke in. After all, the issue is very simple. What were the members of the Abernethie family doing on the afternoon that Cora Lansquenet was killed?"

 

"Eh bien," said Poirot, "what were they doing?"

 

"George Crossfield was at Hurst Park races. Rosamund Shane was out shopping in London. Her husband - for one must include husbands -"

 

"Assuredly."

 

"Her husband was fixing up a deal about an option on a play, Susan and Gregory Banks were at home all day. Timothy Abernethie, who is an invalid, was at his home in Yorkshire, and his wife was driving herself home from Enderby."

 

He stopped.

 

Hercule Poirot looked at him and nodded comprehendingly.

 

"Yes, that is what they say. And is it all true?"

 

"I simply don't know, Poirot. Some of the statements are capable of proof or disproof - but it would be difficult to do so without showing one's hand pretty plainly. In fact to do so would be tantamount to an accusation. I will simply tell you certain conclusions of my own. George may have been at Hurst Park races, but I do not think he was. He was rash enough to boast that he had backed a couple of winners. It is my experience that so many offenders against the law ruin their own case by saying too much. I asked him the name of the winners, and he gave the names of two horses without any apparent hesitation. Both of them, I found, had been heavily tipped on the day in question and one had duly won. The other, though an odds on favourite, had unaccountably failed even to get a place."

 

"Interesting. Had this George any urgent need for money at the time of his uncle's death?"

 

"It is my impression that his need was very urgent. I have no evidence for saying so, but I strongly suspect that he has been speculating with his clients' funds and that he was in danger of prosecution. It is only my impression but I have some experience in these matters. Defaulting solicitors, I regret to say, are not entirely uncommon. I can only tell you that I would not have cared to entrust my own funds to George, and I suspect that Richard Abernethie, a very shrewd judge of men, was dissatisfied with his nephew and placed no reliance on him.

 

"His mother," the lawyer continued, "was a good-looking, rather foolish girl and she married a man of what I should call dubious character." He sighed. "The Abernethie girls were not good choosers."

 

He paused and then went on:

 

"As for Rosamund, she is a lovely nitwit. I really cannot see her smashing Cora's head in with a hatchet! Her husband, Michael Shane, is something of a dark horse - he's a man with ambition and also a man of overweening vanity I should say. But really I know very little about him. I have no reason to suspect him of a brutal crime or of a carefully planned poisoning, but until I know that he really was doing what he says he was doing I cannot rule him out."

c8

"Oh, no, no, my friend, we cannot go so fast. We agree on this - Cora thought he had been murdered. She was quite sure he had been murdered. It was, to her, more a certainty than a surmise. And so, we come to this, she must have had some reason for the belief. We agree, by your knowledge of her, that it was not just a bit of mischief making. Now tell me - when she said what she did, there was, at once, a kind of chorus of protest - that is right?"

 

"Quite right."

 

"And she then became confused, abashed, and retreated from the position - saying - as far as you can remember, something like 'But I thought from what he told me -'"

 

The lawyer nodded.

 

"I wish I could remember more clearly. But I am fairly sure of that. She used the words 'he told me' or 'he said -'"

 

"And the matter was then smoothed over and everyone spoke of something else. You can remember, looking back, no special expression on anyone's face? Anything that remains in your memory as shall we say - unusual?"

 

"No."

 

"And the very next day, Cora is killed - and you ask yourself: 'Can it be cause and effect?'"

 

The lawyer stirred.

 

"I suppose that seems to you quite fantastic?"

 

"Not at all," said Poirot. "Given that the original assumption is correct, it is logical. The perfect murder, the murder of Richard Abernethie, has been committed, all has gone off smoothly - and suddenly it appears that there is one person who has a knowledge of the truth!

 

Clearly that person must be silenced as quickly as possible."

 

"Then you do think that it was murder?"

 

Poirot said gravely:

 

"I think, mon cher, exactly as you thought - that there is a case for investigation. Have you taken any steps? You have spoken of these matters to the police?"

 

"No." Mr Entwhistle shook his head. "It did not seem to me that any good purpose could be achieved. My position is that I represent the family. If Richard Abernethie was murdered, there seems only one method by which it could be done."

 

"By poison?"

 

"Exactly. And the body has been cremated. There is now no evidence available. But I decided that I, myself, must be satisfied on the point. That is why, Poirot, I have come to you."

 

"Who was in the house at the time of his death?"

 

"An old butler who has been with him for years, a cook and a housemaid. It would seem, perhaps, as though it must necessarily be one of them -"

 

"Ah! do not try to pull the wool upon my eyes. This Cora, she knows Richard Abernethie was killed, yet she acquiesces in the hushing up. She says 'I think you are all quite right. Therefore it must be one of the family who is concerned, someone whom the victim himself might prefer not to have openly accused. Otherwise, since Cora was fond of her brother, she would not agree to let the sleeping murderer lie. You agree to that, yes?"

 

"It was the way I reasoned - yes," confessed Mr Entwhistle. "Though how any of the family could possibly -"

 

Poirot cut him short.

 

"Where poison is concerned there are all sorts of possibilities. It must, presumably, have been a narcotic of some sort if he died in his sleep and if there were no suspicious appearances. Possibly he was already having some narcotic administered to him."

 

"In any case," said Mr Entwhistle, "the how hardly matters. We shall never be able to prove anything."

 

"In the case of Richard Abernethie, no. But the murder of Cora Lansquenet is different. Once we know 'who' then evidence ought to be possible to get." He added with a sharp glance, "You have, perhaps, already done something."

 

"Very little. My purpose was mainly, I think, elimination. It is distasteful to me to think that one of the Abernethie family is a murderer. I still can't quite believe it. I hoped that by a few apparently idle questions I could exonerate certain members of the family beyond question. Perhaps, who knows, all of them? In which case, Cora would have been wrong in her assumption and her own death could be ascribed to some casual prowler who broke in. After all, the issue is very simple. What were the members of the Abernethie family doing on the afternoon that Cora Lansquenet was killed?"

 

"Eh bien," said Poirot, "what were they doing?"

 

"George Crossfield was at Hurst Park races. Rosamund Shane was out shopping in London. Her husband - for one must include husbands -"

 

"Assuredly."

 

"Her husband was fixing up a deal about an option on a play, Susan and Gregory Banks were at home all day. Timothy Abernethie, who is an invalid, was at his home in Yorkshire, and his wife was driving herself home from Enderby."

 

He stopped.

 

Hercule Poirot looked at him and nodded comprehendingly.

 

"Yes, that is what they say. And is it all true?"

 

"I simply don't know, Poirot. Some of the statements are capable of proof or disproof - but it would be difficult to do so without showing one's hand pretty plainly. In fact to do so would be tantamount to an accusation. I will simply tell you certain conclusions of my own. George may have been at Hurst Park races, but I do not think he was. He was rash enough to boast that he had backed a couple of winners. It is my experience that so many offenders against the law ruin their own case by saying too much. I asked him the name of the winners, and he gave the names of two horses without any apparent hesitation. Both of them, I found, had been heavily tipped on the day in question and one had duly won. The other, though an odds on favourite, had unaccountably failed even to get a place."

 

"Interesting. Had this George any urgent need for money at the time of his uncle's death?"

 

"It is my impression that his need was very urgent. I have no evidence for saying so, but I strongly suspect that he has been speculating with his clients' funds and that he was in danger of prosecution. It is only my impression but I have some experience in these matters. Defaulting solicitors, I regret to say, are not entirely uncommon. I can only tell you that I would not have cared to entrust my own funds to George, and I suspect that Richard Abernethie, a very shrewd judge of men, was dissatisfied with his nephew and placed no reliance on him.

 

"His mother," the lawyer continued, "was a good-looking, rather foolish girl and she married a man of what I should call dubious character." He sighed. "The Abernethie girls were not good choosers."

 

He paused and then went on:

 

"As for Rosamund, she is a lovely nitwit. I really cannot see her smashing Cora's head in with a hatchet! Her husband, Michael Shane, is something of a dark horse - he's a man with ambition and also a man of overweening vanity I should say. But really I know very little about him. I have no reason to suspect him of a brutal crime or of a carefully planned poisoning, but until I know that he really was doing what he says he was doing I cannot rule him out."

c8

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate your invitation."

 

Mr Entwhistle pressed his host's hand warmly.

 

Hercule Poirot gestured hospitably to a chair by the fire.

 

Mr Entwhistle sighed as he sat down.

 

On one side of the room a table was laid for two.

 

"I returned from the country this morning," he said.

 

"And you have a matter on which you wish to consult me?"

 

"Yes. It's a long rambling story, I'm afraid."

 

"Then we will not have it until after we have dined. Georges?"

 

The efficient George materialised with some Paté de Foie Gras accompanied by hot toast in a napkin.

 

"We will have our Paté by the fire," said Poirot. "Afterwards we will move to the table."

 

It was an hour and a half later that Mr Entwhistle stretched himself comfortably out in his chair and sighed a contented sigh.

 

"You certainly know how to do yourself well, Poirot. Trust a Frenchman."

 

"I am a Belgian. But the rest of your remark applies. At my age the chief pleasure, almost the only pleasure that still remains, is the pleasure of the table. Mercifully I have an excellent stomach."

 

"Ah," murmured Mr Entwhistle.

 

They had dined off Sole Veronique, followed by Escalope de Veau Milanaise, proceeding to Poire Flambée with ice-cream.

 

They had drunk a Pouilly Fuisse followed by a Corton, and a very good port now reposed at Mr Entwhistle's elbow. Poirot, who did not care for port, was sipping Crème de Cacao.

 

"I don't know," murmured Mr Entwhistle reminiscently, "how you manage to get hold of an escalope like that! It melted in the mouth!"

 

"I have a friend who is a Continental butcher. For him I solve a small domestic problem. He is appreciative - and ever since then he is most sympathetic to me in the matter of the stomach."

 

"A domestic problem." Mr Entwhistle sighed. "I wish you had not reminded me... This is such a perfect moment..."

 

"Prolong it, my friend. We will have presently the demi tasse and the fine brandy, and then, when digestion is peacefully under way, then you shall tell why you need my advice."

 

The clock struck the half hour after nine before Mr Entwhistle stirred in his chair. The psychological moment had come. He no longer felt reluctant to bring forth his perplexities - he was eager to do so.

 

"I don't know," he said," whether I'm making the most colossal fool of myself. In any case I don't see that there's anything that can possibly be done. But I'd like to put the facts before you, and I'd like to know what you think."

 

He paused for a moment or two, then in his dry meticulous way, he told his story. His trained legal brain enabled him to put the facts clearly, to leave nothing out, and to add nothing extraneous. It was a clear succinct account, and as such appreciated by the little elderly man with the egg-shaped head who sat listening to him.

 

When he had finished there was a pause. Mr Entwhistle was prepared to answer questions, but for some few moments no question came. Hercule Poirot was reviewing the evidence.

 

He said at last:

 

"It seems very clear. You have in your mind the suspicion that your friend, Richard Abernethie, may have been murdered? That suspicion, or assumption, rests on the basis of one thing only - the words spoken by Cora Lansquenet at Richard Abernethie's funeral. Take those away

 

-and there is nothing left. The fact that she herself was murdered the day afterwards may be the purest coincidence. It is true that Richard Abernethie died suddenly, but he was attended by a reputable doctor who knew him well, and that doctor had no suspicions and gave a death certificate. Was Richard buried or cremated?"

 

"Cremated - according to his own request."

 

"Yes, that is the law. And it means that a second doctor signed the certificate - but there would be no difficulty about that. So we come back to the essential point, what Cora Lansquenet said. You were there and you heard her. She said: 'But he was murdered, wasn't he?'"

 

"Yes."

 

"And the real point is - that you believe she was speaking the truth."

 

The lawyer hesitated for a moment, then he said: "Yes, I do."

 

"Why?"

 

"Why?" Entwhistle repeated the word, slightly puzzled.

 

"But yes, why? Is it because, already, deep down, you had an uneasiness about the manner of Richard's death?"

 

The lawyer shook his head. "No, no, not in the least."

 

"Then it is because of her - of Cora herself. You knew her well?"

 

"I had not seen her for - oh - over twenty years."

 

"Would you have known her if you had met her in the street?"

 

Mr Entwhistle reflected.

 

"I might have passed her by in the street without recognising her. She was a thin slip of a girl when I saw her last and she had turned into a stout, shabby, middle-aged woman. But I think that the moment I spoke to her face to face I should have recognised her. She wore her hair in the same way, a bang cut straight across the forehead and she had a trick of peering up at you through her fringe like a rather shy animal, and she had a very characteristic, abrupt way of talking, and a way of putting her head on one side and then coming out with something quite outrageous. She had character, you see, and character is always highly individual."

 

"She was, in fact, the same Cora you had known years ago. And she still said outrageous things! The things, the outrageous things, she had said in the past - were they usually - justified?"

 

"That was always the awkward thing about Cora. When truth would have been better left unspoken, she spoke it."

 

"And that characteristic remained unchanged. Richard Abernethie was murdered - so Cora at once mentioned the fact."

 

Mr Entwhistle stirred.

 

"You think he was murdered?"

 

c7

"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," said 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 -"

 

"No, no, I quite understand. Now after these visits, Mr Abernethie himself went away - first to his brother, and afterwards to his sister Mrs Lansquenet."

 

"That I did not know, sir. I mean he mentioned to me that he was going to Mr Timothy and afterwards to Something St Mary."

 

"That is right. Can you remember anything he said on his return in regard to those visits?"

 

Lanscombe reflected.

 

"I really don't know - nothing direct. He was glad to be back. Travelling and staying in strange houses tired him very much - that I do remember his saying."

 

"Nothing else? Nothing about either of them?"

 

Lanscombe frowned.

 

"The master used to - well, to murmur, if you get my meaning - speaking to me and yet more to himself - hardly noticing I was there - because he knew me so well."

 

"Knew you and trusted you, yes."

 

"But my recollection is very vague as to what he said - something about he couldn't think what he'd done with his money - that was Mr Timothy, I take it. And then he said something about 'Women can be fools in ninety-nine different ways but be pretty shrewd in the hundredth.' Oh yes, and he said, 'You can only say what you really think to someone of your own generation. They don't think you're fancying things as the younger ones do.' And later he said - but I don't know in what connection - 'It's not very nice to have to set traps for people, but I don't see what else I can do.' But I think it possible, sir, that he may have been thinking of the second gardener - a question of the peaches being taken."

 

But Mr Entwhistle did not think that it was the second gardener who had been in Richard Abernethie's mind. After a few more questions he let Lanscombe go and reflected on what he had learned. Nothing, really - nothing, that is, that he had not deduced before. Yet there were suggestive points. It was not his sister-in-law, Maude, but his sister Cora of whom he had been thinking when he made the remark about women who were fools and yet shrewd. And it was to her he had confided his "fancies." And he had spoken of setting a trap. For whom?

 

III

 

Mr Entwhistle had meditated a good deal over how much he should tell Helen. In the end he decided to take her wholly into his confidence.

 

First he thanked her for sorting out Richard's things and for making various household arrangements. The house had been advertised for sale and there were one or two prospective buyers who would be shortly coming to look over it.

 

"Private buyers?"

 

"I'm afraid not. The YWCA are considering it, and there is a young people's club, and the Trustees of the Jefferson Trust are looking for a suitable place to house their Collection."

 

"It seems sad that the house will not be lived in, but of course it is not a practicable proposition nowadays."

 

"I am going to ask you if it would be possible for you to remain here until the house is sold. Or would it be a great inconvenience?"

 

"No - actually it would suit me very well. I don't want to go to Cyprus until May, and I much prefer being here than to being in London as I had planned. I love this house, you know; Leo loved it, and we were always happy when we were here together."

 

"There is another reason why I should be grateful if you would stay on. There is a friend of mine, a man called Hercule Poirot -"

 

Helen said sharply:

 

"Hercule Poirot? Then you think -"

 

"You know of him?"

 

"Yes. Some friends of mine - but I imagined that he was dead long ago."

 

"He is very much alive. Not young, of course."

 

"No, he could hardly be young."

 

She spoke mechanically. Her face was white and strained. She said with an effort:

 

"You think - that Cora was right? That Richard was - murdered?"

 

Mr Entwhistle unburdened himself. It was a pleasure to unburden himself to Helen with her clear calm mind.

 

When he had finished she said:

 

"One ought to feel it's fantastic - but one doesn't. Maude and I, that night after the funeral - it was in both our minds, I'm sure. Saying to ourselves what a silly woman Cora was - and yet being uneasy. And then - Cora was killed - and I told myself it was just coincidence - and of course it may be - but oh! if one can only be sure. It's all so difficult."

 

"Yes, it's difficult. But Poirot is a man of great originality and he has something really approaching genius. He understands perfectly what we need - assurance that the whole thing is a mare's nest."

 

"And suppose it isn't?"

 

"What makes you say that?" asked Mr Entwhistle sharply.

 

"I don't know. I've been uneasy... Not just about what Cora said that day - something else. Something that I felt at the time to be wrong."

 

"Wrong? In what way?"

 

"That's just it. I don't know."

 

"You mean it was something about one of the people in the room?"

 

"Yes - yes - something of that kind. But I don't know who or what... Oh that sounds absurd -"

 

"Not at all. It is interesting - very interesting. You are not a fool, Helen. If you noticed something, that something has significance."

 

"Yes, but I can't remember what it was. The more I think -"

 

"Don't think. That is the wrong way to bring anything back. Let it go. Sooner or later it will flash into your mind. And when it does - let me know - at once."

 

"I will."