"Beautiful it was," she said with a decorous sniff as she
replenished her cup. "Nineteen cars and the church quite full and the
Canon read the service beautiful, I thought. A nice fine day for it,
too. Ah, poor dear Mr Aberenthie, there's not many like him left in the
world. Respected by all, he was."
There was the note of a horn and the sound of a car coming up the
drive, and Mrs Jacks put down her cup and exclaimed: "Here they are."
Marjorie turned up the gas under her large saucepan of creamy
chicken soup. The large kitchen range of the days of Victorian grandeur
stood cold and unused, like an altar of the past.
The cars drove up one after the other and the people issuing from
them in their black clothes moved rather uncertainly across the hall and
into the big green drawing-room. In the bigg steel grate a fire was
burning, tribute to the first chill of the autumn days and calculated to
counteract the further chill of standing about at a funeral.
Lanscombe entered the room, offering glasses of sherry on a silver tray.
Mr Entwhistle, senior partner of the old and respected firm of
Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard, stood with his back to the
fireplace warming himself. He accepted a glass of sherry, and surveyed
the company with his shrewd lawyer's gaze. Not all of them were
personally known to him, and he was under the necessity of sorting them
out, so to speak. Introductions before the departure for the funeral had
been hushed and perfunctory.
Appraising old Lanscombe first, Mr Entwhistle thought to himself,
"Getting very shaky, poor old chap - going on for ninety I
shouldn't wonder. Well, he'll have that nice little annuity. Nothing for
him to worry about. Faithful soul. No such thing as old-fashioned
service nowadays. Household helps and baby-sitters, God help us all! A
sad world. Just as well, perhaps, poor Richard didn't last his full
time. He hadn't much to livefor."
To Mr Entwhistle, who was seventy-two, Richard Abernethie's death
at sixty-eight was definitively that of a man dead before his time. Mr
Entwhistle had retired from active business two years ago, but as
executor of Richard Abernethie's will and in respect for one of his
oldest clients who was also a personal friend, he had made the journey
to the North.
Reflecting in his own mind on the provisions of the will, he mentally appraised the family.
Mrs Leo, Helen, he knew well, of course. A very charming woman for
whom he had both liking and respect. His eyes dwelt approvingly on her
now, as she stoodnear one of the windows. Black suited her. She had kept
her figure well. He liked the clear cut features, the springing line of
grey hair back from her temples and the eyes that had once been likened
to cornflowers and which were still quite vividly blue.
How old was Helen now? About fifty-one or -two, he supposed.
Strange that she had never married again after Leo's death. An
attractive woman. Ah, but they had been devoted, those two.
His eyes went on to Mrs Timothy. He had never known her very well.
Black didn't suit her - country tweeds were her wear. She'd always been a
good devoted wife to Timothy. Looking after his health, fussing over
him - fussing over him a bit too much, probably. Was there really
anything the matter with Timothy? Just a hypochondriac, Mr Entwhistle
suspected. Richard Abernethie had suspected so, too.
"Weak chest, of course, when he was a boy," he had said. "But blest
if I think there's much wrong with him now." Oh well, everybody had to
have some hobby. Timothy's hobby was the all absorbing one of his own
health. Was Mrs Tim taken in? Probably not - but women never admitted
that sort of thing. Timothy must be quite comfortably off. He'd never
been a spendthrift. However, the extra would not come amiss - not in
these days of taxation. He'd probably had to retrench his scale of
living a good deal since the war.
Mr Entwhistle transferred his attention to George Crossfield,
Laura's son. Dubious sort of fellow Laura had married. Nobody had ever
known much about him. A stockbroker he had called himself. Young George
was in a solicitor's office - not a very reputable firm. Good- looking
young fellow - but something a little shifty about him. He couldn't have
too much to live on. Laura had been a complete fool over her
investments. She'd left next to nothing when she died five years ago. A
handsome romantic girl, she'd been, but no money sense.
Mr Entwhistle's eyes went on from George Crossfield. Which of the
two girls was which? Ah yes, that was Rosamund, Geraldine's daughter,
looking at the wax flowers on the malachite table. Pretty girl,
beautiful, in fact - rather a silly face. On the stage. Repertory
companies or some nonsense like that. Had married an actor, too.
Good-looking fellow.
"And knows he is," thought Mr Entwhistle, who was prejudiced
against the stage as a profession. "Wonder what sort of a background he
has and where he comes from."
He looked disapprovingly at Michael Shane with his fair hair and his haggard charm.
Now Susan, Gordon's daughter, would do much better on the stage
than Rosamund. More personality. A little too much personality for
everyday life, perhaps. She was quite near him and Mr Entwhistle studied
her covertly. Dark hair, hazel - almost golden-eyes, a sulky attractive
mouth. Beside her was the husband she had just married - a chemist's
assistant, he understood. Really, a chemist's assistant! In Mr
Entwhistle's creed girls did not marry young men who served behind a
counter. But now of course, they married anybody! The young man, who had
a pale nondescript face, seemed very ill at ease. Mr Entwhistle
wondered why, but decided charitably that it was the strain of meeting
so many of his wife's relations.
