Well, the doctor had been wrong - but doctors, as they were the
first to admit themselves, could never be sure about the individual
reaction of a patient to disease. Cases given up, unexpectedly
recovered. Patients on the way to recovery, relapsed and died. So much
depended on the vitality of the patient. On his own inner urge to live.
And Richard Abernethie, though a strong and vigorous man, had had no great incentive to live.
For six months previously his only surviving son, Mortimer, had
contracted infantile paralysis and had died within a week. His death had
been a shock greatly augmented by the fact that he had been such a
particularly strong and vital young man. A keen sportsman, he was also a
good athlete and was one of those people of whom it was said that he
had never had a day's illness in his life. He was on the point of
becoming engaged to a very charming girl and his father's hopes for the
future were centred in this dearly loved and thoroughly satisfactory son
of his.
Instead had come tragedy. And besides the sense of personal loss,
the future had held little to stir Richard Abernethie's interest. One
son had died in infancy, the second without issue. He had no
grandchildren. There was, in fact, no one of the Abernethie name to come
after him, and he was the holder of a vast fortune with wide business
interests which he himself still controlled to a certain extent. Who was
to succeed to that fortune and to the control of those interests?
That this had worried Richard deeply, Entwhistle knew. His only
surviving brother was very much of an invalid. There remained the
younger generation. It had been in Richard's mind, the lawyer thought,
though his friend had not actually said so, to choose one definite
successor, though minor legacies would probably have been made. Anyway,
as Entwhistle knew, within the last six months Richard Abernethie had
invited to stay with him, in succession, his nephew George, his niece
Susan and her husband, his niece Rosamund and her husband, and his
sister-in-law, Mrs Leo Abernethie.
It was amongst the first three, so the lawyer thought, that
Abernethie had looked for his successor. Helen Abernethie, he thought,
had been asked out of personal affection and even possibly as someone to
consult, for Richard had always held a high opinion of her good sense
and practical judgment.
Mr Entwhistle also remembered that sometime during that six months period Richard had paid a short visit to his brother Timothy.
The net result had been the will which the lawyer now carried in
his brief-case. An equable distribution of property. The only conclusion
that could be drawn, therefore, was that he had been disappointed both
in his nephew, and in his nieces - or perhaps in his nieces'
husbands.
As far as Mr Entwhistle knew, he had not invited his sister, Cora
Lansquenet, to visit him - and that brought the lawyer back to that
first disturbing phrase that Cora had let slip so incoherently - "but I
did think from what he said -"
What had Richard Abernethie said? And when had he said it? If Cora
had not been to Enderby, then Richard Abernethie must have visited her
at the artistic village in Berkshire where she had a cottage. Or was it
something that Richard had said in a letter?
Mr Entwhistle frowned. Cora, of course, was a very stupid woman.
She could easily have misinterpreted a phrase, and twisted its meaning.
But he did wonder what the phrase could have been...
There was enough uneasiness in him to make him consider the
possibility of approaching Mrs Lansquenet on the subject. Not too soon.
Better not make it seem of importance. But he would like to know just
what it was that Richard Abernethie had said to her which had led her to
pipe up so briskly with that outrageous question:
"But he was murdered, wasn't he?"
II
In a third-class carriage, farther along the train, Gregory Banks said to his wife:
"That aunt of yours must be completely bats!"
"Aunt Cora?" Susan was vague. "Oh, yes, I believe she was always a bit simple or something."
George Crossfield, sitting opposite, said sharply:
"She really ought to be stopped from going about saying things like that. It might put ideas into people's heads."
Rosamund Shane, intent on outlining the cupid's bow of her mouth with lipstick, murmured vaguely:
"I don't suppose anyone would pay any attention to what a frump
like that says. The most peculiar clothes and lashings and lashings of
jet -"
"Well, I think it ought to be stopped," said George.
"All right, darling," laughed Rosamund, putting away her lipstick
and contemplating her image with satisfaction in the mirror. "You stop
it."
Her husband said unexpectedly:
"I think George is right. It's so easy to set people talking."
"Well, would it matter?" Rosamund contemplated the question. The
cupid's bow lifted at the corners in a smile. "It might really be rather
fun."
"Fun?" Four voices spoke.
"Having a murder in the family," said Rosamund. "Thrilling, you know!"
It occurred to that nervous and unhappy young man Gregory Banks
that Susan's cousin, setting aside her attractive exterior, might have
some faint points of resemblance to her Aunt Cora. Her next words rather
confirmed his impression.
"If he was murdered," said Rosamund, "who do you think did it?"
Her gaze travelled thoughtfully round the carriage.
"His death has been awfully convenient for all of us," she said
thoughtfully., "Michael and I are absolutely on our beam ends. Mick's
had a really good part offered to him in the Sandborne show if he can
afford to wait for it. Now we'll be in clover. We'll be able to back our
own show if we want to. As a matter of fact there's a play with a
simply wonderful part."
Nobody listened to Rosamund's ecstatic disquisition. Their attention had shifted to their own immediate future.
"Touch and go," thought George to himself. "Now I can put that
money back and nobody will ever know... But it's been a near shave."
Gregory closed his eyes as he lay back against the seat. Escape from bondage.
Susan said in her clear rather hard voice, "I'm very sorry, of
course, for poor old Uncle Richard. But then he was very old, and
Mortimer had died, and he'd nothing to live for and it would have been
awful for him to go on as an invalid year after year. Much better for
him to pop off suddenly like this with no fuss."
Her hard confident young eyes softened as they watched her
husband's absorbed face. She adored Greg. She sensed vaguely that Greg
cared for her less than she cared for him - but that only strengthened
her passion. Greg was hers, she'd do anything for him. Anything at
all...
