After the Funeral

by Agatha Christie

  It seemed no less incredible to Mr. Entwhistle. Timothy’s life was so remote from violence that even his relations, one felt, ought to be equally exempt.

  “I’m afraid one has to face the fact,” said Mr. Entwhistle mildly.

  “I am really very worried about Timothy. It’s so bad for him, all this! I’ve got him to bed now but he insists on my persuading you to come up and see him. He wants to know a hundred things—whether there will be an inquest, and who ought to attend, and how soon after that the funeral can take place, and where, and what funds there are, and if Cora expressed any wishes about being cremated or what, and if she left a will—”

  Mr. Entwhistle interrupted before the catalogue got too long.

  “There is a will, yes. She left Timothy her executor.”

  “Oh dear, I’m afraid Timothy can’t undertake anything—”

  “The firm will attend to all the necessary business. The will’s very simple. She left her own sketches and an amethyst brooch to her companion, Miss Gilchrist, and everything else to Susan.”

  “To Susan? Now I wonder why Susan? I don’t believe she ever saw Susan—not since she was a baby anyway.”

  “I imagine that it was because Susan was reported to have made a marriage not wholly pleasing to the family.”

  Maude snorted.

  “Even Gregory is a great deal better than Pierre Lansquenet ever was! Of course marrying a man who serves in a shop would have been unheard of in my day—but a chemist’s shop is much better than a haberdasher’s—and at least Gregory seems quite respectable.” She paused and added: “Does this mean that Susan gets the income Richard left to Cora?”

  “Oh no. The capital of that will be divided according to the instructions of Richard’s will. No, poor Cora had only a few hundred pounds and the furniture of her cottage to leave. When outstanding debts are paid and the furniture sold I doubt if the whole thing will amount to more than at most five hundred pounds.” He went on: “There will have to be an inquest, of course. That is fixed for next Thursday. If Timothy is agreeable, we’ll send down young Lloyd to watch the proceedings on behalf of the family.” He added apologetically: “I’m afraid it may attract some notoriety owing to the—er—circumstances.”

  “How very unpleasant! Have they caught the wretch who did it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “One of these dreadful half-baked young men who go about the country roving and murdering, I suppose. The police are so incompetent.”

  “No, no,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “The police are by no means incompetent. Don’t imagine that, for a moment.”

  “Well, it all seems to me quite extraordinary. And so bad for Timothy. I suppose you couldn’t possibly come down here, Mr. Entwhistle? I should be most grateful if you could. I think Timothy’s mind might be set at rest if you were here to reassure him.”

  Mr. Entwhistle was silent for a moment. The invitation was not unwelcome.

  “There is something in what you say,” he admitted. “And I shall need Timothy’s signature as executor to certain documents. Yes, I think it might be quite a good thing.”

  “That is splendid. I am so relieved. Tomorrow? And you’ll stay the night? The best train is the 11:20 from St. Pancras.”

  “It will have to be an afternoon train, I’m afraid. I have,” said Mr. Entwhistle, “other business in the morning….”

  II

  George Crossfield greeted Mr. Entwhistle heartily but with, perhaps, just a shade of surprise.

  Mr. Entwhistle said, in an explanatory way, although it really explained nothing:

  “I’ve just come up from Lytchett St. Mary.”

  “Then it really was Aunt Cora? I read about it in the papers and I just couldn’t believe it. I thought it must be someone of the same name.”

  “Lansquenet is not a common name.”

  “No, of course it isn’t. I suppose there is a natural aversion to believing that anyone of one’s own family can be murdered. Sounds to me rather like that case last month on Dartmoor.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes. Same circumstances. Cottage in a lonely position. Two elderly women living together. Amount of cash taken really quite pitifully inadequate one would think.”

  “The value of money is always relative,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “It is the need that counts.”

  “Yes—yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  “If you need ten pounds desperately—then fifteen is more than adequate. And inversely so. If your need is for a hundred pounds, forty-five would be worse than useless. And if it’s thousands you need, then hundreds are not enough.”

  George said with a sudden flicker of the eyes: “I’d say any money came in useful these days. Everyone’s hard up.”

  “But not desperate,” Mr. Entwhistle pointed out. “It’s the desperation that counts.”

  “Are you thinking of something in particular?”

  “Oh no, not at all.” He paused then went on: “It will be a little time before the estate is settled; would it be convenient for you to have an advance?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was going to raise the subject. However, I saw the Bank this morning and referred them to you and they were quite obliging about an overdraft.”

  Again there came that flicker in George’s eyes, and Mr. Entwhistle, from the depths of his experience, recognized it. George, he felt certain, had been, if not desperate, then in very sore straits for money. He knew at that moment, what he had felt subconsciously all along, that in money matters he would not trust George. He wondered if old Richard Abernethie, who also had had great experience in judging men, had felt that. Mr. Entwhistle was also sure that after Mortimer’s death, Abernethie had formed the intention of making George his heir. George was not an Abernethie, but he was the only male of the younger generation. He was the natural successor to Mortimer. Richard Abernethie had sent for George, had had him staying in the house for some days. It seemed probable that at the end of the visit the older man had not found George satisfactory. Had he felt instinctively, as Mr. Entwhistle felt, that George was not straight? George’s father, so the family had thought, had been a poor choice on Laura’s part. A stockbroker who had had other rather mysterious activities. George took after his father rather than after the Abernethies.

  Perhaps misinterpreting the old lawyer’s silence, George said with an uneasy laugh:

  “Truth is, I’ve not been very lucky with my investments lately. I took a bit of a risk and it didn’t come off. More or less cleaned me out. But I’ll be able to recoup myself now. All one needs is a bit of capital. Ardens Consolidated are pretty good, don’t you think?”

  Mr. Entwhistle neither agreed nor dissented. He was wondering if by any chance George had been speculating with money that belonged to clients and not with his own? If George had been in danger of criminal prosecution—

  Mr. Entwhistle said precisely:

  “I tried to reach you the day after the funeral, but I suppose you weren’t in the office.”

  “Did you? They never told me. As a matter of fact, I thought I was entitled to a day off after the good news!”

  “The good news?”

  George reddened.

  “Oh look here, I didn’t mean Uncle Richard’s death. But knowing you’ve come into money does give one a bit of a kick. One feels one must celebrate. As a matter of fact I went to Hurst Park. Backed two winners. It never rains but it pours! If your luck’s in, it’s in! Only a matter of fifty quid, but it all helps.”

  “Oh yes,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “It all helps. And there will now be an additional sum coming to you as a result of your Aunt Cora’s death.”

  George looked concerned.

  “Poor old girl,” he said. “It does seem rotten luck, doesn’t it? Probably just when she was all set to enjoy herself.”

  “Let us hope the police will find the person responsible for her death,” said Mr. Entwhistle.

  “I expect they’ll get him all right. They’re good, our police
. They round up all the undesirables in the neighbourhood and go through ’em with a tooth comb—make them account for their actions at the time it happened.”

  “Not so easy if a little time has elapsed,” said Mr. Entwhistle. He gave a wintry little smile that indicated he was about to make a joke. “I myself was in Hatchard’s bookshop at 3:30 on the day in question. Should I remember that if I were questioned by the police in ten days’ time? I very much doubt it. And you, George, you were at Hurst Park. Would you remember which day you went to the races in—say—a month’s time?”

  “Oh I could fix it by the funeral—the day after.”

  “True—true. And then you backed a couple of winners. Another aid to memory. One seldom forgets the names of a horse on which one has won money. Which were they, by the way?”

  “Let me see. Gaymarck and Frogg II. Yes, I shan’t forget them in a hurry.”

  Mr. Entwhistle gave his dry little cackle of laughter and took his leave.

  III

  “It’s lovely to see you, of course,” said Rosamund without any marked enthusiasm. “But it’s frightfully early in the morning.”

  She yawned heavily.

  “It’s eleven o’clock,” said Mr. Entwhistle.

  Rosamund yawned again. She said apologetically:

  “We had the hell of a party last night. Far too much to drink. Michael’s got a terrible hangover still.”

  Michael appeared at this moment, also yawning. He had a cup of black coffee in his hand and was wearing a very smart dressing gown. He looked haggard and attractive—and his smile had the usual charm. Rosamund was wearing a black skirt, a rather dirty yellow pullover, and nothing else as far as Mr. Entwhistle could judge.

  The precise and fastidious lawyer did not approve at all of the young Shanes’ way of living. The rather ramshackle flat on the first floor of a Chelsea house—the bottles and glasses and cigarette ends that lay about in profusion—the stale air, and the general air of dust and dishevelment.

  In the midst of this discouraging setting Rosamund and Michael bloomed with their wonderful good looks. They were certainly a very handsome couple and they seemed, Mr. Entwhistle thought, very fond of each other. Rosamund was certainly adoringly fond of Michael.

  “Darling,” she said. “Do you think just a teeny sip of champagne? Just to pull us together and toast the future. Oh, Mr. Entwhistle, it really is the most marvellous luck Uncle Richard leaving us all that lovely money just now—”

  Mr. Entwhistle noted the quick, almost scowling, frown that Michael gave, but Rosamund went on serenely:

  “Because there’s the most wonderful chance of a play. Michael’s got an option on it. It’s a most wonderful part for him and even a small part for me, too. It’s about one of these young criminals, you know, they are really saints—it’s absolutely full of the latest modern ideas.”

  “So it would seem,” said Mr. Entwhistle stiffly.

  “He robs, you know, and he kills, and he’s hounded by the police and by society—and then in the end, he does a miracle.”

  Mr. Entwhistle sat in outraged silence. Pernicious nonsense these young fools talked! And wrote.

  Not that Michael Shane was talking much. There was still a faint scowl on his face.

  “Mr. Entwhistle doesn’t want to hear all our rhapsodies, Rosamund,” he said. “Shut up for a bit and let him tell us why he’s come to see us.”

  “There are just one or two little matters to straighten out,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “I have just come back from Lytchett St. Mary.”

  “Then it was Aunt Cora who was murdered? We saw it in the paper. And I said it must be because it’s a very uncommon name. Poor old Aunt Cora. I was looking at her at the funeral that day and thinking what a frump she was and that really one might as well be dead if one looked like that—and now she is dead. They absolutely wouldn’t believe it last night when I told them that that murder with the hatchet in the paper was actually my aunt! They just laughed, didn’t they, Michael?”

  Michael Shane did not reply and Rosamund with every appearance of enjoyment said:

  “Two murders one after another. It’s almost too much, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Rosamund, your Uncle Richard wasn’t murdered.”

  “Well, Cora thought he was.”

  Mr. Entwhistle intervened to ask:

  “You came back to London after the funeral, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, we came by the same train as you did.”

  “Of course… Of course. I ask because I tried to get hold of you,” he shot a quick glance at the telephone—“on the following day—several times in fact, and couldn’t get an answer.”

  “Oh dear—I’m so sorry. What were we doing that day? The day before yesterday. We were here until about twelve, weren’t we? And then you went round to try and get hold of Rosenheim and you went on to lunch with Oscar and I went out to see if I could get some nylons and round the shops. I was to meet Janet but we missed each other. Yes, I had a lovely afternoon shopping—and then we dined at the Castile. We got back here about ten o’clock, I suppose.”

  “About that,” said Michael. He was looking thoughtfully at Mr. Entwhistle. “What did you want to get hold of us for, sir?”

  “Oh! Just some points that had arisen about Richard Abernethie’s estate—papers to sign—all that.”

  Rosamund asked: “Do we get the money now, or not for ages?”

  “I’m afraid,” said Mr. Entwhistle, “that the law is prone to delays.”

  “But we can get an advance, can’t we?” Rosamund looked alarmed. “Michael said we could. Actually it’s terribly important. Because of the play.”

  Michael said pleasantly:

  “Oh, there’s no real hurry. It’s just a question of deciding whether or not to take up the option.”

  “It will be quite easy to advance you some money,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “As much as you need.”

  “Then that’s all right.” Rosamund gave a sigh of relief. She added as an afterthought: “Did Aunt Cora leave any money?”

  “A little. She left it to your Cousin Susan.”

  “Why Susan, I should like to know! Is it much?”

  “A few hundred pounds and some furniture.”

  “Nice furniture?”

  “No,” said Mr. Entwhistle.

  Rosamund lost interest. “It’s all very odd, isn’t it?” she said. “There was Cora, after the funeral, suddenly coming out with ‘He was murdered!’ and then, the very next day, she goes and gets herself murdered? I mean, it is odd, isn’t it?”

  There was a moment’s rather uncomfortable silence before Mr. Entwhistle said quietly:

  “Yes, it is indeed very odd….”

  IV

  Mr. Entwhistle studied Susan Banks as she leant forward across the table talking in her animated manner.

  None of the loveliness of Rosamund here. But it was an attractive face and its attraction lay, Mr. Entwhistle decided, in its vitality. The curves of the mouth were rich and full. It was a woman’s mouth and her body was very decidedly a woman’s—emphatically so. Yet in many ways Susan reminded him of her uncle, Richard Abernethie. The shape of her head, the line of her jaw, the deep-set reflective eyes. She had the same kind of dominant personality that Richard had had, the same driving energy, the same foresightedness and forthright judgement. Of the three members of the younger generation she alone seemed to be made of the metal that had raised up the vast Abernethie fortunes. Had Richard recognized in this niece a kindred spirit to his own? Mr. Entwhistle thought he must have done. Richard had always had a keen appreciation of character. Here, surely, were exactly the qualities of which he was in search. And yet, in his will, Richard Abernethie had made no distinction in her favour. Distrustful, as Mr. Entwhistle believed, of George, passing over that lovely dimwit, Rosamund—could he not have found in Susan what he was seeking—an heir of his own mettle?

  If not, the cause must be—yes, it followed logically—the husband….
<
br />   Mr. Entwhistle’s eyes slid gently over Susan’s shoulder to where Gregory Banks stood absently whittling at a pencil.

  A thin, pale, nondescript young man with reddish sandy hair. So overshadowed by Susan’s colourful personality that it was difficult to realize what he himself was really like. Nothing to take hold of in the fellow—quite pleasant, ready to be agreeable—a “yes” man, as the modern term went. And yet that did not seem to describe him satisfactorily. There was something vaguely disquieting about the unobtrusiveness of Gregory Banks. He had been an unsuitable match—yet Susan had insisted on marrying him—had overborne all opposition—why? What had she seen in him?

  And now, six months after the marriage—“She’s crazy about the fellow,” Mr. Entwhistle said to himself. He knew the signs. A large number of wives with matrimonial troubles had passed through the office of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard. Wives madly devoted to unsatisfactory and often what appeared quite unprepossessing husbands, wives contemptuous of, and bored by, apparently attractive and impeccable husbands. What any woman saw in some particular man was beyond the comprehension of the average intelligent male. It just was so. A woman who could be intelligent about everything else in the world could be a complete fool when it came to some particular man. Susan, thought Mr. Entwhistle, was one of those women. For her the world revolved around Greg. And that had its dangers in more ways than one.

  Susan was talking with emphasis and indignation.

  “—because it is disgraceful. You remember that woman who was murdered in Yorkshire last year? Nobody was ever arrested. And the old woman in the sweet shop who was killed with a crowbar. They detained some man, and then they let him go!”

  “There has to be evidence, my dear,” said Mr. Entwhistle.

  Susan paid no attention.

  “And that other case—a retired nurse—that was a hatchet or an axe—just like Aunt Cora.”

  “Dear me, you appear to have made quite a study of these crimes, Susan,” said Mr. Entwhistle mildly.

  “Naturally one remembers these things—and when someone in one’s own family is killed—and in very much the same way—well, it shows that there must be a lot of these sorts of people going round the countryside, breaking into places and attacking lonely women—and that the police just don’t bother!”