After the Funeral

by Agatha Christie

  Mr. Entwhistle shook his head.

  “Don’t belittle the police, Susan. They are a very shrewd and patient body of men—persistent, too.

  Just because it isn’t still mentioned in the newspapers doesn’t mean that a case is closed. Far from it.”

  “And yet there are hundreds of unsolved crimes every year.”

  “Hundreds?” Mr. Entwhistle looked dubious. “A certain number, yes. But there are many occasions when the police know who has committed a crime but where the evidence is insufficient for a prosecution.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Susan. “I believe if you knew definitely who committed a crime you could always get the evidence.”

  “I wonder now.” Mr. Entwhistle sounded thoughtful. “I very much wonder….”

  “Have they any idea at all—in Aunt Cora’s case—of who it might be?”

  “That I couldn’t say. Not as far as I know. But they would hardly confide in me—and it’s early days yet—the murder took place only the day before yesterday, remember.”

  “It’s definitely got to be a certain kind of person,” Susan mused. “A brutal, perhaps slightly half-witted type—a discharged soldier or a gaol bird. I mean, using a hatchet like that.”

  Looking slightly quizzical, Mr. Entwhistle raised his eyebrows and murmured:

  “Lizzie Borden with an axe

  Gave her father fifty whacks.

  When she saw what she had done

  She gave her mother fifty-one.”

  “Oh,” Susan flushed angrily, “Cora hadn’t got any relations living with her—unless you mean the companion. And anyway Lizzie Borden was acquitted. Nobody knows for certain she killed her father and stepmother.”

  “The rhyme is quite definitely libellous,” Mr. Entwhistle agreed.

  “You mean the companion did do it? Did Cora leave her anything?”

  “An amethyst brooch of no great value and some sketches of fishing villages of sentimental value only.”

  “One has to have a motive for murder—unless one is half-witted.”

  Mr. Entwhistle gave a little chuckle.

  “As far as one can see, the only person who had a motive is you, my dear Susan.”

  “What’s that?” Greg moved forward suddenly. He was like a sleeper coming awake. An ugly light showed in his eyes. He was suddenly no longer a negligible feature in the background. “What’s Sue got to do with it? What do you mean—saying things like that?”

  Susan said sharply:

  “Shut up, Greg. Mr. Entwhistle doesn’t mean anything—”

  “Just my little joke,” said Mr. Entwhistle apologetically. “Not in the best taste, I’m afraid. Cora left her estate, such as it was, to you, Susan. But to a young lady who has just inherited several hundred thousand pounds, an estate, amounting at the most to a few hundreds, can hardly be said to represent a motive for murder.”

  “She left her money to me?” Susan sounded surprised. “How extraordinary. She didn’t even know me! Why did she do it, do you think?”

  “I think she had heard rumours that there had been a little difficulty—er—over your marriage.” Greg, back again at sharpening his pencil, scowled. “There had been a certain amount of trouble over her own marriage—and I think she experienced a fellow feeling.”

  Susan asked with a certain amount of interest:

  “She married an artist, didn’t she, whom none of the family liked? Was he a good artist?”

  Mr. Entwhistle shook his head very decidedly.

  “Are there any of his paintings in the cottage?”

  “Yes.”

  Then I shall judge for myself,” said Susan.

  Mr. Entwhistle smiled at the resolute tilt of Susan’s chin.

  “So be it. Doubtless I am an old fogey and hopelessly old-fashioned in matters of art, but I really don’t think you will dispute my verdict.”

  “I suppose I ought to go down there, anyway? And look over what there is. Is there anybody there now?”

  “I have arranged with Miss Gilchrist to remain there until further notice.”

  Greg said: “She must have a pretty good nerve—to stay in a cottage where a murder’s been committed.”

  “Miss Gilchrist is quite a sensible woman, I should say. Besides,” added the lawyer drily, “I don’t think she has anywhere else to go until she gets another situation.”

  “So Aunt Cora’s death left her high and dry? Did she—were she and Aunt Cora—on intimate terms—?”

  Mr. Entwhistle looked at her rather curiously, wondering just what exactly was in her mind.

  “Moderately so, I imagine,” he said. “She never treated Miss Gilchrist as a servant.”

  “Treated her a damned sight worse, I dare say,” said Susan. “These wretched so called ‘ladies’ are the ones who get it taken out of them nowadays. I’ll try and find her a decent post somewhere. It won’t be difficult. Anyone who’s willing to do a bit of housework and cook is worth their weight in gold—she does cook, doesn’t she?”

  “Oh yes. I gather it is something she called, er ‘the rough’ that she objected to. I’m afraid I don’t quite know what ‘the rough’ is.”

  Susan appeared to be a good deal amused.

  Mr. Entwhistle, glancing at his watch, said:

  “Your aunt left Timothy her executor.”

  “Timothy,” said Susan with scorn. “Uncle Timothy is practically a myth. Nobody ever sees him.”

  “Quite.” Mr. Entwhistle glanced at his watch. “I am travelling up to see him this afternoon. I will acquaint him with your decision to go down to the cottage.”

  “It will only take me a day or two, I imagine. I don’t want to be long away from London. I’ve got various schemes in hand. I’m going into business.”

  Mr. Entwhistle looked round him at the cramped sitting room of the tiny flat. Greg and Susan were evidently hard up. Her father, he knew, had run through most of his money. He had left his daughter badly off.

  “What are your plans for the future, if I may ask?”

  “I’ve got my eye on some premises in Cardigan Street. I suppose, if necessary, you can advance me some money? I may have to pay a deposit.”

  “That can be managed,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “I rang you up the day after the funeral several times—but could get no answer. I thought perhaps you might care for an advance. I wondered whether you might perhaps have gone out of Town.”

  “Oh no,” said Susan quickly. “We were in all day. Both of us. We didn’t go out at all.”

  Greg said gently: “You know Susan, I think our telephone must have been out of order that day. You remember how I couldn’t get through to Hard and Co. in the afternoon. I meant to report it, but it was all right the next morning.”

  “Telephones,” said Mr. Entwhistle, “can be very unreliable sometimes.”

  Susan said suddenly:

  “How did Aunt Cora know about our marriage? It was at a Registry Office and we didn’t tell anyone until afterwards!”

  “I fancy Richard may have told her about it. She remade her will about three weeks ago (it was formerly in favour of the Theosophical Society)—just about the time he had been down to see her.”

  Susan looked startled.

  “Did Uncle Richard go down to see her? I’d no idea of that?”

  “I hadn’t any idea of it myself,” said Mr. Entwhistle.

  “So that was when—”

  “When what?”

  “Nothing,” said Susan.

  Six

  I

  “Very good of you to come along,” said Maude gruffly, as she greeted Mr. Entwhistle on the platform of Bayham Compton station. “I can assure you that both Timothy and I much appreciate it. Of course the truth is that Richard’s death was the worst thing possible for Timothy.”

  Mr. Entwhistle had not yet considered his friend’s death from this particular angle. But it was, he saw, the only angle from which Mrs. Timothy Abernethie was likely to regard it.

  As they proce
eded towards the exit, Maude developed the theme.

  “To begin with, it was a shock—Timothy was really very attached to Richard. And then unfortunately it put the idea of death into Timothy’s head. Being such an invalid has made him rather nervous about himself. He realized that he was the only one of the brothers left alive—and he started saying that he’d be the next to go—and that it wouldn’t be long now—all very morbid talk, as I told him.”

  They emerged from the station and Maude led the way to a dilapidated car of almost fabulous antiquity.

  “Sorry about our old rattletrap,” she said. “We’ve wanted a new car for years, but really we couldn’t afford it. This has had a new engine twice—and these old cars really stand up to a lot of hard work.

  “I hope it will start,” she added. “Sometimes one has to wind it.”

  She pressed the starter several times but only a meaningless whirr resulted. Mr. Entwhistle, who had never wound a car in his life, felt rather apprehensive, but Maude herself descended, inserted the starting handle and with a vigorous couple of turns woke the motor to life. It was fortunate, Mr. Entwhistle reflected, that Maude was such a powerfully built woman.

  “That’s that,” she said. “The old brute’s been playing me up lately. Did it when I was coming back after the funeral. Had to walk a couple of miles to the nearest garage and they weren’t good for much—just a village affair. I had to put up at the local inn while they tinkered at it. Of course that upset Timothy, too. I had to phone through to him and tell him I couldn’t be back till the next day. Fussed him terribly. One tries to keep things from him as much as possible—but some things one can’t do anything about—Cora’s murder, for instance. I had to send for Dr. Barton to give him a sedative. Things like murder are too much for a man in Timothy’s state of health. I gather Cora was always a fool.”

  Mr. Entwhistle digested this remark in silence. The inference was not quite clear to him.

  “I don’t think I’d seen Cora since our marriage,” said Maude. “I didn’t like to say to Timothy at the time: ‘Your youngest sister’s batty,’ not just like that. But it’s what I thought. There she was saying the most extraordinary things! One didn’t know whether to resent them or whether to laugh. I suppose the truth is she lived in a kind of imaginary world of her own—full of melodrama and fantastic ideas about other people. Well, poor soul, she’s paid for it now. She didn’t have any protégés, did she?”

  “Protégés? What do you mean?”

  “I just wondered. Some young cadging artist, or musician—or something of that kind. Someone she might have let in that day, and who killed her for her loose cash. Perhaps an adolescent—they’re so queer at that age sometimes—especially if they’re the neurotic arty type. I mean, it seems so odd to break in and murder her in the middle of the afternoon. If you break into a house surely you’d do it at night.”

  “There would have been two women there then.”

  “Oh yes, the companion. But really I can’t believe that anyone would deliberately wait until she was out of the way and then break in and attack Cora. What for? He can’t have expected she’d have any cash or stuff to speak of, and there must have been times when both the women were out and the house was empty. That would have been much safer. It seems so stupid to go and commit a murder unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “And Cora’s murder, you feel, was unnecessary?”

  “It all seems so stupid.”

  Should murder make sense? Mr. Entwhistle wondered. Academically the answer was yes. But many pointless crimes were on record. It depended, Mr. Entwhistle reflected, on the mentality of the murderer.

  What did he really know about murderers and their mental processes? Very little. His firm had never had a criminal practice. He was no student of criminology himself. Murderers, as far as he could judge, seemed to be of all sorts and kinds. Some had had overweening vanity, some had had a lust for power, some, like Seddon, had been mean and avaricious, others, like Smith and Rowse, had had an incredible fascination for women; some, like Armstrong, had been pleasant fellows to meet. Edith Thompson had lived in a world of violent unreality, Nurse Waddington had put her elderly patients out of the way with businesslike cheerfulness.

  Maude’s voice broke into his meditations.

  “If I could only keep the newspapers from Timothy! But he will insist on reading them—and then, of course, it upsets him. You do understand, don’t you, Mr. Entwhistle, that there can be no question of Timothy’s attending the inquest? If necessary, Dr. Barton can write out a certificate or whatever it is.”

  “You can set your mind at rest about that.”

  “Thank goodness!”

  They turned in through the gates of Stansfield Grange, and up a neglected drive. It had been an attractive small property once—but had now a doleful and neglected appearance. Maude sighed as she said:

  “We had to let this go to seed during the war. Both gardeners called up. And now we’ve only got one old man—and he’s not much good. Wages have gone up so terribly. I must say it’s a blessing to realize that we’ll be able to spend a little money on the place now. We’re both so fond of it. I was really afraid that we might have to sell it… Not that I suggested anything of the kind to Timothy. It would have upset him—dreadfully.”

  They drew up before the portico of a very old Georgian house which badly needed a coat of paint.

  “No servants,” said Maude bitterly, as she led the way in. “Just a couple of women who come in. We had a resident maid until a month ago—slightly hunchbacked and terribly adenoidal and in many ways not too bright, but she was there which was such a comfort—and quite good at plain cooking. And would you believe it, she gave notice and went to a fool of a woman who keeps six Pekinese dogs (it’s a larger house than this and more work) because she was ‘so fond of little doggies,’ she said. Dogs, indeed! Being sick and making messes all the time I’ve no doubt! Really, these girls are mental! So there we are, and if I have to go out any afternoon, Timothy is left quite alone in the house and if anything should happen, how could he get help? Though I do leave the telephone close by his chair so that if he felt faint he could dial Dr. Barton immediately.”

  Maude led the way into the drawing room where tea was laid ready by the fireplace, and establishing Mr. Entwhistle there, disappeared, presumably to the back regions. She returned in a few minutes’ time with a teapot and silver kettle, and proceeded to minister to Mr. Entwhistle’s needs. It was a good tea with homemade cake and fresh buns. Mr. Entwhistle murmured:

  “What about Timothy?” and Maude explained briskly that she had taken Timothy his tray before she set out for the station.

  “And now,” said Maude, “he will have had his little nap and it will be the best time for him to see you. Do try and not let him excite himself too much.”

  Mr. Entwhistle assured her that he would exercise every precaution.

  Studying her in the flickering firelight, he was seized by a feeling of compassion. This big, stalwart matter-of-fact woman, so healthy, so vigorous, so full of common sense, and yet so strangely, almost pitifully, vulnerable in one spot. Her love for her husband was maternal love, Mr. Entwhistle decided. Maude Abernethie had borne no child and she was a woman built for motherhood. Her invalid husband had become her child, to be shielded, guarded, watched over. And perhaps, being the stronger character of the two, she had unconsciously imposed on him a state of invalidism greater than might otherwise have been the case.

  “Poor Mrs. Tim,” thought Mr. Entwhistle to himself.

  II

  “Good of you to come, Entwhistle.”

  Timothy raised himself up in his chair as he held out a hand. He was a big man with a marked resemblance to his brother Richard. But what was strength in Richard, in Timothy was weakness. The mouth was irresolute, the chin very slightly receding, the eyes less deep-set. Lines of peevish irritability showed on his forehead.

  His invalid status was emphasized by the rug across his knee
s and a positive pharmacopoeia of little bottles and boxes, on a table at his right hand.

  “I mustn’t exert myself,” he said warningly. “Doctor’s forbidden it. Keeps telling me not to worry! Worry! If he’d had a murder in his family he’d do a bit of worrying, I bet! It’s too much for a man—first Richard’s death—then hearing all about his funeral and his will—what a will!—and on top of that poor little Cora killed with a hatchet. Hatchet! ugh! This country’s full of gangsters nowadays—thugs—left over from the war! Going about killing defenceless women. Nobody’s got the guts to put these things down—to take a strong hand. What’s the country coming to, I’d like to know? What’s the damned country coming to?”

  Mr. Entwhistle was familiar with this gambit. It was a question almost invariably asked sooner or later by his clients for the last twenty years and he had his routine for answering it. The noncommittal words he uttered could have been classified under the heading of soothing noises.

  “It all began with that damned Labour Government,” said Timothy. “Sending the whole country to blazes. And the Government we’ve got now is no better. Mealy-mouthed, milk-and-water socialists! Look at the state we’re in! Can’t get a decent gardener, can’t get servants—poor Maude here has to work herself to a shadow messing about in the kitchen (by the way, I think a custard pudding would go well with the sole tonight, my dear—and perhaps a little clear soup first?). I’ve got to keep my strength up— Doctor Barton said so—let me see, where was I? Oh yes, Cora. It’s a shock, I can tell you, to a man when he hears his sister—his own sister—has been murdered! Why, I had palpitations for twenty minutes! You’ll have to attend to everything for me, Entwhistle. I can’t go to the inquest or be bothered by business of any kind connected with Cora’s estate. I want to forget the whole thing. What happened, by the way, to Cora’s share of Richard’s money? Comes to me, I suppose?”

  Murmuring something about clearing away tea, Maude left the room.