After the Funeral

by Agatha Christie

  “Another queer thing,” said Susan, “is that you sometimes catch sight of yourself in a mirror unexpectedly and don’t know who it is. It just looks vaguely familiar. And you say to yourself, ‘There’s somebody I know quite well… ’ and then suddenly realize it’s yourself!”

  George said: “It would be more difficult still if you could really see yourself—and not a mirror image.”

  “Why?” asked Rosamund, looking puzzled.

  “Because, don’t you see, nobody ever sees themselves—as they appear to other people. They always see themselves in a glass—that is—as a reversed image.”

  “But why does that look any different?”

  “Oh yes,” said Susan quickly. “It must. Because people’s faces aren’t the same both sides. Their eyebrows are different, and their mouths go up one side, and their noses aren’t really straight. You can see with a pencil—who’s got a pencil?”

  Somebody produced a pencil, and they experimented, holding a pencil each side of the nose and laughing to see the ridiculous variation in angle.

  The atmosphere now had lightened a good deal. Everybody was in a good humour. They were no longer the heirs of Richard Abernethie gathered together for a division of property. They were a cheerful and normal set of people gathered together for a weekend in the country.

  Only Helen Abernethie remained silent and abstracted.

  With a sigh, Hercule Poirot rose to his feet and bade his hostess a polite good night.

  “And perhaps, Madame, I had better say good-bye. My train departs itself at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. That is very early. So I will thank you now for all your kindness and hospitality. The date of possession—that will be arranged with the good Mr. Entwhistle. To suit your convenience, of course.”

  “It can be anytime you please, M. Pontarlier. I—I have finished all that I came here to do.”

  “You will return now to your villa at Cyprus?”

  “Yes.” A little smile curved Helen Abernethie’s lips.

  Poirot said:

  “You are glad, yes. You have no regrets?”

  “At leaving England? Or leaving here, do you mean?”

  “I meant—leaving here?”

  “Oh—no. It’s no good, is it, to cling on to the past? One must leave that behind one.”

  “If one can.” Blinking his eyes innocently Poirot smiled apologetically round on the group of polite faces that surrounded him.

  “Sometimes, is it not, the Past will not be left, will not suffer itself to pass into oblivion? It stands at one’s elbow—it says, ‘I am not done with yet.’”

  Susan gave a rather doubtful laugh. Poirot said:

  “But I am serious—yes.”

  “You mean,” said Michael, “that your refugees when they come here will not be able to put their past sufferings completely behind them?”

  “I did not mean my Refugees.”

  “He meant us, darling,” said Rosamund. “He means Uncle Richard and Aunt Cora and the hatchet and all that.”

  She turned to Poirot.

  “Didn’t you?”

  Poirot looked at her with a blank face. Then he said:

  “Why do you think that, Madame?”

  “Because you’re a detective, aren’t you? That’s why you’re here. N.A.R.C.O., or whatever you call it, is just nonsense, isn’t it?”

  Twenty

  I

  There was a moment of extraordinary tenseness. Poirot felt it, though he himself did not remove his eyes from Rosamund’s lovely placid face.

  He said with a little bow, “You have great perspicacity, Madame.”

  “Not really,” said Rosamund. “You were pointed out to me once in a restaurant. I remembered.”

  “But you have not mentioned it—until now?”

  “I thought it would be more fun not to,” said Rosamund.

  Michael said in an imperfectly controlled voice:

  “My—dear girl.”

  Poirot shifted his gaze then to look at him.

  Michael was angry. Angry and something else—apprehensive?

  Poirot’s eyes went slowly round all the faces. Susan’s, angry and watchful; Gregory’s dead and shut in; Miss Gilchrist’s, foolish, her mouth wide open; George, wary; Helen, dismayed and nervous….

  All those expressions were normal ones under the circumstances. He wished he could have seen their faces a split second earlier, when the words “a detective” fell from Rosamund’s lips. For now, inevitably, it could not be quite the same….

  He squared his shoulders and bowed to them. His language and his accent became less foreign.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am a detective.”

  George Crossfield said, the white dints showing once more each side of his nose, “Who sent you here?”

  “I was commissioned to inquire into the circumstances of Richard Abernethie’s death.”

  “By whom?”

  “For the moment, that does not concern you. But it would be an advantage, would it not, if you could be assured beyond any possible doubt that Richard Abernethie died a natural death?”

  “Of course he died a natural death. Who says anything else?”

  “Cora Lansquenet said so. And Cora Lansquenet is dead herself.”

  A little wave of uneasiness seemed to sigh through the room like an evil breeze.

  “She said it here—in this room,” said Susan. “But I didn’t really think—”

  “Didn’t you, Susan?” George Crossfield turned his sardonic glance upon her. “Why pretend anymore? You won’t take M. Pontarlier in?”

  “We all thought so really,” said Rosamund. And his name isn’t Pontarlier—it’s Hercules something.”

  “Hercule Poirot—at your service.”

  Poirot bowed.

  There were no gasps of astonishment or of apprehension. His name seemed to mean nothing at all to them.

  They were less alarmed by it than they had been by the single word “detective.”

  “May I ask what conclusions you have come to?” asked George.

  “He won’t tell you, darling,” said Rosamund. “Or if he does tell you, what he says won’t be true.”

  Alone of all the company she appeared to be amused.

  Hercule Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.

  II

  Hercule Poirot did not sleep well that night. He was perturbed, and he was not quite sure why he was perturbed. Elusive snatches of conversation, various glances, odd movements—all seemed fraught with a tantalizing significance in the loneliness of the night. He was on the threshold of sleep, but sleep would not come. Just as he was about to drop off, something flashed into his mind and woke him up again. Paint—Timothy and paint. Oil paint—the smell of oil paint—connected somehow with Mr. Entwhistle. Paint and Cora. Cora’s paintings—picture postcards… Cora was deceitful about her painting… No, back to Mr. Entwhistle—something Mr. Entwhistle had said—or was it Lanscombe? A nun who came to the house on the day that Richard Abernethie died. A nun with a moustache. A nun at Stansfield Grange—and at Lytchett St. Mary. Altogether too many nuns! Rosamund looking glamorous as a nun on the stage. Rosamund—saying that he was a detective—and everyone staring at her when she said it. That was the way that they must all have stared at Cora that day when she said, “But he was murdered, wasn’t he?” What was it Helen Abernethie had felt to be “wrong” on that occasion? Helen Abernethie—leaving the past behind—going to Cyprus… Helen dropping the wax flowers with a crash when he had said—what was it he had said? He couldn’t quite remember….

  He slept then, and as he slept he dreamed….

  He dreamed of the green malachite table. On it was the glass-covered stand of wax flowers—only the whole thing had been painted over with thick crimson oil paint. Paint the colour of blood. He could smell the paint, and Timothy was groaning, was saying, “I’m dying—dying…this is the end.” And Maude, standing by, tall and stern, with a large knife in her hand was echoing him, saying, “Yes, it’s
the end…” The end—a deathbed, with candles and a nun praying. If he could just see the nun’s face, he would know….

  Hercule Poirot woke up—and he did know!

  Yes, it was the end….

  Though there was still a long way to go.

  He sorted out the various bits of the mosaic.

  Mr. Entwhistle, the smell of paint, Timothy’s house and something that must be in it—or might be in it…the wax flowers… Helen… Broken glass….

  III

  Helen Abernethie, in her room, took some time in going to bed. She was thinking.

  Sitting in front of her dressing table, she stared at herself unseeingly in the glass.

  She had been forced into having Hercule Poirot in the house. She had not wanted it. But Mr. Entwhistle had made it hard for her to refuse. And now the whole thing had come out into the open. No question any more of letting Richard Abernethie lie quiet in his grave. All started by those few words of Cora’s….

  That day after the funeral… How had they all looked, she wondered? How had they looked to Cora? How had she herself looked?

  What was it George had said? About seeing oneself?

  There was some quotation, too. To see ourselves as others see us… As others see us.

  The eyes that were staring into the glass unseeingly suddenly focused. She was seeing herself—but not really herself—not herself as others saw her—not as Cora had seen her that day.

  Her right—no, her left eyebrow was arched a little higher than the right. The mouth? No, the curve of the mouth was symmetrical. If she met herself she would surely not see much difference from this mirror image. Not like Cora.

  Cora—the picture came quite clearly… Cora, on the day of the funeral, her head tilted sideways—asking her question—looking at Helen….

  Suddenly Helen raised her hands to her face. She said to herself, “It doesn’t make sense…it can’t make sense….”

  IV

  Miss Entwhistle was aroused from a delightful dream in which she was playing Piquet with Queen Mary, by the ringing of the telephone.

  She tried to ignore it—but it persisted. Sleepily she raised her head from the pillow and looked at the watch beside her bed. Five minutes to seven—who on earth could be ringing up at that hour? It must be a wrong number.

  The irritating ding-dong continued. Miss Entwhistle sighed, snatched up a dressing gown and marched into the sitting room.

  “This is Kensington 675498,” she said with asperity as she picked up the receiver.

  “This is Mrs. Abernethie speaking. Mrs. Leo Abernethie. Can I speak to Mr. Entwhistle?”

  “Oh, good morning, Mrs. Abernethie.” The “good morning” was not cordial. “This is Miss Entwhistle. My brother is still asleep, I’m afraid. I was asleep myself.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Helen was forced to the apology. “But it’s very important that I should speak to your brother at once.”

  “Wouldn’t it do later?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh, very well then.”

  Miss Entwhistle was tart.

  She tapped at her brother’s door and went in.

  “Those Abernethies again!” she said bitterly.

  “Eh! The Aberbethies?”

  “Mrs. Leo Abernethie. Ringing up before seven in the morning! Really!”

  “Mrs. Leo, is it? Dear me. How remarkable. Where is my dressing gown? Ah, thank you.”

  Presently he was saying:

  “Entwhistle speaking. Is that you, Helen?”

  “Yes. I’m terribly sorry to get you out of bed like this. But you did tell me once to ring you up at once if I remembered what it was that struck me as having been wrong somehow on the day of the funeral when Cora electrified us all by suggesting that Richard had been murdered.”

  “Ah! You have remembered?”

  Helen said in a puzzled voice:

  “Yes, but it doesn’t make sense.”

  “You must allow me to be the judge of that. Was it something you noticed about one of the people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It seems absurd.” Helen’s voice sounded apologetic. “But I’m quite sure of it. It came to me when I was looking at myself in the glass last night. Oh….”

  The little startled half cry was succeeded by a sound that came oddly through the wires—a dull heavy sound that Mr. Entwhistle couldn’t place at all.

  He said urgently:

  “Hallo—hallo—are you there? Helen, are you there?… Helen….”

  Twenty-one

  I

  It was not until nearly an hour later that Mr. Entwhistle, after a great deal of conversation with supervisors and others, found himself at last speaking to Hercule Poirot.

  “Thank heaven!” said Mr. Entwhistle with pardonable exasperation. “The Exchange seems to have had the greatest difficulty in getting the number.”

  “That is not surprising. The receiver was off the hook.”

  There was a grim quality in Poirot’s voice which carried through to the listener.

  Mr. Entwhistle said sharply:

  “Has something happened?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Leo Abernethie was found by the housemaid about twenty minutes ago lying by the telephone in the study. She was unconscious. A serious concussion.”

  “Do you mean she was struck on the head?”

  “I think so. It is just possible that she fell and struck her head on a marble doorstop, but me I do not think so, and the doctor, he does not think so either.”

  “She was telephoning to me at the time. I wondered when we were cut off so suddenly.”

  “So it was to you she was telephoning? What did she say?”

  “She mentioned to me some time ago that on the occasion when Cora Lansquenet suggested her brother had been murdered, she herself had a feeling of something being wrong—odd—she did not quite know how to put it—unfortunately she could not remember why she had that impression.”

  “And suddenly, she did remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “And rang you up to tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Eh bien.”

  “There’s no eh bien about it,” said Mr. Entwhistle testily. “She started to tell me, but was interrupted.”

  “How much had she said?”

  “Nothing pertinent.”

  “You will excuse me, mon ami, but I am the judge of that, not you. What exactly did she say?”

  “She reminded me that I had asked her to let me know at once if she remembered what it was that had struck her as peculiar. She said she had remembered—but that it ‘didn’t make sense.’

  “I asked her if it was something about one of the people who were there that day, and she said, yes, it was. She said it had come to her when she was looking in the glass—”

  “Yes?”

  “That was all.”

  “She gave no hint as to—which of the people concerned it was?”

  “I should hardly fail to let you know if she had told me that,” said Mr. Entwhistle acidly.

  “I apologize, mon ami. Of course you would have told me.”

  Mr. Entwhistle said:

  “We shall just have to wait until she recovers consciousness before we know.”

  Poirot said gravely:

  “That may not be for a very long time. Perhaps never.”

  “Is it as bad as that?” Mr. Entwhistle’s voice shook a little.

  “Yes, it is as bad as that.”

  “But—that’s terrible, Poirot.”

  “Yes, it is terrible. And it is why we cannot afford to wait. For it shows that we have to deal with someone who is either completely ruthless or so frightened that it comes to the same thing.”

  “But look here, Poirot. What about Helen? I feel worried. Are you sure she will be safe at Enderby?”

  “No, she would not be safe. So she is not at Enderby. Already the ambulance has come and is taking her to a nursing home where she wi
ll have special nurses and where no one, family or otherwise, will be allowed in to see her.”

  Mr. Entwhistle sighed.

  “You relieve my mind! She might have been in danger.”

  “She assuredly would have been in danger!”

  Mr. Entwhistle’s voice sounded deeply moved.

  “I have a great regard for Helen Abernethie. I always have had. A woman of very exceptional character. She may have had certain—what shall I say?—reticences in her life.”

  “Ah, there were reticences?”

  “I have always had an idea that such was the case.”

  “Hence the villa in Cyprus. Yes, that explains a good deal….”

  “I don’t want you to begin thinking—”

  “You cannot stop me thinking. But now, there is a little commission that I have for you. One moment.”

  There was a pause, then Poirot’s voice spoke again.

  “I had to make sure that nobody was listening. All is well. Now here is what I want you to do for me. You must prepare to make a journey.”

  “A journey?” Mr. Entwhistle sounded faintly dismayed. “Oh, I see—you want me to come down to Enderby?”

  “Not at all. I am in charge here. No, you will not have to travel so far. Your journey will not take you very far from London. You will travel to Bury St. Edmunds—(Ma foi! what names your English towns have!) and there you will hire a car and drive to Forsdyke House. It is a Mental Home. Ask for Dr. Penrith and inquire of him particulars about a patient who was recently discharged.”

  “What patient? Anyway, surely—”

  Poirot broke in:

  “The name of the patient is Gregory Banks. Find out for what form of insanity he was being treated.”

  “Do you mean that Gregory Banks is insane?”

  “Sh! Be careful what you say. And now—I have not yet breakfasted and you, too, I suspect, have not breakfasted?”

  “Not yet. I was too anxious—”

  “Quite so. Then, I pray you, eat your breakfast, repose yourself. There is a good train to Bury St. Edmunds at twelve o’clock. If I have any more news I will telephone you before you start.”

  “Be careful of yourself, Poirot,” said Mr. Entwhistle with some concern.