After the Funeral hp-29

by Agatha Christie

  He paused and then went on:

  "I rang you up, as a matter of fact – and Greg told me you'd come down to take possession, as it were. I thought I might give you a hand."

  Susan said, "Aren't you needed in the office? Or can you take days off whenever you like?"

  "A funeral has always been a recognised excuse for absenteeism. And this funeral is indubitably genuine. Besides, a murder always fascinates people. Anyway, I shan't be going much to the office in future – not now that I'm a man of means. I shall have better things to do."

  He paused and grinned, "Same as Greg," he said.

  Susan looked at George thoughtfully. She had never seen much of this cousin of hers and when they did meet she had always found him rather difficult to make out.

  She asked, "Why did you really come down here, George?"

  "I'm not sure it wasn't to do a little detective work. I've been thinking a good deal about the last funeral we attended. Aunt Cora certainly threw a spanner into the works that day. I've wondered whether it was sheer irresponsibility and auntly joie de vivre that prompted her words, or whether she really had something to go upon. What actually is in that letter that you were reading so attentively when I came in?"

  Susan said slowly, "It's a letter that Uncle Richard wrote to Cora after he'd been down here to see her."

  How very black George's eyes were. She'd thought of them as brown but they were black, and there was something curiously impenetrable about black eyes. They concealed the thoughts that lay behind them.

  George drawled slowly, "Anything interesting in it?"

  "No, not exactly…"

  "Can I see?"

  She hesitated for a moment, then put the letter into his outstretched hand.

  He read it, skimming over the contents in a low monotone.

  "Glad to have seen you again after all these years… looking very well… had a good journey home and arrived back not too tired…"

  His voice changed suddenly, sharpened:

  "Please don't say anything to anyone about what I told you. It may be a mistake. Your loving brother, Richard."

  He looked up at Susan. "What does that mean?"

  "It might mean anything… It might be just about his health. Or it might be some gossip about a mutual friend."

  "Oh yes, it might be a lot of things. It isn't conclusive – but it's suggestive… What did he tell Cora? Does anyone know what he told her?"

  "Miss Gilchrist might know," said Susan thoughtfully. "I think she listened."

  "Oh, yes, the Companion help. Where is she, by the way?"

  "In hospital, suffering from arsenic poisoning."

  George stared.

  "You don't mean it?"

  "I do. Someone sent her some poisoned wedding cake."

  George sat down on one of the bedroom chairs and whistled.

  "It looks," he said, "as though Uncle Richard was not mistaken."

  III

  On the following morning Inspector Morton called at the cottage.

  He was a quiet middle-aged man with a soft country burr in his voice. His manner was quiet and unhurried, but his eyes were shrewd.

  "You realise what this is about, Mrs Banks?" he said. "Dr Proctor has already told you about Miss Gilchrist. The few crumbs of wedding cake that he took from here have been analysed and show traces of arsenic."

  "So somebody deliberately wanted to poison her?"

  "That's what it looks like. Miss Gilchrist herself doesn't seem able to help us. She keeps repeating that it's impossible – that nobody would do such a thing. But somebody did. You can't throw any light on the matter?"

  Susan shook her head.

  "I'm simply dumbfounded," she said. "Can't you find out anything from the postmark? Or the handwriting?"

  "You've forgotten – the wrapping paper was presumably burnt. And there's a little doubt whether it came through the post at all. Young Andrews, the driver of the postal van, doesn't seem able to remember delivering it. He's got a big round, and he can't be sure – but there it is – there's a doubt about it."

  "But – what's the alternative?"

  "The alternative, Mrs Banks, is that an old piece of brown paper was used that already had Miss Gilchrist's name and address on it and a cancelled stamp, and that the package was pushed through the letter box or deposited inside the door by hand to create the impression that it had come by post."

  He added dispassionately:

  "It's quite a clever idea, you know, to choose wedding cake. Lonely middle-aged women are sentimental about wedding cake, pleased at having been remembered. A box of sweets, or something of that kind might have awakened suspicion."

  Susan said slowly:

  "Miss Gilchrist speculated a good deal about who could have sent it, but she wasn't at all suspicious – as you say, she was pleased and yes – flattered."

  She added: "Was there enough poison in it to – kill?"

  "That's difficult to say until we get the quantitative analysis. It rather depends on whether Miss Gilchrist ate the whole of the wedge. She seems to think that she didn't. Can you remember?"

  "No – no, I'm not sure. She offered me some and I refused and then she ate some and said it was a very good cake, but I don't remember if she finished it or not."

  "I'd like to go upstairs if you don't mind, Mrs Banks."

  "Of course."

  She followed him up to Miss Gilchrist's room. She said apologetically:

  "I'm afraid it's in a rather disgusting state. But I didn't have time to do anything about it with my aunt's funeral and everything, and then after Dr Proctor came I thought perhaps I ought to leave it as it was."

  "That was very intelligent of you, Mrs Banks. It's not everyone who would have been so intelligent."

  He went to the bed and slipping his hand under the pillow raised it carefully. A slow smile spread over his face.

  "There you are," he said.

  A piece of wedding cake lay on the sheet looking somewhat the worse for wear.

  "How extraordinary," said Susan.

  "Oh no, it's not. Perhaps your generation doesn't do it. Young ladies nowadays mayn't set so much store on getting married. But it's an old custom. Put a piece of wedding cake under your pillow and you'll dream of your future husband."

  "But surely Miss Gilchrist -"

  "She didn't want to tell us about it because she felt foolish doing such a thing at her age. But I had a notion that's what it might be." His face sobered. "And if it hadn't been for an old maid's foolishness, Miss Gilchrist mightn't be alive today."

  "But who could have possibly wanted to kill her?"

  His eyes met hers, a curious speculative look in them that made Susan feel uncomfortable.

  "You don't know? "he asked.

  "No – of course I don't."

  "It seems then as though we shall have to find out," said Inspector Morton.

  Chapter 12

  Two elderly men sat together in a room whose furnishings were of the most modern kind. There were no curves in the room. Everything was square. Almost the only exception was Hercule Poirot himself who was full of curves. His stomach was pleasantly rounded, his head resembled an egg in shape, and his moustaches curved upwards in a flamboyant flourish.

  He was sipping a glass of sirop and looking thoughtfully at Mr Goby.

  Mr Goby was small and spare and shrunken. He had always been refreshingly nondescript in appearance and he was now so nondescript as practically not to be there at all. He was not looking at Poirot because Mr Goby never looked at anybody.

  Such remarks as he was now making seemed to be addressed to the left-hand corner of the chromium-plated fireplace curb.

  Mr Goby was famous for the acquiring of information. Very few people knew about him and very few employed his services – but those few were usually extremely rich. They had to be, for Mr Goby was very expensive. His speciality was the acquiring of information quickly. At the flick of Mr Goby's double jointed thumb, hundreds of patient ques
tioning plodding men and women, old and young, of all apparent stations in life, were despatched to question, and probe, and achieve results.

  Mr Goby had now practically retired from business. But he occasionally "obliged" a few old patrons. Hercule Poirot was one of these.

  "I've got what I could for you," Mr Goby told the fire curb in a soft confidential whisper. "I sent the boys out. They do what they can – good lads – good lads all of them, but not what they used to be in the old days. They don't come that way nowadays. Not willing to learn, that's what it is. Think they know everything after they've only been a couple of years on the job. And they work to time. Shocking the way they work to time."

  He shook his head sadly and shifted his gaze to an electric plug socket.

  "It's the Government," he told it. "And all this education racket. It gives them ideas. They come back and tell us what they think. They can't think, most of them, anyway. All they know is things out of books. That's no good in our business. Bring in the answers – that's all that's needed – no thinking."

  Mr Goby flung himself back in his chair and winked at a lampshade.

  "Mustn't crab the Government, though! Don't know really what we'd do without it. I can tell you that nowadays you can walk in most anywhere with a notebook and pencil, dressed right, and speaking BBC, and ask people all the most intimate details of their daily lives and all their back history, and what they had for dinner on November 23rd because that was a test day for middle-class incomes – or whatever it happens to be (making it a grade above to butter them up!) – ask 'em any mortal thing you can; and nine times out of ten they'll come across pat, and even the tenth time though they may cut up rough, they won't doubt for a minute that you're what you say you are – and that the Government really wants to know – for some completely unfathomable reason! I can tell you, M. Poirot," said Mr Goby, still talking to the lampshade, "that it's the best line we've ever had; much better than taking the electric meter or tracing a fault in the telephone – yes, or than calling as nuns, or the Girl Guides or the Boy Scouts asking for subscriptions – though we use all those too. Yes, Government snooping is God's gift to investigators and long may it continue!"

  Poirot did not speak. Mr Goby had grown a little garrulous with advancing years, but he would come to the point in his own good time.

  "Ar," said Mr Goby and took out a very scrubby little notebook. He licked his finger and flicked, over the pages. "Here we are. Mr George Crossfield. We'll take him first. Just the plain facts. You won't want to know how I got them. He's been in Queer Street for quite a while now. Horses, mostly, and gambling – he's not a great one for women. Goes over to France now and then, and Monte too. Spends a lot of time at the Casino. Too downy to cash cheques there, but gets hold of a lot more money than his travelling allowance would account for. I didn't go into that, because it wasn't what you want to know. But he's not scrupulous about evading the law – and being a lawyer he knows how to do it. Some reason to believe that he's been using, trust funds entrusted, to him to invest. Plunging pretty wildly of late – on the Stock Exchange and on the gee-gees! Bad judgment and bad luck. Been off his feed badly for three months. Worried, bad-tempered and irritable in the office. But since his uncle's death that's all changed. He's like the breakfast eggs (if we had 'em). Sunny side up!

  "Now, as to particular information asked for. Statement that he was at Hurst Park races on day in question almost certainly untrue. Almost invariably places bets with one or other of two bookies on the course. They didn't see him that day. Possible that he left Paddington by train for destination unknown. Taxi-driver who took fare to Paddington made doubtful identification of his photograph. But I wouldn't back on it. He's a very common type – nothing outstanding about him. No success with porters, etc., at Paddington. Certainly didn't arrive at Cholsey Station – which is nearest for Lytchett St Mary. Small station, strangers noticeable. Could have got out at Reading and taken bus. Buses there crowded, frequent and several routes go within a mile or so of Lytchett St Mary as well as the bus service that goes right into the village. He wouldn't take that – not if he meant business. All in all, he's a downy card. Wasn't seen in Lytchett St Mary but he needn't have been. Other ways of approach than through the village. Was in the OUDS at Oxford, by the way. If he went to the cottage that day he mayn't have looked quite like the usual George Crossfield. I'll keep, him in my book, shall I? There's a black market angle I'd like to play up."

  "You may keep him in," said Hercule Poirot.

  Mr Goby licked his finger and turned another page of his notebook.

  "Mr Michael Shane. He's thought quite a lot of in the profession. Has an even better idea of himself than other people have. Wants to star and wants to star quickly. Fond of money and doing himself well. Very attractive to women. They fall for him right and left. He's partial to them himself – but business comes first, as you might say. He's been running around with Sorrel Dainton who was playing the lead in the last show he was in. He only had a minor part but made quite a hit in it, and Miss Dainton's husband doesn't like him. His wife doesn't know about him and Miss Dainton. Doesn't know much about anything, it seems. Not much of an actress I gather, but easy on the eye. Crazy about her husband. Some rumour of a bust-up likely between them not long ago, but that seems out now. Out since Mr Richard Abernethie's death."

  Mr Goby emphasised the last point by nodding his head significantly at a cushion on the sofa.

  "On the day in question, Mr Shane says he was meeting a Mr Rosenheim and a Mr Oscar Lewis to fix up some stage business. He didn't meet them. Sent them a wire to say he was terribly sorry he couldn't make it. What he did do was to go to the Emeraldo Car people, who hire out drive yourself cars. He hired a car about twelve o'clock and drove away in it. He returned it about six in the evening. According to the speedometer it had been driven just about the right number of miles for what we're after. No confirmation from Lytchett St Mary. No strange car seems to have been observed there that day. Lots of places it could be left unnoticed a mile or so away. And there's even a disused quarry a few hundred yards down the lane from the cottage. Three market towns within walking distance where you can park in side streets, without the police bothering about you. All right, we keep Mr Shane in?"

  "Most certainly."

  "Now Mrs Shane." Mr Goby rubbed his nose and told his left cuff about Mrs Shane. "She says she was shopping. Just shopping…" Mr Goby raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Women who are shopping – just scatty, that's what they are. And she'd heard she'd come into money the day before. Naturally there'd be no holding her. She has one or two charge accounts but they're overdrawn and they've been pressing her for payment and she didn't put any more on the sheet. It's quite on the cards that she went in here and there and everywhere, trying on clothes, looking at jewellery, pricing this, that, and the other – and as likely as not, not buying anything! She's easy to approach – I'll say that. I had one of my young ladies who's knowledgeable on the theatrical line do a hook up. Stopped by her table in a restaurant and exclaimed the way they do: 'Darling, I haven't seen you since Way Down Under. You were wonderful in that! Have you seen Hubert lately?' That was the producer and Mrs Shane was a bit of a flop in the play – but that makes it go all the better. They're chatting theatrical stuff at once, and, my girl throws the right names about, and then she says, I believe I caught a glimpse of you at so and so, on so and so, giving the day – and most ladies fall for it and say, 'Oh no, I was -' whatever it may be. But not Mrs Shane. Just looks vacant and says, 'Oh, I dare say.' What can you do with a lady like that?" Mr Goby shook his head severely at the radiator.

  "Nothing," said Hercule Poirot with feeling. "Do I not have cause to know it? Never shall I forget the killing of Lord Edgware. I was nearly defeated – yes, I, Hercule Poirot – by the extremely simple cunning of a vacant brain. The very simple minded have often the genius to commit an uncomplicated crime and then leave it alone. Let us hope that our murderer – if there is a murderer in this
affair – is intelligent and superior and thoroughly pleased with himself and unable to resist painting the lily. Enfin – but continue."

  Once more Mr Goby applied himself to his little book.

  "Mr and Mrs Banks – who said they were at home all day. She wasn't, anyway! Went round to the garage, got out her car, and drove off in it about 1 o'clock. Destination unknown. Back about five. Can't tell about mileage because she's had it out every day since and it's been nobody's business to check.

  "As to Mr Banks, we've dug up something curious. To begin with, I'll mention that on the day in question we don't know what he did. He didn't go to work. Seems he'd already asked for a couple of days off on account of the funeral. And since then he's chucked his job – with no consideration for the firm. Nice, well-established small pharmacy it is. They're not too keen on Master Banks. Seems he used to get into rather queer excitable states.

  "Well, as I say, we don't know what he was doing on the day of Mrs L.'s death. He didn't go with his wife. It could be that he stopped in their little flat all day. There's no porter there, and nobody knows whether tenants are in or out. But his back history is interesting. Up till about four months ago – just before he met his wife, he was in a Mental Home. Not certified – just what they call a mental breakdown. Seems he made some slip up in dispensing a medicine. (He was working with a Mayfair firm then.) The woman recovered, and the firm were all over themselves apologising, and there was no prosecution. After all, these accidental slips do occur, and most decent people are sorry for a poor young chap who's done it – so long as there's no permanent harm done, that is. The firm didn't sack him, but he resigned – said it had shaken his nerve. But afterwards, it seems, he got into a very low state and told the doctor he was obsessed by guilt – that it had all been deliberate – the woman had been overbearing and rude to him when she came into the shop, had complained that her last prescription had been badly made up – and that he had resented this and had deliberately added a near lethal dose of some drug or other. He said 'She had to be punished for daring to speak to me like that!' And then wept and said he was too wicked to live and a lot of things like that. The medicos have a long word for that sort of thing – guilt complex or something – and don't believe it was deliberate at all, just carelessness, but that he wanted to make it important and serious."