I
Mr. Entwhistle looked at Dr. Larraby thoughtfully.
He had had a lifetime of experience in summing people up. There had been frequent occasions on which it had been necessary to tackle a difficult situation or a delicate subject.
Mr. Entwhistle was an adept by now in the art of how exactly to make the proper approach. How would it be best to tackle Dr. Larraby on what was certainly a very difficult subject and one which the doctor might very well resent as reflecting upon his own professional skill?
Frankness, Mr. Entwhistle thought—or at least a modified frankness. To say that suspicions had arisen because of a haphazard suggestion thrown out by a silly woman would be ill-advised. Dr. Larraby had not known Cora.
Mr. Entwhistle cleared his throat and plunged bravely.
“I want to consult you on a very delicate matter,” he said. “You may be offended, but I sincerely hope not. You are a sensible man and you will realize, I’m sure, that a—er—preposterous suggestion is best dealt with by finding a reasonable answer and not by condemning it out of hand. It concerns my client, the late Mr. Abernethie. I’ll ask you my question flat out. Are you certain, absolutely certain, that he died what is termed a natural death?”
Dr. Larraby’s good-humoured, rubicund middle-aged face turned in astonishment on his questioner.
“What on earth—Of course he did. I gave a certificate, didn’t I? If I hadn’t been satisfied—”
Mr. Entwhistle cut in adroitly:
“Naturally, naturally. I assure you that I am not assuming anything to the contrary. But I would be glad to have your positive assurance—in face of the—er—rumours that are flying around.”
“Rumours? What rumours?”
“One doesn’t know quite how these things start,” said Mr. Entwhistle mendaciously. “But my feeling is that they should be stopped—authoritatively, if possible.”
“Abernethie was a sick man. He was suffering from a disease that would have proved fatal within, I should say, at the earliest, two years. It might have come much sooner. His son’s death had weakened his will to live, and his powers of resistance. I admit that I did not expect his death to come so soon, or indeed so suddenly, but there are precedents—plenty of precedents. Any medical man who predicts exactly when a patient will die, or exactly how long he will live, is bound to make a fool of himself. The human factor is always incalculable. The weak have often unexpected powers of resistance, the strong sometimes succumb.”
“I understand all that. I am not doubting your diagnosis. Mr. Abernethie was, shall we say (rather melodramatically, I’m afraid) under sentence of death. All I’m asking you is, is it quite possible that a man, knowing or suspecting that he is doomed, might of his own accord shorten that period of life? Or that someone else might do it for him?”
Dr. Larraby frowned.
“Suicide, you mean? Abernethie wasn’t a suicidal type.”
“I see. You can assure me, medically speaking, that such a suggestion is impossible.”
The doctor stirred uneasily.
“I wouldn’t use the word impossible. After his son’s death life no longer held the interest for Abernethie that it had done. I certainly don’t feel that suicide is likely—but I can’t say that it’s impossible.”
“You are speaking from the psychological angle. When I say medically, I really meant: do the circumstances of his death make such a suggestion impossible?”
“No, oh no. No, I can’t say that. He died in his sleep, as people often do. There was no reason to suspect suicide, no evidence of his state of mind. If one were to demand an autopsy every time a man who is seriously ill died in his sleep—”
The doctor’s face was getting redder and redder. Mr. Entwhistle hastened to interpose.
“Of course. Of course. But if there had been evidence—evidence of which you yourself were not aware? If, for instance, he had said something to someone—”
“Indicating that he was contemplating suicide? Did he? I must say it surprises me.”
“But if it were so—my case is purely hypothetical—could you rule out the possibility?”
Dr. Larraby said slowly:
“No—not—I could not do that. But I say again. I should be very much surprised.”
Mr. Entwhistle hastened to follow up his advantage.
“If, then, we assume that his death was not natural—all this is purely hypothetical—what could have caused it? What kind of a drug, I mean?”
“Several. Some kind of a narcotic would be indicated. There was no sign of cyanosis, the attitude was quite peaceful.”
“He had sleeping draughts or pills? Something of that kind.”
“Yes. I had prescribed Slumberyl—a very safe and dependable hypnotic. He did not take it every night. And he only had a small bottle of tablets at a time. Three or even four times the prescribed dose would not have caused death. In fact, I remember seeing the bottle on his washstand after his death still nearly full.”
“What else had you prescribed for him?”
“Various things—a medicine containing a small quantity of morphia to be taken when he had an attack of pain. Some vitamin capsules. An indigestion mixture.”
Mr. Entwhistle interrupted.
“Vitamin capsules? I think I was once prescribed a course of those. Small round capsules of gelatine.”
“Yes. Containing adexoline.”
“Could anything else have been introduced into—say—one of those capsules?”
“Something lethal, you mean?” The doctor was looking more and more surprised. “But surely no man would ever—look here, Entwhistle, what are you getting at? My God, man, are you suggesting murder?”
“I don’t quite know what I’m suggesting…I just want to know what would be possible.”
“But what evidence have you for even suggesting such a thing?”
“I haven’t any evidence,” said Mr. Entwhistle in a tired voice. “Mr. Abernethie is dead—and the person to whom he spoke is also dead. The whole thing is rumour—vague, unsatisfactory rumour, and I want to scotch it if I can. If you tell me that no one could possibly have poisoned Abernethie in any way whatsoever, I’ll be delighted! It would be a big weight off my mind, I can assure you.”
Dr. Larraby got up and walked up and down.
“I can’t tell you what you want me to tell you,” he said at last. “I wish I could. Of course it could have been done. Anybody could have extracted the oil from a capsule and replaced it with—say—pure nicotine or half a dozen other things. Or something could have been put in his food or drink? Isn’t that more likely?”
“Possibly. But you see, there were only the servants in the house when he died—and I don’t think it was any of them—in fact I’m quite sure it wasn’t. So I’m looking for some delayed action possibility. There’s no drug, I suppose, that you can administer and then the person dies weeks later?”
“A convenient idea—but untenable, I’m afraid,” said the doctor drily. “I know you’re a reasonable person, Entwhistle, but who is making this suggestion? It seems to me wildly farfetched.”
“Abernethie never said anything to you? Never hinted that one of his relations might be wanting him out of the way?”
The doctor looked at him curiously.
“No, he never said anything to me. Are you sure, Entwhistle, that somebody hasn’t been—well, playing up the sensational? Some hysterical subjects can give an appearance of being quite reasonable and normal, you know.”
“I hope it was like that. It might well be.”
“Let me understand. Someone claims that Abernethie told her—it was a woman, I suppose?”
“Oh yes, it was a woman.”
“—told her someone was trying to kill him?”
Cornered, Mr. Entwhistle reluctantly told the tale of Cora’s remark at the funeral. Dr. Larraby’s face lightened.
“My dear fellow. I shouldn’t pay any attention! The explanation is quite simple. The woman’s at a certain time of life—craving for sensation, unbalanced, unreliable—might say anything. They do, you know!”
Mr. Entwhistle resented the doctor’s easy assumption. He himself had had to deal with plenty of sensation-hunting and hysterical women.
“You may be quite right,” he said, rising. “Unfortunately we can’t tackle her on the subject, as she’s been murdered herself.”
“What’s that—murdered?” Dr. Larraby looked as though he had grave suspicions of Mr. Entwhistle’s own stability of mind.
“You’ve probably read about it in the paper. Mrs. Lansquenet at Lytchett St. Mary in Berkshire.”
“Of course—I’d no idea she was a relation of Richard Abernethie’s!” Dr. Larraby was looking quite shaken.
Feeling that he had revenged himself for the doctor’s professional superiority, and unhappily conscious that his own suspicions had not been assuaged as a result of the visit, Mr. Entwhistle took his leave.
II
Back at Enderby, Mr. Entwhistle decided to talk to Lanscombe.
He started by asking the old butler what his plans were.
“Mrs. Leo has asked me to stay on here until the house is sold, sir, and I’m sure I shall be very pleased to oblige her. We are all very fond of Mrs. Leo.” He sighed. “I feel it very much, sir, if you will excuse me mentioning it, that the house has to be sold. I’ve known it for so very many years, and seen all the young ladies and gentlemen grow up in it. I always thought that Mr. Mortimer would come here after his father and perhaps bring up a family here, too. It was arranged, sir, that I should go to the North Lodge when I got past doing my work here. A very nice little place, the North Lodge—and I looked forward to having it very spick and span. But I suppose that’s all over now.”
“I’m afraid so, Lanscombe. The estate will have to be sold together. But with your legacy—”
“Oh I’m not complaining, sir, and I’m very sensible of Mr. Abernethie’s generosity. I’m well provided for, but it’s not so easy to find a little place to buy nowadays and though my married niece has asked me to make my home with them, well, it won’t be quite the same thing as living on the estate.”
“I know,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “It’s a hard new world for us old fellows. I wish I’d seen more of my old friend before he went. How did he seem those last few months?”
“Well, he wasn’t himself, sir, not since Mr. Mortimer’s death.”
“No, it broke him up. And then he was a sick man—sick men have strange fancies sometimes. I imagine Mr. Abernethie suffered from that sort of thing in his last days. He spoke of enemies sometimes, of somebody wishing to do him harm—perhaps? He may even have thought his food was being tampered with?”
Old Lanscombe looked surprised—surprised and offended.
“I cannot recall anything of that kind, sir.”
Entwhistle looked at him keenly.
“You’re a very loyal servant, Lanscombe, I know that. But such fancies on Mr. Abernethie’s part would be quite—er—unimportant—a natural symptom in some—er diseases.”
“Indeed, sir? I can only say Mr. Abernethie never said anything like that to me, or in my hearing.”
Mr. Entwhistle slid gently to another subject.
“He had some of his family down to stay with him, didn’t he, before he died. His nephew and his two nieces and their husbands?”
“Yes, sir, that is so.”
“Was he satisfied with those visits? Or was he disappointed?
Lanscombe’s eyes became remote, his old back stiffened.
“I really could not say, sir.”
“I think you could, you know,” said Mr. Entwhistle gently. “It’s not your place to say anything of that kind—that’s what you really mean. But there are times when one has to do violence to one’s senses of what is fitting. I was one of your master’s oldest friends. I cared for him very much. So did you. That’s why I’m asking you for your opinion as a man, not as a butler.”
Lanscombe was silent for a moment, then he said in a colourless voice:
“Is there anything—wrong, sir?”
Mr. Entwhistle replied truthfully.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I hope not. I would like to make sure. Have you felt yourself that something was—wrong?”
“Only since the funeral, sir. And I couldn’t say exactly what it is. But Mrs. Leo and Mrs. Timothy, too, they didn’t seem quite themselves that evening after the others had gone.”
“You know the contents of the will?”
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Leo thought I would like to know. It seemed to me, if I may permit myself to comment, a very fair will.”
“Yes, it was a fair will. Equal benefits. But it is not, I think, the will that Mr. Abernethie originally intended to make after his son died. Will you answer now the question that I asked you just now?”
“As a matter of personal opinion—”
“Yes, yes, that is understood.”
“The master, sir, was very much disappointed after Mr. George had been here… He had hoped, I think, that Mr. George might resemble Mr. Mortimer. Mr. George, if I may say so, did not come up to standard. Miss Laura’s husband was always considered unsatisfactory, and I’m afraid Mr. George took after him.” Lanscombe paused and then went on, “Then the young ladies came with their husbands. Miss Susan he took to at once—a very spirited and handsome young lady, but it’s my opinion he couldn’t abide her husband. Young ladies make funny choices nowadays, sir.”
“And the other couple?”
“I couldn’t say much about that. A very pleasant and good-looking young pair. I think the master enjoyed having them here—but I don’t think—” The old man hesitated.
“Yes, Lanscombe?”
“Well, the master had never been much struck with the stage. He said to me one day, ‘I can’t understand why anyone gets stage-struck. It’s a foolish kind of life. Seems to deprive people of what little sense they have. I don’t know what it does to your moral sense. You certainly lose your sense of proportion.’ Of course he wasn’t referring directly—”
“No, no, I quite understand. Now after these visits, Mr. Abernethie himself went away—first to his brother, and afterwards to his sister Mrs. Lansquenet.”
“That I did not know, sir. I mean he mentioned to me that he was going to Mr. Timothy and afterwards to Something St. Mary.”
“That is right. Can you remember anything he said on his return in regard to those visits?”
Lanscombe reflected.
“I really don’t know—nothing direct. He was glad to be back. Travelling and staying in strange houses tired him very much—that I do remember his saying.”
“Nothing else? Nothing about either of them?”
Lanscombe frowned.
“The master used to—well, to murmur, if you get my meaning—speaking to me and yet more to himself—hardly noticing I was there—because he knew me so well.”
“Knew you and trusted you, yes.”
“But my recollection is very vague as to what he said—something about he couldn’t think what he’d done with his money—that was Mr. Timothy, I take it. And then he said something about, ‘Women can be fools in ninety-nine different ways but be pretty shrewd in the hundredth.’ Oh yes, and he said, ‘You can only say what you really think to someone of your own generation. They don’t think you’re fancying things as the younger ones do.’ And later he said—but I don’t know in what connection—‘It’s not very nice to have to set traps for people, but I don’t see what else I can do.’ But I think it possible, sir, that he may have been thinking of the second gardener—a question of the peaches being taken.”
But Mr. Entwhistle did not think that it was the second gardener who had been in Richard Abernethie’s mind. After a few more questions he let Lanscombe go and reflected on what he had learned. Nothing, really—nothing, that is, that he had not deduced before. Yet there were suggestive points. It was not his sister-in-law, Maude, but his sister Cora of whom he had been thinking when he made the remark about women who were fools and yet shrewd. And it was to her that he had confided his “fancies.” And he had spoken of setting a trap. For whom?
III
Mr. Entwhistle had meditated a good deal over how much he should tell Helen. In the end he decided he should take her wholly into his confidence.
First he thanked her for sorting out Richard’s things and for making various household arrangements. The house had been advertised for sale and there were one or two prospective buyers who would shortly be coming to look over it.
“Private buyers?”
“I’m afraid not. The Y.W.C.A. are considering it, and there is a young people’s club, and the Trustees of the Jefferson Trust are looking for a suitable place to house their Collection.”
“It seems sad that the house will not be lived in, but of course it is not a practicable proposition nowadays.”
“I am going to ask you if it would be possible for you to remain here until the house is sold. Or would it be a great inconvenience?”
“No—actually it would suit me very well. I don’t want to go to Cyprus until May, and I much prefer being here than being in London as I had planned. I love this house, you know; Leo loved it, and we were always happy when we were here together.”
“There is another reason why I should be grateful if you would stay on. There is a friend of mine, a man called Hercule Poirot—”
Helen said sharply: “Hercule Poirot? Then you think—”
“You know of him?”
“Yes. Some friends of mine—but I imagined that he was dead long ago.”
“He is very much alive. Not young, of course.”
“No, he could hardly be young.”
She spoke mechanically. Her face was white and strained. She said with an effort:
“You think—that Cora was right? That Richard was—murdered?”
Mr. Entwhistle unburdened himself. It was a pleasure to unburden himself to Helen with her clear calm mind.
When he had finished she said:
“One ought to feel it’s fantastic—but one doesn’t. Maude and I, that night after the funeral—it was in both our minds, I’m sure. Saying to ourselves what a silly woman Cora was—and yet being uneasy. And then—Cora was killed—and I told myself it was just coincidence—and of course it may be—but oh! if one can only be sure. It’s all so difficult.”
“Yes, it’s difficult. But Poirot is a man of great originality and he has something really approaching genius. He understands perfectly what we need—assurance that the whole thing is a mare’s nest.”
“And suppose it isn’t?”
“What makes you say that?” asked Mr. Entwhistle sharply.
“I don’t know. I’ve been uneasy… Not just about what Cora said that day—something else. Something that I felt at the time to be wrong.”
“Wrong? In what way?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know.”
“You mean it was something about one of the people in the room?”
“Yes—yes—something of that kind. But I don’t know who or what… Oh that sounds absurd—”
“Not at all. It is interesting—very interesting. You are not a fool, Helen. If you noticed something, that something has significance.”
“Yes, but I can’t remember what it was. The more I think—”
“Don’t think. That is the wrong way to bring anything back. Let it go. Sooner or later it will flash into your mind. And when it does—let me know—at once.”
“I will.”
Chapter Eight