“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your invitation.”
Mr. Entwhistle pressed his host’s hand warmly.
Hercule Poirot gestured hospitably to a chair by the fire.
Mr. Entwhistle sighed as he sat down.
On one side of the room a table was laid for two.
“I returned from the country this morning,” he said.
“And you have a matter on which you wish to consult me?”
“Yes. It’s a long rambling story, I’m afraid.”
“Then we will not have it until after we have dined. Georges?”
The efficient Georges materialized with some pâté de foie gras accompanied by hot toast in a napkin.
“We will have our pâté by the fire,” said Poirot. “Afterwards we will move to the table.”
It was an hour and a half later that Mr. Entwhistle stretched himself comfortably out in his chair and sighed a contented sigh.
“You certainly know how to do yourself well, Poirot. Trust a Frenchman.”
“I am a Belgian. But the rest of your remark applies. At my age the chief pleasure, almost the only pleasure that still remains, is the pleasure of the table. Mercifully I have an excellent stomach.”
“Ah,” murmured Mr. Entwhistle.
They had dined off sole veronique, followed by escalope de veau milanaise, proceeding to poire flambée with ice cream.
They had drunk a Pouilly Fuissé followed by a Corton, and a very good port now reposed at Mr. Entwhistle’s elbow. Poirot, who did not care for port, was sipping Crème de Cacao.
“I don’t know,” murmured Mr. Entwhistle reminiscently, “how you manage to get hold of an escalope like that! It melted in the mouth!”
“I have a friend who is a Continental butcher. For him I solve a small domestic problem. He is appreciative—and ever since then he is most sympathetic to me in the matters of the stomach.”
“A domestic problem,” Mr. Entwhistle sighed. “I wish you had not reminded me… This is such a perfect moment….”
“Prolong it, my friend. We will have presently the demitasse and the fine brandy, and then, when digestion is peacefully under way, then you shall tell why you need my advice.”
The clock struck the half hour after nine before Mr. Entwhistle stirred in his chair. The psychological moment had come. He no longer felt reluctant to bring forth his perplexities—he was eager to do so.
“I don’t know,” he said, “whether I’m making the most colossal fool of myself. In any case I don’t see that there’s anything that can possibly be done. But I’d like to put the facts before you, and I’d like to know what you think.”
He paused for a moment or two, then in his dry meticulous way, he told his story. His trained legal brain enabled him to put the facts clearly, to leave nothing out, and to add nothing extraneous. It was a clear succinct account, and as such appreciated by the little elderly man with the egg-shaped head who sat listening to him.
When he had finished there was a pause. Mr. Entwhistle was prepared to answer questions, but for some few moments no question came. Hercule Poirot was reviewing the evidence.
He said at last:
“It seems very clear. You have in your mind the suspicion that your friend, Richard Abernethie, may have been murdered? That suspicion, or assumption, rests on the basis of one thing only—the words spoken by Cora Lansquenet at Richard Abernethie’s funeral. Take those away—and there is nothing left. The fact that she herself was murdered the day afterwards may be the purest coincidence. It is true that Richard Abernethie died suddenly, but he was attended by a reputable doctor who knew him well, and that doctor had no suspicions and gave a death certificate. Was Richard buried or cremated?”
“Cremated—according to his own request.”
“Yes, that is the law. And it means that a second doctor signed the certificate—but there would be no difficulty about that. So we come back to the essential point, what Cora Lansquenet said. You were there and you heard her. She said: ‘But he was murdered, wasn’t he?’”
“Yes.”
“And the real point is—that you believe she was speaking the truth.”
The lawyer hesitated for a moment, then he said:
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Entwhistle repeated the word, slightly puzzled.
“But yes, why? Is it because, already, deep down, you had an uneasiness about the manner of Richard’s death?”
The lawyer shook his head. “No, no, not in the least.”
“Then it is because of her—of Cora herself. You knew her well?”
“I had not seen her for—oh—over twenty years.”
“Would you have known her if you had met her in the street?”
Mr. Entwhistle reflected.
“I might have passed her by in the street without recognizing her. She was a thin slip of a girl when I saw her last and she had turned into a stout, shabby, middle-aged woman. But I think that the moment I spoke to her face to face I should have recognized her. She wore her hair in the same way, a bang cut straight across the forehead, and she had a trick of peering up at you through her fringe like a rather shy animal, and she had a very characteristic, abrupt way of talking, and a way of putting her head on one side and then coming out with something quite outrageous. She had character, you see, and character is always highly individual.”
“She was, in fact, the same Cora you had known years ago. And she still said outrageous things! The things, the outrageous things, she had said in the past—were they usually—justified?”
“That was always the awkward thing about Cora. When truth would have been better left unspoken, she spoke it.”
“And that characteristic remained unchanged. Richard Abernethie was murdered—so Cora at once mentioned the fact.”
Mr. Entwhistle stirred.
“You think he was murdered?”
“Oh, no, no, my friend, we cannot go so fast. We agree on this—Cora thought he had been murdered. She was quite sure he had been murdered. It was, to her, more a certainty than a surmise. And so, we come to this, she must have had some reason for the belief. We agree, by your knowledge of her, that it was not just a bit of mischief making. Now tell me—when she said what she did, there was, at once, a kind of chorus of protest—that is right?”
“Quite right.”
“And she then became confused, abashed, and retreated from the position—saying—as far as you can remember, something like ‘But I thought—from what he told me—’”
The lawyer nodded.
“I wish I could remember more clearly. But I am fairly sure of that. She used the words ‘he told me’ or ‘he said—’”
“And the matter was then smoothed over and everyone spoke of something else. You can remember, looking back, no special expression on anyone’s face? Anything that remains in your memory as—shall we say—unusual?”
“No.”
“And the very next day, Cora is killed—and you ask yourself: ‘Can it be cause and effect?’”
The lawyer stirred.
“I suppose that seems to you quite fantastic?”
“Not at all,” said Poirot. “Given that the original assumption is correct, it is logical. The perfect murder, the murder of Richard Abernethie, has been committed, all has gone off smoothly—and suddenly it appears that there is one person who has a knowledge of the truth! Clearly that person must be silenced as quickly as possible.”
“Then you do think that—it was murder?”
Poirot said gravely:
“I think, mon cher, exactly as you thought—that there is a case for investigation. Have you taken any steps? You have spoken of these matters to the police?”
“No.” Mr. Entwhistle shook his head. “It did not seem to me that any good purpose could be achieved. My position is that I represent the family. If Richard Abernethie was murdered, there seems only one method by which it could be done.”
“By poison?”
“Exactly. And the body has been cremated. There is now no evidence available. But I decided that I, myself, must be satisfied on the point. That is why, Poirot, I have come to you.”
“Who was in the house at the time of his death?”
“An old butler who has been with him for years, a cook and a housemaid. It would seem, perhaps, as though it must necessarily be one of them—”
“Ah! do not try to pull the wool upon my eyes. This Cora, she knows Richard Abernethie was killed, yet she acquiesces in the hushing up. She says, ‘I think you are all quite right.’ Therefore it must be one of the family who is concerned, someone whom the victim himself might prefer not to have openly accused. Otherwise, since Cora was fond of her brother, she would not agree to let the sleeping murderer lie. You agree to that, yes?”
“It was the way I reasoned—yes,” confessed Mr. Entwhistle. “Though how any of the family could possibly—”
Poirot cut him short.
“Where poison is concerned there are all sorts of possibilities. It must, presumably, have been a narcotic of some sort if he died in his sleep and if there were no suspicious appearances. Possibly he was already having some narcotic administered to him.”
“In any case,” said Mr. Entwhistle, “the how hardly matters. We shall never be able to prove anything.”
“In the case of Richard Abernethie, no. But the murder of Cora Lansquenet is different. Once we know ‘who’ then evidence ought to be possible to get.” He added with a sharp glance, “You have, perhaps, already done something.”
“Very little. My purpose was mainly, I think, elimination. It is distasteful to me to think that one of the Abernethie family is a murderer. I still can’t quite believe it. I hoped that by a few apparently idle questions I could exonerate certain members of the family beyond question. Perhaps, who knows, all of them? In which case, Cora would have been wrong in her assumption and her own death could be ascribed to some casual prowler who broke in. After all, the issue is very simple. What were the members of the Abernethie family doing on the afternoon that Cora Lansquenet was killed?”
“Eh bien,” said Poirot, “what were they doing?”
“George Crossfield was at Hurst Park races. Rosamund Shane was out shopping in London. Her husband—for one must include husbands—”
“Assuredly.”
“Her husband was fixing up a deal about an option on a play, Susan and Gregory Banks were at home all day, Timothy Abernethie, who is an invalid, was at his home in Yorkshire, and his wife was driving herself home from Enderby.”
He stopped.
Hercule Poirot looked at him and nodded comprehendingly.
“Yes, that is what they say. And is it all true?”
“I simply don’t know, Poirot. Some of the statements are capable of proof or disproof—but it would be difficult to do so without showing one’s hand pretty plainly. In fact to do so would be tantamount to an accusation. I will simply tell you certain conclusions of my own. George may have been at Hurst Park races, but I do not think he was. He was rash enough to boast that he had backed a couple of winners. It is my experience that so many offenders against the law ruin their own case by saying too much. I asked him the name of the winners, and he gave the names of two horses without any apparent hesitation. Both of them, I found, had been heavily tipped on the day in question and one had duly won. The other, though an odds on favourite, had unaccountably failed even to get a place.”
“Interesting. Had this George any urgent need for money at the time of his uncle’s death?”
“It is my impression that his need was very urgent. I have no evidence for saying so, but I strongly suspect that he has been speculating with his clients’ funds and that he was in danger of prosecution. It is only my impression but I have some experience in these matters. Defaulting solicitors, I regret to say, are not entirely uncommon. I can only tell you that I would not have cared to entrust my own funds to George, and I suspect that Richard Abernethie, a very shrewd judge of men, was dissatisfied with his nephew and placed no reliance on him.
“His mother,” the lawyer continued, “was a good-looking rather foolish girl and she married a man of what I should call dubious character.” He sighed. “The Abernethie girls were not good choosers.”
He paused and then went on:
“As for Rosamund, she is a lovely nitwit. I really cannot see her smashing Cora’s head in with a hatchet! Her husband, Michael Shane, is something of a dark horse—he’s a man with ambition and also a man of overweening vanity I should say. But really I know very little about him. I have no reason to suspect him of a brutal crime or of a carefully planned poisoning, but until I know that he really was doing what he says he was doing I cannot rule him out.”
“But you have no doubts about the wife?”
“No—no—there is a certain rather startling callousness…but no, I really cannot envisage the hatchet. She is a fragile-looking creature.”
“And beautiful!” said Poirot with a faint cynical smile. “And the other niece?”
“Susan? She is a very different type from Rosamund—a girl of remarkable ability, I should say. She and her husband were at home together that day. I said (falsely) that I had tried to get them on the telephone on the afternoon in question. Greg said very quickly that the telephone had been out of order all day. He had tried to get someone and failed.”
“So again it is not conclusive… You cannot eliminate as you hoped to do… What is the husband like?”
“I find him hard to make out. He has a somewhat unpleasing personality though one cannot say exactly why he makes this impression. As for Susan—”
“Yes?”
“Susan reminds me of her uncle. She has the vigour, the drive, the mental capacity of Richard Abernethie. It may be my fancy that she lacks some of the kindliness and the warmth of my old friend.”
“Women are never kind,” remarked Poirot. “Though they can sometimes be tender. She loves her husband?”
“Devotedly, I should say. But really, Poirot, I can’t believe— I won’t believe for one moment that Susan—”
“You prefer George?” said Poirot. “It is natural! As for me, I am not so sentimental about beautiful young ladies. Now tell me about your visit to the older generation?”
Mr. Entwhistle described his visit to Timothy and Maude at some length. Poirot summarized the result.
“So Mrs. Abernethie is a good mechanic. She knows all about the inside of a car. And Mr. Abernethie is not the invalid he likes to think himself. He goes out for walks and is, according to you, capable of vigorous action. He is also a bit of an egomaniac and he resented his brother’s success and superior character.”
“He spoke very affectionately of Cora.”
“And ridiculed her silly remark after the funeral. What of the sixth beneficiary?”
“Helen? Mrs. Leo? I do not suspect her for a moment. In any case, her innocence will be easy to prove. She was at Enderby. With three servants in the house.”
“Eh bien, my friend,” said Poirot. “Let us be practical. What do you want me to do?”
“I want to know the truth, Poirot.”
“Yes. Yes, I should feel the same in your place.”
“And you’re the man to find it out for me. I know you don’t take cases anymore, but I ask you to take this one. This is a matter of business. I will be responsible for your fees. Come now, money is always useful.”
Poirot grinned.
“Not if it all goes in the taxes! But I will admit, your problem interests me! Because it is not easy… It is all so nebulous… One thing, my friend, had better be done by you. After that, I will occupy myself of everything. But I think it will be best if you yourself seek out the doctor who attended Mr. Richard Abernethie. You know him?”
“Slightly.”
“What is he like?”
“Middle-aged G.P. Quite competent. On very friendly terms with Richard. A thoroughly good fellow.”
“Then seek him out. He will speak more freely to you than to me. Ask him about Mr. Abernethie’s illness. Find out what medicines Mr. Abernethie was taking at the time of his death and before. Find out if Richard Abernethie ever said anything to his doctor about fancying himself being poisoned. By the way, this Miss Gilchrist is sure that he used the term poisoned in talking to his sister?”
Mr. Entwhistle reflected.
“It was the word she used—but she is the type of witness who often changes the actual words used, because she is convinced she is keeping to the sense of them. If Richard had said he was afraid someone wanted to kill him, Miss Gilchrist might have assumed poison because she connected his fears with those of an aunt of hers who thought her food was being tampered with. I can take up the point with her again some time.”
“Yes. Or I will do so.” He paused and then said in a different voice: “Has it occurred to you, my friend, that your Miss Gilchrist may be in some danger herself?”
Mr. Entwhistle looked surprised.
“I can’t say that it had.”
“But, yes. Cora voiced her suspicions on the day of the funeral. The question in the murderer’s mind will be, did she voice them to anybody when she first heard of Richard’s death? And the most likely person for her to have spoken to about them will be Miss Gilchrist. I think, mon cher, that she had better not remain alone in that cottage.”
“I believe Susan is going down.”
“Ah, so Mrs. Banks is going down?”
“She wants to look through Cora’s things.”
“I see… I see… Well, my friend, do what I have asked of you. You might also prepare Mrs. Abernethie—Mrs. Leo Abernethie, for the possibility that I may arrive in the house. We will see. From now on I occupy myself of everything.”
And Poirot twirled his moustaches with enormous energy.
Chapter Seven