Susan retrieved the car from the quarry where she had left it and drove it into the village. There was a petrol pump but no garage and she was advised to take it to the King’s Arms.
They had room for it there and she left it by a big Daimler which was preparing to go out. It was chauffeur driven and inside it, very much muffled up, was an elderly foreign gentleman with a large moustache.
The boy to whom Susan was talking about the car was staring at her with such rapt attention that he did not seem to be taking in half of what she said.
Finally he said in an awe-stricken voice:
“You’re her niece, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“You’re the victim’s niece,” the boy repeated with relish.
“Oh—yes—yes, I am.”
“Ar! Wondered where I’d seen you before.”
“Ghoul,” thought Susan as she retraced her steps to the cottage.
Miss Gilchrist greeted her with:
“Oh, you’re safely back,” in tones of relief which further annoyed her. Miss Gilchrist added anxiously:
“You can eat spaghetti, can’t you? I thought for tonight—”
“Oh yes, anything. I don’t want much.”
“I really flatter myself that I can make a very tasty spaghetti au gratin.”
The boast was not an idle one. Miss Gilchrist, Susan reflected, was really an excellent cook. Susan offered to help wash up but Miss Gilchrist, though clearly gratified by the offer, assured Susan that there was very little to do.
She came in a little while after with coffee. The coffee was less excellent, being decidedly weak. Miss Gilchrist offered Susan a piece of the wedding cake which Susan refused.
“It’s really very good cake,” Miss Gilchrist insisted, tasting it. She had settled to her own satisfaction that it must have been sent by someone whom she alluded to as “dear Ellen’s daughter who I know was engaged to be married but I can’t remember her name.”
Susan let Miss Gilchrist chirrup away into silence before starting her own subject of conversation. This moment, after supper, sitting before the fire, was a companionable one.
She said at last:
“My Uncle Richard came down here before he died, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did.”
“When was that exactly?”
“Let me see—it must have been one, two—nearly three weeks before his death was announced.”
“Did he seem—ill?”
“Well, no, I wouldn’t say he seemed exactly ill. He had a very hearty vigorous manner. Mrs. Lansquenet was very surprised to see him. She said, ‘Well, really, Richard, after all these years!’ and he said, ‘I came to see for myself exactly how things are with you.’ And Mrs. Lansquenet said, ‘I’m all right.’ I think, you know, she was a teeny bit offended by his turning up so casually—after the long break. Anyway Mr. Abernethie said, ‘No use keeping up old grievances. You and I and Timothy are the only ones left—and nobody can talk to Timothy except about his own health.’ And he said, ‘Pierre seems to have made you happy, so it seems I was in the wrong. There, will that content you?’ Very nicely he said it. A handsome man, though elderly, of course.”
“How long was he here?”
“He stayed for lunch. Beef olives, I made. Fortunately it was the day the butcher called.”
Miss Gilchrist’s memory seemed to be almost wholly culinary.
“They seemed to be getting on well together?”
“Oh, yes.”
Susan paused and then said:
“Was Aunt Cora surprised when—he died?”
“Oh yes, it was quite sudden, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was sudden… I mean—she was surprised. He hadn’t given her any indication how ill he was.”
“Oh—I see what you mean.” Miss Gilchrist paused a moment. “No, no, I think perhaps you are right. She did say that he had got very old— I think she said senile….”
“But you didn’t think he was senile?”
“Well, not to look at. But I didn’t talk to him much, naturally I left them alone together.”
Susan looked at Miss Gilchrist speculatively. Was Miss Gilchrist the kind of woman who listened at doors? She was honest, Susan felt sure, she wouldn’t ever pilfer, or cheat over the housekeeping, or open letters. But inquisitiveness can drape itself in a mantle of rectitude. Miss Gilchrist might have found it necessary to garden near an open window, or to dust the hall… That would be within the permitted lengths. And then, of course, she could not have helped hearing something….
“You didn’t hear any of their conversation?” Susan asked.
Too abrupt. Miss Gilchrist flushed angrily.
“No, indeed, Mrs. Banks. It has never been my custom to listen at doors!”
That means she does, thought Susan, otherwise she’d just say “No.”
Aloud she said: “I’m so sorry, Miss Gilchrist. I didn’t mean it that way. But sometimes, in these small flimsily built cottages, one simply can’t help overhearing nearly everything that goes on, and now that they are both dead, it’s really rather important to the family to know just what was said at that meeting between them.”
The cottage was anything but flimsily built—it dated from a sturdier era of building, but Miss Gilchrist accepted the bait, and rose to the suggestion held out.
“Of course what you say is quite true, Mrs. Banks—this is a very small place and I do appreciate that you would want to know what passed between them, but really I’m afraid I can’t help very much. I think they were talking about Mr. Abernethie’s health—and certain—well, fancies he had. He didn’t look it, but he must have been a sick man and as is so often the case, he put his illhealth down to outside agencies. A common symptom, I believe. My aunt—”
Miss Gilchrist described her aunt.
Susan, like Mr. Entwhistle, sidetracked the aunt.
“Yes,” she said. “That is just what we thought. My uncle’s servants were all very attached to him and naturally they are upset by his thinking—” She paused.
“Oh, of course! Servants are very touchy about anything of that kind. I remember that my aunt—”
Again Susan interrupted.
“It was the servants he suspected, I suppose? Of poisoning him, I mean?”
“I don’t know… I—really—”
Susan noted her confusion.
“It wasn’t the servants. Was it one particular person?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Banks. Really I don’t know—”
But her eye avoided Susan’s. Susan thought to herself that Miss Gilchrist knew more than she was willing to admit.
It was possible that Miss Gilchrist knew a good deal….
Deciding not to press the point for the moment, Susan said:
“What are your own plans for the future, Miss Gilchrist?”
“Well, really, I was going to speak to you about that, Mrs. Banks. I told Mr. Entwhistle I would be willing to stay on until everything here was cleared up.”
“I know. I’m very grateful.”
“And I wanted to ask you how long that was likely to be, because, of course, I must start looking about for another post.”
Susan considered.
“There’s really not very much to be done here. In a couple of days I can get things sorted out and notify the auctioneer.”
“You have decided to sell up everything, then?”
“Yes. I don’t suppose there will be any difficulty in letting the cottage?”
“Oh, no—people will queue up for it, I’m sure. There are so few cottages to rent. One nearly always has to buy.”
“So it’s all very simple, you see.” Susan hesitated a moment before saying, “I wanted to tell you—that I hope you’ll accept three months’ salary.”
“That’s very generous of you, I’m sure, Mrs. Banks. I do appreciate it. And you would be prepared to—I mean I could ask you—if necessary—to—to recommend me? To say that I had been with a relation of yours and that I had—proved satisfactory?”
“Oh, of course.”
“I don’t know whether I ought to ask it.” Miss Gilchrist’s hands began to shake and she tried to steady her voice. “But would it be possible not to—to mention the circumstances—or even the name?”
Susan stared.
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s because you haven’t thought, Mrs. Banks. It’s murder. A murder that’s been in the papers and that everybody has read about. Don’t you see? People might think, ‘Two women living together, and one of them is killed—and perhaps the companion did it.’ Don’t you see, Mrs. Banks? I’m sure that if I was looking for someone, I’d—well, I’d think twice before engaging myself—if you understand what I mean. Because one never knows! It’s been worrying me dreadfully, Mrs. Banks; I’ve been lying awake at night thinking that perhaps I’ll never get another job—not of this kind. And what else is there that I can do?”
The question came out with unconscious pathos. Susan felt suddenly stricken. She realized the desperation of this pleasant-spoken commonplace woman who was dependent for existence on the fears and whims of employers. And there was a lot of truth in what Miss Gilchrist had said. You wouldn’t, if you could help it, engage a woman to share domestic intimacy who had figured, however innocently, in a murder case.
Susan said: “But if they find the man who did it—”
“Oh then, of course, it will be quite all right. But will they find him? I don’t think, myself, the police have the least idea. And if he’s not caught—well, that leaves me as—as not quite the most likely person, but as a person who could have done it.”
Susan nodded thoughtfully. It was true that Miss Gilchrist did not benefit from Cora Lansquenet’s death—but who was to know that? And besides, there were so many tales—ugly tales—of animosity arising between women who lived together—strange pathological motives for sudden violence. Someone who had not known them might imagine that Cora Lansquenet and Miss Gilchrist had lived on those terms….
Susan spoke with her usual decision.
“Don’t worry, Miss Gilchrist,” she said, speaking briskly and cheerfully. “I’m sure I can find you a post amongst my friends. There won’t be the least difficulty.”
“I’m afraid,” said Miss Gilchrist, regaining some of her customary manner, “that I couldn’t undertake any really rough work. Just a little plain cooking and housework—”
The telephone rang and Miss Gilchrist jumped.
“Dear me, I wonder who that can be.”
“I expect it’s my husband,” said Susan, jumping up. “He said he’d ring me tonight.”
She went to the telephone.
“Yes?—yes, this is Mrs. Banks speaking personally…” There was a pause and then her voice changed. It became soft and warm. “Hallo, darling—yes, it’s me… Oh, quite well… Murder by someone unknown…the usual thing… Only Mr. Entwhistle…What?…it’s difficult to say, but I think so… Yes, just as we thought… Absolutely according to plan… I shall sell the stuff. There’s nothing we’d want… Not for a day or two… Absolutely frightful… Don’t fuss. I know what I’m doing… Greg, you didn’t… You were careful to… No, it’s nothing. Nothing at all. Goodnight, darling.”
She rang off. The nearness of Miss Gilchrist had hampered her a little. Miss Gilchrist could probably hear from the kitchen, where she had tactfully retired, exactly what went on. There were things she had wanted to ask Greg, but she hadn’t liked to.
She stood by the telephone, frowning abstractedly. Then suddenly an idea came to her.
“Of course,” she murmured. “Just the thing.”
Lifting the receiver she asked for Trunk Enquiry.
Some quarter of an hour later a weary voice from the exchange was saying:
“I’m afraid there’s no reply.”
“Please go on ringing them.”
Susan spoke autocratically. She listened to the far-off buzzing of a telephone bell. Then, suddenly it was interrupted and a man’s voice, peevish and slightly indignant, said:
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
“Uncle Timothy?”
“What’s that? I can’t hear you.”
“Uncle Timothy? I’m Susan Banks.”
“Susan who?”
“Banks. Formerly Abernethie. Your niece Susan.”
“Oh, you’re Susan, are you? What’s the matter? What are you ringing up for at this time of night?”
“It’s quite early still.”
“It isn’t. I was in bed.”
“You must go to bed very early. How’s Aunt Maude?”
“Is that all you rang up to ask? Your aunt’s in a good deal of pain and she can’t do a thing. Not a thing. She’s helpless. We’re in a nice mess, I can tell you. That fool of a doctor says he can’t even get a nurse. He wanted to cart Maude off to hospital. I stood out against that. He’s trying to get hold of someone for us. I can’t do anything— I daren’t even try. There’s a fool from the village staying in the house tonight—but she’s murmuring about getting back to her husband. Don’t know what we’re going to do.”
“That’s what I rang up about. Would you like Miss Gilchrist?”
“Who’s she? Never heard of her.”
“Aunt Cora’s companion. She’s very nice and capable.”
“Can she cook?”
“Yes, she cooks very well, and she could look after Aunt Maude.”
“That’s all very well, but when could she come? Here I am, all on my own, with only these idiots of village women popping in and out at odd hours, and it’s not good for me. My heart’s playing me up.”
“I’ll arrange for her to get off to you as soon as possible. The day after tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Well, thanks very much,” said the voice rather grudgingly. “You’re a good girl, Susan—er—thank you.”
Susan rang off and went into the kitchen.
“Would you be willing to go up to Yorkshire and look after my aunt? She fell and broke her ankle and my uncle is quite useless. He’s a bit of a pest but Aunt Maude is a very good sort. They have help in from the village, but you could cook and look after Aunt Maude.”
Miss Gilchrist dropped the coffee pot in her agitation.
“Oh, thank you, thank you—that really is kind. I think I can say of myself that I am really good in the sickroom, and I’m sure I can manage your uncle and cook him nice little meals. It’s really very kind of you, Mrs. Banks, and I do appreciate it.”
Chapter Ten