I
Travelling to London in the corner of a first-class carriage Mr. Entwhistle gave himself up to somewhat uneasy thought over that extraordinary remark made by Cora Lansquenet.
Of course Cora was a rather unbalanced and excessively stupid woman, and she had been noted, even as a girl, for the embarrassing manner in which she had blurted out unwelcome truths. At least, he didn’t mean truths—that was quite the wrong word to use. Awkward statements—that was a much better term.
In his mind he went back over the immediate sequence to that unfortunate remark. The combined stare of many startled and disapproving eyes had roused Cora to a sense of the enormity of what she had said.
Maude had exclaimed, “Really, Cora!” George had said, “My dear Aunt Cora.” Somebody else had said, “What do you mean?”
And at once Cora Lansquenet, abashed, and convicted of enormity, had burst into fluttering phrases.
“Oh I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—oh, of course, it was very stupid of me, but I did think from what he said—Oh, of course I know it’s quite all right, but his death was so sudden—please forget that I said anything at all—I didn’t mean to be so stupid—I know I’m always saying the wrong thing.”
And then the momentary upset had died down and there had been a practical discussion about the disposition of the late Richard Abernethie’s personal effects. The house and its contents, Mr. Entwhistle supplemented, would be put up for sale.
Cora’s unfortunate gaffe had been forgotten. After all, Cora had always been, if not subnormal, at any rate embarrassingly näive. She had never had any idea of what should or should not be said. At nineteen it had not mattered so much. The mannerisms of an enfant terrible can persist to then, but an enfant terrible of nearly fifty is decidedly disconcerting. To blurt out unwelcome truths—
Mr. Entwhistle’s train of thought came to an abrupt check. It was the second time that that disturbing word had occurred. Truths. And why was it so disturbing? Because, of course, that had always been at the bottom of the embarrassment that Cora’s outspoken comments had caused. It was because her näive statements had been either true or had contained some grain of truth that they had been so embarrassing!
Although in the plump woman of forty-nine, Mr. Entwhistle had been able to see little resemblance to the gawky girl of earlier days, certain of Cora’s mannerisms had persisted—the slight birdlike twist of the head as she brought out a particularly outrageous remark—a kind of air of pleased expectancy. In just such a way had Cora once commented on the figure of the kitchen maid. “Mollie can hardly get near the kitchen table, her stomach sticks out so. It’s only been like that the last month or two. I wonder why she’s getting so fat?”
Cora had been quickly hushed. The Abernethie household was Victorian in tone. The kitchen maid had disappeared from the premises the next day, and after due inquiry the second gardener had been ordered to make an honest woman of her and had been presented with a cottage in which to do so.
Far-off memories—but they had their point….
Mr. Entwhistle examined his uneasiness more closely. What was there in Cora’s ridiculous remarks that had remained to tease his subconscious in this manner? Presently he isolated two phrases. “I did think from what he said—” and “his death was so sudden….”
Mr. Entwhistle examined that last remark first. Yes, Richard’s death could, in a fashion, be considered sudden. Mr. Entwhistle had discussed Richard’s health both with Richard himself and with his doctor. The latter had indicated plainly that a long life could not be expected. If Mr. Abernethie took reasonable care of himself he might live two or even three years. Perhaps longer—but that was unlikely. In any case the doctor had anticipated no collapse in the near future.
Well, the doctor had been wrong—but doctors, as they were the first to admit themselves, could never be sure about the individual reaction of a patient to disease. Cases given up, unexpectedly recovered. Patients on the way to recovery relapsed and died. So much depended on the vitality of the patient. On his own inner urge to live
And Richard Abernethie, though a strong and vigorous man, had had no great incentive to live.
For six months previously his only surviving son, Mortimer, had contracted infantile paralysis and had died within a week. His death had been a shock greatly augmented by the fact that he had been such a particularly strong and vital young man. A keen sportsman, he was also a good athlete and was one of those people of whom it was said that he had never had a day’s illness in his life. He was on the point of becoming engaged to a very charming girl and his father’s hopes for the future were centred in this dearly loved and thoroughly satisfactory son of his.
Instead had come tragedy. And besides the sense of personal loss, the future had held little to stir Richard Abernethie’s interest. One son had died in infancy, the second without issue. He had no grandchildren. There was, in fact, no one of the Abernethie name to come after him, and he was the holder of a vast fortune with wide business interests which he himself still controlled to a certain extent. Who was to succeed to that fortune and to the control of those interests?
That this had worried Richard deeply, Entwhistle knew. His only surviving brother was very much of an invalid. There remained the younger generation. It had been in Richard’s mind, the lawyer thought, though his friend had not actually said so, to choose one definite successor, though minor legacies would probably have been made. Anyway, as Entwhistle knew, within the last six months Richard Abernethie had invited to stay with him, in succession, his nephew George, his niece Susan and her husband, his niece Rosamund and her husband, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Leo Abernethie. It was amongst the first three, so the lawyer thought, that Abernethie had looked for his successor. Helen Abernethie, he thought, had been asked out of personal affection and even possibly as someone to consult, for Richard had always held a high opinion of her good sense and practical judgement. Mr. Entwhistle also remembered that sometime during that six months period Richard had paid a short visit to his brother Timothy.
The net result had been the will which the lawyer now carried in his briefcase. An equable distribution of property. The only conclusion that could be drawn, therefore, was that he had been disappointed both in his nephew, and in his nieces or perhaps in his nieces’ husbands.
As far as Mr. Entwhistle knew, he had not invited his sister, Cora Lansquenet, to visit him—and that brought the lawyer back to that first disturbing phrase that Cora had let slip so incoherently— “but I did think from what he said—”
What had Richard Abernethie said? And when had he said it? If Cora had not been to Enderby, then Richard Abernethie must have visited her at the artistic village in Berkshire where she had a cottage. Or was it something that Richard had said in a letter?
Mr. Entwhistle frowned. Cora, of course, was a very stupid woman. She could easily have misinterpreted a phrase, and twisted its meaning. But he did wonder what the phrase could have been….
There was enough uneasiness in him to make him consider the possibility of approaching Mrs. Lansquenet on the subject. Not too soon. Better not make it seem of importance. But he would like to know just what it was that Richard Abernethie had said to her which had led her to pipe up so briskly with that outrageous question:
“But he was murdered, wasn’t he?”
II
In a third-class carriage, farther along the train, Gregory Banks said to his wife:
“That aunt of yours must be completely bats!”
“Aunt Cora?” Susan was vague. “Oh, yes, I believe she was always a bit simple or something.”
George Crossfield, sitting opposite, said sharply:
“She really ought to be stopped from going about saying things like that. It might put ideas into people’s heads.”
Rosamund Shane, intent on outlining the cupid’s bow of her mouth with lipstick, murmured vaguely:
“I don’t suppose anyone would pay any attention to what a frump like that says. The most peculiar clothes and lashings and lashings of jet—”
“Well, I think it ought to be stopped,” said George.
“All right, darling,” laughed Rosamund, putting away her lipstick and contemplating her image with satisfaction in the mirror. “You stop it.”
Her husband said unexpectedly:
“I think George is right. It’s so easy to set people talking.”
“Well, would it matter?” Rosamund contemplated the question. The cupid’s bow lifted at the corners in a smile. “It might really be rather fun.”
“Fun?” Four voices spoke.
“Having a murder in the family,” said Rosamund. “Thrilling, you know!”
It occurred to that nervous and unhappy young man Gregory Banks that Susan’s cousin, setting aside her attractive exterior, might have some faint points of resemblance to her Aunt Cora. Her next words rather confirmed his impression.
“If he was murdered,” said Rosamund, “who do you think did it?”
Her gaze travelled thoughtfully round the carriage.
“His death has been awfully convenient for all of us,” she said thoughtfully. “Michael and I are absolutely on our beam ends. Mick’s had a really good part offered to him in the Sandbourne show if he can afford to wait for it. Now we’ll be in clover. We’ll be able to back our own show if we want to. As a matter of fact there’s a play with a simply wonderful part—”
Nobody listened to Rosamund’s ecstatic disquisition. Their attention had shifted to their own immediate future.
“Touch and go,” thought George to himself. “Now I can put that money back and nobody will ever know… But it’s been a near shave.”
Gregory closed his eyes as he lay back against the seat. Escape from bondage.
Susan said in her clear rather hard voice, “I’m very sorry, of course, for poor old Uncle Richard. But then he was very old, and Mortimer had died, and he’d nothing to live for and it would have been awful for him to go on as an invalid year after year. Much better for him to pop off suddenly like this with no fuss.”
Her hard confident young eyes softened as they watched her husband’s absorbed face. She adored Greg. She sensed vaguely that Greg cared for her less than she cared for him—but that only strengthened her passion. Greg was hers, she’d do anything for him. Anything at all….
III
Maude Abernethie, changing her dress for dinner at Enderby (for she was staying the night), wondered if she ought to have offered to stay longer to help Helen out with the sorting and clearing of the house. There would be all Richard’s personal things… There might be letters… All important papers, she supposed, had already been taken possession of by Mr. Entwhistle. And it really was necessary for her to get back to Timothy as soon as possible. He fretted so when she was not there to look after him. She hoped he would be pleased about the will and not annoyed. He had expected, she knew, that most of Richard’s fortune would come to him. After all, he was the only surviving Abernethie. Richard could surely have trusted him to look after the younger generation. Yes, she was afraid Timothy would be annoyed… And that was so bad for his digestion. And really, when he was annoyed, Timothy could become quite unreasonable. There were times when he seemed to lose his sense of proportion… She wondered if she ought to speak to Dr. Barton about it… Those sleeping pills—Timothy had been taking far too many of them lately—he got so angry when she wanted to keep the bottle for him. But they could be dangerous—Dr. Barton had said so—you could get drowsy and forget you’d taken them—and then take more. And then anything might happen! There certainly weren’t as many left in the bottle as there ought to be… Timothy was really very naughty about medicines. He wouldn’t listen to her… He was very difficult sometimes.
She sighed—then brightened. Things were going to be much easier now. The garden, for instance—
IV
Helen Abernethie sat by the fire in the green drawing room waiting for Maude to come down to dinner.
She looked round her, remembering old days here with Leo and the others. It had been a happy house. But a house like this needed people. It needed children and servants and big meals and plenty of roaring fires in winter. It had been a sad house when it had been lived in by one old man who had lost his son….
Who would buy it, she wondered? Would it be turned into an hotel, or an institute, or perhaps one of those hostels for young people? That was what happened to these vast houses nowadays. No one would buy them to live in. It would be pulled down, perhaps, and the whole estate built over. It made her sad to think of that, but she pushed the sadness aside resolutely. It did one no good to dwell on the past. This house, and happy days here, and Richard, and Leo, all that was good, but it was over. She had her own interests… And now, with the income Richard had left her, she would be able to keep on the villa in Cyprus and do all the things she had planned to do.
How worried she had been lately over money—taxation—all those investments going wrong… Now, thanks to Richard’s money, all that was over….
Poor Richard. To die in his sleep like that had been really a great mercy… Suddenly on the 22nd—she supposed that that was what had put the idea into Cora’s head. Really Cora was outrageous! She always had been. Helen remembered meeting her once abroad, soon after her marriage to Pierre Lansquenet. She had been particularly foolish and fatuous that day, twisting her head sideways, and making dogmatic statements about painting, and particularly about her husband’s painting, which must have been most uncomfortable for him. No man could like his wife appearing such a fool. And Cora was a fool! Oh, well, poor thing, she couldn’t help it, and that husband of hers hadn’t treated her too well.
Helen’s gaze rested absently on a bouquet of wax flowers that stood on a round malachite table. Cora had been sitting beside it when they had all been sitting round waiting to start for the church. She had been full of reminiscences and delighted recognitions of various things and was clearly so pleased at being back in her old home that she had completely lost sight of the reason for which they were assembled.
“But perhaps,” thought Helen, “she was just less of a hypocrite than the rest of us….”
Cora had never been one for observing the conventions. Look at the way she had plumped out that question: “But he was murdered, wasn’t he?”
The faces all round, startled, shocked, staring at her! Such a variety of expressions there must have been on those faces….
And suddenly, seeing the picture clearly in her mind, Helen frowned… There was something wrong with that picture….
Something…?
Somebody…?
Was it an expression on someone’s face? Was that it? Something that—how could she put it?—ought not to have been there…?
She didn’t know…she couldn’t place it…but there had been something—somewhere—wrong.
V
Meanwhile, in the buffet at Swindon, a lady in wispy mourning and festoons of jet was eating bath buns and drinking tea and looking forward to the future. She had no premonitions of disaster. She was happy.
These cross-country journeys were certainly tiring. It would have been easier to get back to Lytchett St. Mary via London—and not so very much more expensive. Ah, but expense didn’t matter now. Still, she would have had to travel with the family—probably having to talk all the way. Too much of an effort.
No, better to go home cross-country. These bath buns were really excellent. Extraordinary how hungry a funeral made you feel. The soup at Enderby had been delicious—and so was the cold soufflé.
How smug people were—and what hypocrites! All those faces—when she’d said that about murder! The way they’d all looked at her!
Well, it had been the right thing to say. She nodded her head in satisfied approval of herself. Yes, it had been the right thing to do.
She glanced up at the clock. Five minutes before her train went. She drank up her tea. Not very good tea. She made a grimace.
For a moment or two she sat dreaming. Dreaming of the future unfolding before her… She smiled like a happy child.
She was really going to enjoy herself at last… She went out to the small branch line train busily making plans.
Chapter Three