скачать книгу бесплатно
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 hyopcrite 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 4
Mr Entwhistle passed a very restless night. He felt so tired and so unwell in the morning that he did not get up.
His sister, who kept house for him, brought up his breakfast on a tray and explained to him severely how wrong he had been to go gadding off to the North of England at his age and in his frail state of health.
Mr Entwhistle contented himself with saying that Richard Abernethie had been a very old friend.
‘Funerals!’ said his sister with deep disapproval. ‘Funerals are absolutely fatal for a man of your age! You’ll be taken off as suddenly as your precious Mr Abernethie was if you don’t take more care of yourself.’
The word ‘suddenly’ made Mr Entwhistle wince. It also silenced him. He did not argue.
He was well aware of what had made him flinch at the word suddenly.
Cora Lansquenet! What she had suggested was definitely quite impossible, but all the same he would like to find out exactly why she had suggested it. Yes, he would go down to Lytchett St Mary and see her. He could pretend that it was business connected with probate, that he needed her signature. No need to let her guess that he had paid any attention to her silly remark. But he would go down and see her – and he would do it soon.
He finished his breakfast and lay back on his pillows and read The Times. He found The Times very soothing.
It was about a quarter to six that evening when his telephone rang.
He picked it up. The voice at the other end of the wire was that of Mr James Parrott, the present second partner of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard.
‘Look here, Entwhistle,’ said Mr Parrott, ‘I’ve just been rung up by the police from a place called Lytchett St Mary.’
‘Lytchett St Mary?’
‘Yes. It seems –’ Mr Parrott paused a moment. He seemed embarrassed. ‘It’s about a Mrs Cora Lansquenet. Wasn’t she one of the heirs of the Abernethie estate?’
‘Yes, of course. I saw her at the funeral yesterday.’
‘Oh? She was at the funeral, was she?’
‘Yes. What about her?’
‘Well,’ Mr Parrott sounded apologetic. ‘She’s – it’s really most extraordinary – she’s been well – murdered.’
Mr Parrott said the last word with the uttermost deprecation. It was not the sort of word, he suggested, that ought to mean anything to the firm of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard.
‘Murdered?’
‘Yes – yes – I’m afraid so. Well, I mean, there’s no doubt about it.’
‘How did the police get on to us?’
‘Her companion, or housekeeper, or whatever she is – a Miss Gilchrist. The police asked for the name of her nearest relative or her solicitors. And this Miss Gilchrist seemed rather doubtful about relatives and their addresses, but she knew about us. So they got through at once.’
‘What makes them think she was murdered?’ demanded Mr Entwhistle.
Mr Parrott sounded apologetic again.
‘Oh well, it seems there can’t be any doubt about that – I mean it was a hatchet or something of that kind – a very violent sort of crime.’
‘Robbery?’
‘That’s the idea. A window was smashed and there are some trinkets missing and drawers pulled out and all that, but the police seem to think there might be something – well – phony about it.’
‘What time did it happen?’
‘Some time between two and four-thirty this afternoon.’
‘Where was the housekeeper?’
‘Changing library books in Reading. She got back about five o’clock and found Mrs Lansquenet dead. The police want to know if we’ve any idea of who could have been likely to attack her. I said,’ Mr Parrott’s voice sounded outraged, ‘that I thought it was a most unlikely thing to happen.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It must be some half-witted local oaf – who thought there might be something to steal and then lost his head and attacked her. That must be it – eh, don’t you think so, Entwhistle?’
‘Yes, yes . . .’ Mr Entwhistle spoke absentmindedly. Parrott was right, he told himself. That was what must have happened . . .
But uncomfortably he heard Cora’s voice saying brightly:
‘He was murdered, wasn’t he?’
Such a fool, Cora. Always had been. Rushing in where angels fear to tread . . . Blurting out unpleasant truths . . .
Truths!
That blasted word again . . .
II
Mr Entwhistle and Inspector Morton looked at each other appraisingly.
In his neat precise manner Mr Entwhistle had placed at the Inspector’s disposal all the relevant facts about Cora Lansquenet. Her upbringing, her marriage, her widowhood, her financial position, her relatives.
‘Mr Timothy Abernethie is her only surviving brother and her next of kin, but he is a recluse and an invalid, and is quite unable to leave home. He has empowered me to act for him and to make all such arrangements as may be necessary.’
The Inspector nodded. It was a relief for him to have this shrewd elderly solicitor to deal with. Moreover he hoped that the lawyer might be able to give him some assistance in solving what was beginning to look like a rather puzzling problem.
He said:
‘I understand from Miss Gilchrist that Mrs Lansquenet had been North, to the funeral of an elder brother, on the day before her death?’
‘That is so, Inspector. I myself was there.’
‘There was nothing unusual in her manner – nothing strange – or apprehensive?’
Mr Entwhistle raised his eyebrows in well-simulated surprise.
‘Is it customary for there to be something strange in the manner of a person who is shortly to be murdered?’ he asked.
The Inspector smiled rather ruefully.
‘I’m not thinking of her being “fey” or having a premonition. No, I’m just hunting around for something – well, something out of the ordinary.’
‘I don’t think I quite understand you, Inspector,’ said Mr Entwhistle.
‘It’s not a very easy case to understand, Mr Entwhistle. Say someone watched the Gilchrist woman come out of the house at about two o’clock and go along to the village and the bus stop. This someone then deliberately takes the hatchet that was lying by the woodshed, smashes the kitchen window with it, gets into the house, goes upstairs, attacks Mrs Lansquenet with the hatchet – and attacks her savagely. Six or eight blows were struck.’ Mr Entwhistle flinched – ‘Oh, yes, quite a brutal crime. Then the intruder pulls out a few drawers, scoops up a few trinkets – worth perhaps a tenner in all, and clears off.’
‘She was in bed?’
‘Yes. It seems she returned late from the North the night before, exhausted and very excited. She’d come into some legacy as I understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘She slept very badly and woke with a terrible headache. She had several cups of tea and took some dope for her head and then told Miss Gilchrist not to disturb her till lunch-time. She felt no better and decided to take two sleeping pills. She then sent Miss Gilchrist into Reading by the bus to change some library books. She’d have been drowsy, if not already asleep, when this man broke in. He could have taken what he wanted by means of threats, or he could easily have gagged her. A hatchet, deliberately taken up with him from outside, seems excessive.’
‘He may just have meant to threaten her with it,’ Mr Entwhistle suggested. ‘If she showed fight then –’
‘According to the medical evidence there is no sign that she did. Everything seems to show that she was lying on her side sleeping peacefully when she was attacked.’
Mr Entwhistle shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘One does hear of these brutal and rather senseless murders,’ he pointed out.
‘Oh yes, yes, that’s probably what it will turn out to be. There’s an alert out, of course, for any suspicious character. Nobody local is concerned, we’re pretty sure of that. The locals are all accounted for satisfactorily. Most people are at work at that time of day. Of course her cottage is up a lane outside the village proper. Anyone could get there easily without being seen. There’s a maze of lanes all round the village. It was a fine morning and there has been no rain for some days, so there aren’t any distinctive car tracks to go by – in case anyone came by car.’
‘You think someone came by car?’ Mr Entwhistle asked sharply.
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. All I’m saying is there are curious features about the case. These, for instance –’ He shoved across his desk a handful of things – a trefoil-shaped brooch with small pearls, a brooch set with amethysts, a small string of pearls, and a garnet bracelet.
‘Those are the things that were taken from her jewel box. They were found just outside the house shoved into a bush.’
‘Yes – yes, that is rather curious. Perhaps if her assailant was frightened at what he had done –’
‘Quite. But he would probably then have left them upstairs in her room . . . Of course a panic may have come over him between the bedroom and the front gate.’
Mr Entwhistle said quietly:
‘Or they may, as you are suggesting, have only been taken as a blind.’
‘Yes, several possibilities . . . Of course this Gilchrist woman may have done it. Two women living alone together – you never know what quarrels or resentments or passions may have been aroused. Oh yes, we’re taking that possibility into consideration as well. But it doesn’t seem very likely. From all accounts they were on quite amicable terms.’ He paused before going on. ‘According to you, nobody stands to gain by Mrs Lansquenet’s death?’
The lawyer shifted uneasily.
‘I didn’t quite say that.’
