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Mr Entwhistle left it at that. Miss Gilchrist, he thought, knew no more than she had told him. He asked whether she knew if Cora Lansquenet had left a will. Miss Gilchrist replied promptly that Mrs Lansquenet’s will was at the Bank.
With that and after making certain further arrangements he took his leave. He insisted on Miss Gilchrist’s accepting a small sum in cash to defray present expenses and told her he would communicate with her again, and in the meantime he would be grateful if she would stay on at the cottage while she was looking about for a new post. That would be, Miss Gilchrist said, a great convenience and really she was not at all nervous.
He was unable to escape without being shown round the cottage by Miss Gilchrist, and introduced to various pictures by the late Pierre Lansquenet which were crowded into the small dining-room and which made Mr Entwhistle flinch – they were mostly nudes executed with a singular lack of draughtsmanship but with much fidelity to detail. He was also made to admire various small oil sketches of picturesque fishing ports done by Cora herself.
‘Polperro,’ said Miss Gilchrist proudly. ‘We were there last year and Mrs Lansquenet was delighted with its picturesqueness.’
Mr Entwhistle, viewing Polperro from the southwest, from the north-west, and presumably from the several other points of the compass, agreed that Mrs Lansquenet had certainly been enthusiastic.
‘Mrs Lansquenet promised to leave me her sketches,’ said Miss Gilchrist wistfully. ‘I admired them so much. One can really see the waves breaking in this one, can’t one? Even if she forgot, I might perhaps have just one as a souvenir, do you think?’
‘I’m sure that could be arranged,’ said Mr Entwhistle graciously.
He made a few further arrangements and then left to interview the Bank Manager and to have a further consultation with Inspector Morton.
Chapter 5
‘Worn out,’ that’s what you are,’ said Miss Entwhistle in the indignant and bullying tones adopted by devoted sisters towards brothers for whom they keep house. ‘You shouldn’t do it, at your age. What’s it all got to do with you, I’d like to know? You’ve retired, haven’t you?’
Mr Entwhistle said mildly that Richard Abernethie had been one of his oldest friends.
‘I dare say. But Richard Abernethie’s dead, isn’t he? So I see no reason for you to go mixing yourself up in things that are no concern of yours and catching your death of cold in these nasty draughty railway trains. And murder, too! I can’t see why they sent for you at all.’
‘They communicated with me because there was a letter in the cottage signed by me, telling Cora the arrangements for the funeral.’
‘Funerals! One funeral after another, and that reminds me. Another of these precious Abernethies has been ringing you up – Timothy, I think he said. From somewhere in Yorkshire – and that’s about a funeral, too! Said he’d ring again later.’
A personal call for Mr Entwhistle came through that evening. Taking it, he heard Maude Abernethie’s voice at the other end.
‘Thank goodness I’ve got hold of you at last! Timothy has been in the most terrible state. This news about Cora has upset him dreadfully.’
‘Quite understandable,’ said Mr Entwhistle.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said it was quite understandable.’
‘I suppose so.’ Maude sounded more than doubtful. ‘Do you mean to say it was really murder?’
(‘It was murder, wasn’t it?’ Cora had said. But this time there was no hesitation about the answer.)
‘Yes, it was murder,’ said Mr Entwhistle.
‘And with a hatchet, so the papers say?’
‘Yes.’
‘It seems quite incredible to me,’ said Maude, ‘that Timothy’s sister – his own sister – can have been murdered with a hatchet!’
It seemed no less incredible to Mr Entwhistle. Timothy’s life was so remote from violence that even his relations, one felt, ought to be equally exempt.
‘I’m afraid one has to face the fact,’ said Mr Entwhistle mildly.
‘I am really very worried about Timothy. It’s so bad for him, all this! I’ve got him to bed now but he insists on my persuading you to come up and see him. He wants to know a hundred things – whether there will be an inquest, and who ought to attend, and how soon after that the funeral can take place, and where, and what funds there are, and if Cora expressed any wishes about being cremated or what, and if she left a will –’
Mr Entwhistle interrupted before the catalogue got too long.
‘There is a will, yes. She left Timothy her executor.’
‘Oh dear, I’m afraid Timothy can’t undertake anything –’
‘The firm will attend to all the necessary business. The will’s very simple. She left her own sketches and an amethyst brooch to her companion, Miss Gilchrist, and everything else to Susan.’
‘To Susan? Now I wonder why Susan? I don’t believe she ever saw Susan – not since she was a baby anyway.’
‘I imagine that it was because Susan was reported to have made a marriage not wholly pleasing to the family.’
Maude snorted.
‘Even Gregory is a great deal better than Pierre Lansquenet ever was! Of course marrying a man who serves in a shop would have been unheard of in my day – but a chemist’s shop is much better than a haberdasher’s – and at least Gregory seems quite respectable.’ She paused and added: ‘Does this mean that Susan gets the income Richard left to Cora?’
‘Oh no. The capital of that will be divided according to the instructions of Richard’s will. No, poor Cora had only a few hundred pounds and the furniture of her cottage to leave. When outstanding debts are paid and the furniture sold I doubt if the whole thing will amount to more than at most five hundred pounds.’ He went on: ‘There will have to be an inquest, of course. That is fixed for next Thursday. If Timothy is agreeable, we’ll send down young Lloyd to watch the proceedings on behalf of the family.’ He added apologetically: ‘I’m afraid it may attract some notoriety owing to the – er – circumstances.’
‘How very unpleasant! Have they caught the wretch who did it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘One of these dreadful half-baked young men who go about the country roving and murdering, I suppose. The police are so incompetent.’
‘No, no,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘The police are by no means incompetent. Don’t imagine that, for a moment.’
‘Well, it all seems to me quite extraordinary. And so bad for Timothy. I suppose you couldn’t possibly come down here, Mr Entwhistle? I should be most grateful if you could. I think Timothy’s mind might be set at rest if you were here to reassure him.’
Mr Entwhistle was silent for a moment. The invitation was not unwelcome.
‘There is something in what you say,’ he admitted. ‘And I shall need Timothy’s signature as executor to certain documents. Yes, I think it might be quite a good thing.’
‘That is splendid. I am so relieved. Tomorrow? And you’ll stay the night? The best train is the 11.20 from St Pancras.’
‘It will have to be an afternoon train, I’m afraid. I have,’ said Mr Entwhistle, ‘other business in the morning . . .’
II
George Crossfield greeted Mr Entwhistle heartily but with, perhaps, just a shade of surprise.
Mr Entwhistle said, in an explanatory way, although it really explained nothing:
‘I’ve just come up from Lytchett St Mary.’
‘Then it really was Aunt Cora? I read about it in the papers and I just couldn’t believe it. I thought it must be someone of the same name.’
‘Lansquenet is not a common name.’
‘No, of course it isn’t. I suppose there is a natural aversion to believing that anyone of one’s own family can be murdered. Sounds to me rather like that case last month on Dartmoor.’
‘Does it?’
‘Yes. Same circumstances. Cottage in a lonely position. Two elderly women living together. Amount of cash taken really quite pitifully inadequate one would think.’
‘The value of money is always relative,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘It is the need that counts.’
‘Yes – yes, I suppose you’re right.’
‘If you need ten pounds desperately – then fifteen is more than adequate. And inversely so. If your need is for a hundred pounds, forty-five would be worse than useless. And if it’s thousands you need, then hundreds are not enough.’
George said with a sudden flicker of the eyes: ‘I’d say any money came in useful these days. Everyone’s hard up.’
‘But not desperate,’ Mr Entwhistle pointed out. ‘It’s the desperation that counts.’
‘Are you thinking of something in particular?’
‘Oh no, not at all.’ He paused then went on: ‘It will be a little time before the estate is settled; would it be convenient for you to have an advance?’
‘As a matter of fact, I was going to raise the subject. However, I saw the Bank this morning and referred them to you and they were quite obliging about an overdraft.’
Again there came that flicker in George’s eyes, and Mr Entwhistle, from the depths of his experience, recognized it. George, he felt certain, had been, if not desperate, then in very sore straits for money. He knew at that moment, what he had felt subconsciously all along, that in money matters he would not trust George. He wondered if old Richard Abernethie, who also had had great experience in judging men, had felt that. Mr Entwhistle was also sure that after Mortimer’s death, Abernethie had formed the intention of making George his heir. George was not an Abernethie, but he was the only male of the younger generation. He was the natural successor to Mortimer. Richard Abernethie had sent for George, had had him staying in the house for some days. It seemed probable that at the end of the visit the older man had not found George satisfactory. Had he felt instinctively, as Mr Entwhistle felt, that George was not straight? George’s father, so the family had thought, had been a poor choice on Laura’s part. A stockbroker who had had other rather mysterious activities. George took after his father rather than after the Abernethies.
Perhaps misinterpreting the old lawyer’s silence, George said with an uneasy laugh:
‘Truth is, I’ve not been very lucky with my investments lately. I took a bit of a risk and it didn’t come off. More or less cleaned me out. But I’ll be able to recoup myself now. All one needs is a bit of capital. Ardens Consolidated are pretty good, don’t you think?’
Mr Entwhistle neither agreed nor dissented. He was wondering if by any chance George had been speculating with money that belonged to clients and not with his own? If George had been in danger of criminal prosecution –
Mr Entwhistle said precisely:
‘I tried to reach you the day after the funeral, but I suppose you weren’t in the office.’
‘Did you? They never told me. As a matter of fact, I thought I was entitled to a day off after the good news!’
‘The good news?’
George reddened.
‘Oh look here, I didn’t mean Uncle Richard’s death. But knowing you’ve come into money does give one a bit of a kick. One feels one must celebrate. As a matter of fact I went to Hurst Park. Backed two winners. It never rains but it pours! If your luck’s in, it’s in! Only a matter of fifty quid, but it all helps.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘It all helps. And there will now be an additional sum coming to you as a result of your Aunt Cora’s death.’
George looked concerned.
‘Poor old girl,’ he said. ‘It does seem rotten luck, doesn’t it? Probably just when she was all set to enjoy herself.’
‘Let us hope the police will find the person responsible for her death,’ said Mr Entwhistle.
‘I expect they’ll get him all right. They’re good, our police. They round up all the undesirables in the neighbourhood and go through ’em with a tooth comb – make them account for their actions at the time it happened.’
‘Not so easy if a little time has elapsed,’ said Mr Entwhistle. He gave a wintry little smile that indicated he was about to make a joke. ‘I myself was in Hatchard’s bookshop at 3.30 on the day in question. Should I remember that if I were questioned by the police in ten days’ time? I very much doubt it. And you, George, you were at Hurst Park. Would you remember which day you went to the races in – say – a month’s time?’
‘Oh I could fix it by the funeral – the day after.’
‘True – true. And then you backed a couple of winners. Another aid to memory. One seldom forgets the names of a horse on which one has won money. Which were they, by the way?’
‘Let me see. Gaymarck and Frogg II. Yes, I shan’t forget them in a hurry.’
Mr Entwhistle gave his dry little cackle of laughter and took his leave.
III
‘It’s lovely to see you, of course,’ said Rosamund without any marked enthusiasm. ‘But it’s frightfully early in the morning.’
She yawned heavily.
‘It’s eleven o’clock,’ said Mr Entwhistle.
Rosamund yawned again. She said apologetically:
‘We had the hell of a party last night. Far too much to drink. Michael’s got a terrible hangover still.’
Michael appeared at this moment, also yawning. He had a cup of black coffee in his hand and was wearing a very smart dressing-gown. He looked haggard and attractive – and his smile had the usual charm. Rosamund was wearing a black skirt, a rather dirty yellow pullover, and nothing else as far as Mr Entwhistle could judge.
The precise and fastidious lawyer did not approve at all of the young Shanes’ way of living. The rather ramshackle flat on the first floor of a Chelsea house – the bottles and glasses and cigarette ends that lay about in profusion – the stale air, and the general air of dust and dishevelment.
In the midst of this discouraging setting Rosamund and Michael bloomed with their wonderful good looks. They were certainly a very handsome couple and they seemed, Mr Entwhistle thought, very fond of each other. Rosamund was certainly adoringly fond of Michael.
‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Do you think just a teeny sip of champagne? Just to pull us together and toast the future. Oh, Mr Entwhistle, it really is the most marvellous luck Uncle Richard leaving us all that lovely money just now –’
Mr Entwhistle noted the quick, almost scowling, frown that Michael gave, but Rosamund went on serenely:
‘Because there’s the most wonderful chance of a play. Michael’s got an option on it. It’s a most wonderful part for him and even a small part for me, too. It’s about one of these young criminals, you know, they are really saints – it’s absolutely full of the latest modern ideas.’
‘So it would seem,’ said Mr Entwhistle stiffly.
‘He robs, you know, and he kills, and he’s hounded by the police and by society – and then in the end, he does a miracle.’
Mr Entwhistle sat in outraged silence. Pernicious nonsense these young fools talked! And wrote.
Not that Michael Shane was talking much. There was still a faint scowl on his face.
‘Mr Entwhistle doesn’t want to hear all our rhapsodies, Rosamund,’ he said. ‘Shut up for a bit and let him tell us why he’s come to see us.’
