After the Funeral. Agatha Christie

came back to London after the funeral, didn’t you?’

      ‘Yes, we came by the same train as you did.’

      ‘Of course . . . Of course. I ask because I tried to get hold of you,’ he shot a quick glance at the telephone – ‘on the following day – several times in fact, and couldn’t get an answer.’

      ‘Oh dear – I’m so sorry. What were we doing that day? The day before yesterday. We were here until about twelve, weren’t we? And then you went round to try and get hold of Rosenheim and you went on to lunch with Oscar and I went out to see if I could get some nylons and round the shops. I was to meet Janet but we missed each other. Yes, I had a lovely afternoon shopping – and then we dined at the Castile. We got back here about ten o’clock, I suppose.’

      ‘About that,’ said Michael. He was looking thoughtfully at Mr Entwhistle. ‘What did you want to get hold of us for, sir?’

      ‘Oh! Just some points that had arisen about Richard Abernethie’s estate – papers to sign – all that.’

      Rosamund asked: ‘Do we get the money now, or not for ages?’

      ‘I’m afraid,’ said Mr Entwhistle, ‘that the law is prone to delays.’

      ‘But we can get an advance, can’t we?’ Rosamund looked alarmed. ‘Michael said we could. Actually it’s terribly important. Because of the play.’

      Michael said pleasantly:

      ‘Oh, there’s no real hurry. It’s just a question of deciding whether or not to take up the option.’

      ‘It will be quite easy to advance you some money,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘As much as you need.’

      ‘Then that’s all right.’ Rosamund gave a sigh of relief. She added as an afterthought: ‘Did Aunt Cora leave any money?’

      ‘A little. She left it to your Cousin Susan.’

      ‘Why Susan, I should like to know! Is it much?’

      ‘A few hundred pounds and some furniture.’

      ‘Nice furniture?’

      ‘No,’ said Mr Entwhistle.

      Rosamund lost interest. ‘It’s all very odd, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘There was Cora, after the funeral, suddenly coming out with “He was murdered!” and then, the very next day, she goes and gets herself murdered? I mean, it is odd, isn’t it?’

      There was a moment’s rather uncomfortable silence before Mr Entwhistle said quietly:

      ‘Yes, it is indeed very odd . . .’

      IV

      Mr Entwhistle studied Susan Banks as she leant forward across the table talking in her animated manner.

      None of the loveliness of Rosamund here. But it was an attractive face and its attraction lay, Mr Entwhistle decided, in its vitality. The curves of the mouth were rich and full. It was a woman’s mouth and her body was very decidedly a woman’s – emphatically so. Yet in many ways Susan reminded him of her uncle, Richard Abernethie. The shape of her head, the line of her jaw, the deep-set reflective eyes. She had the same kind of dominant personality that Richard had had, the same driving energy, the same foresightedness and forthright judgement. Of the three members of the younger generation she alone seemed to be made of the metal that had raised up the vast Abernethie fortunes. Had Richard recognized in this niece a kindred spirit to his own? Mr Entwhistle thought he must have done. Richard had always had a keen appreciation of character. Here, surely, were exactly the qualities of which he was in search. And yet, in his will, Richard Abernethie had made no distinction in her favour. Distrustful, as Mr Entwhistle believed, of George, passing over that lovely dimwit, Rosamund – could he not have found in Susan what he was seeking – an heir of his own mettle?

      If not, the cause must be – yes, it followed logically – the husband . . .

      Mr Entwhistle’s eyes slid gently over Susan’s shoulder to where Gregory Banks stood absently whittling at a pencil.

      A thin, pale, nondescript young man with reddish sandy hair. So overshadowed by Susan’s colourful personality that it was difficult to realize what he himself was really like. Nothing to take hold of in the fellow – quite pleasant, ready to be agreeable – a ‘yes’ man, as the modern term went. And yet that did not seem to describe him satisfactorily. There was something vaguely disquieting about the unobtrusiveness of Gregory Banks. He had been an unsuitable match – yet Susan had insisted on marrying him – had overborne all opposition – why? What had she seen in him?

      And now, six months after the marriage – ‘She’s crazy about the fellow,’ Mr Entwhistle said to himself. He knew the signs. A large number of wives with matrimonial troubles had passed through the office of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard. Wives madly devoted to unsatisfactory and often what appeared quite unprepossessing husbands, wives contemptuous of, and bored by, apparently attractive and impeccable husbands. What any woman saw in some particular man was beyond the comprehension of the average intelligent male. It just was so. A woman who could be intelligent about everything else in the world could be a complete fool when it came to some particular man. Susan, thought Mr Entwhistle, was one of those women. For her the world revolved around Greg. And that had its dangers in more ways than one.

      Susan was talking with emphasis and indignation.

      ‘– because it is disgraceful. You remember that woman who was murdered in Yorkshire last year? Nobody was ever arrested. And the old woman in the sweet shop who was killed with a crowbar. They detained some man, and then they let him go!’

      ‘There has to be evidence, my dear,’ said Mr Entwhistle.

      Susan paid no attention.

      ‘And that other case – a retired nurse – that was a hatchet or an axe – just like Aunt Cora.’

      ‘Dear me, you appear to have made quite a study of these crimes, Susan,’ said Mr Entwhistle mildly.

      ‘Naturally one remembers these things – and when someone in one’s own family is killed – and in very much the same way – well, it shows that there must be a lot of these sorts of people going round the countryside, breaking into places and attacking lonely women – and that the police just don’t bother!’

      Mr Entwhistle shook his head.

      ‘Don’t belittle the police, Susan. They are a very shrewd and patient body of men – persistent, too. Just because it isn’t still mentioned in the newspapers doesn’t mean that a case is closed. Far from it.’

      ‘And yet there are hundreds of unsolved crimes every year.’

      ‘Hundreds?’ Mr Entwhistle looked dubious. ‘A certain number, yes. But there are many occasions when the police know who has committed a crime but where the evidence is insufficient for a prosecution.’

      ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Susan. ‘I believe if you knew definitely who committed a crime you could always get the evidence.’

      ‘I wonder now.’ Mr Entwhistle sounded thoughtful. ‘I very much wonder . . .’

      ‘Have they any idea at all – in Aunt Cora’s case – of who it might be?’

      ‘That I couldn’t say. Not as far as I know. But they would hardly confide in me – and it’s early days yet – the murder took place only the day before yesterday, remember.’

      ‘It’s definitely got to be a certain kind of person,’ Susan mused. ‘A brutal, perhaps slightly half-witted type – a discharged soldier or a gaol bird. I mean, using a hatchet like that.’

      Looking slightly quizzical, Mr Entwhistle raised his eyebrows and murmured:

      ‘Lizzie Borden with an axe

      Gave her father fifty