After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [10]
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