After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [19]
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.