After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [20]
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.”
“There are just one or two little matters to straighten out,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “I have just come back from Lytchett St. Mary.”
“Then it was Aunt Cora who was murdered? We saw it in the paper. And I said it must be because it’s a very uncommon name. Poor old Aunt Cora. I was looking at her at the funeral that day and thinking what a frump she was and that really one might as well be dead if one looked like that—and now she is dead. They absolutely wouldn’t believe it last night when I told them that that murder with the hatchet in the paper was actually my aunt! They just laughed, didn’t they, Michael?”
Michael Shane did not reply and Rosamund with every appearance of enjoyment said:
“Two murders one after another. It’s almost too much, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be a fool, Rosamund, your Uncle Richard wasn’t murdered.”
“Well, Cora thought he was.”
Mr. Entwhistle intervened to ask:
“You 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