After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [28]
Mr. Entwhistle left for London by the breakfast train on the following morning.
When he got home, after a little hesitation, he rang up a friend of his.
Seven
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your invitation.”
Mr. Entwhistle pressed his host’s hand warmly.
Hercule Poirot gestured hospitably to a chair by the fire.
Mr. Entwhistle sighed as he sat down.
On one side of the room a table was laid for two.
“I returned from the country this morning,” he said.
“And you have a matter on which you wish to consult me?”
“Yes. It’s a long rambling story, I’m afraid.”
“Then we will not have it until after we have dined. Georges?”
The efficient Georges materialized with some pâté de foie gras accompanied by hot toast in a napkin.
“We will have our pâté by the fire,” said Poirot. “Afterwards we will move to the table.”
It was an hour and a half later that Mr. Entwhistle stretched himself comfortably out in his chair and sighed a contented sigh.
“You certainly know how to do yourself well, Poirot. Trust a Frenchman.”
“I am a Belgian. But the rest of your remark applies. At my age the chief pleasure, almost the only pleasure that still remains, is the pleasure of the table. Mercifully I have an excellent stomach.”
“Ah,” murmured Mr. Entwhistle.
They had dined off sole veronique, followed by escalope de veau milanaise, proceeding to poire flambée with ice cream.
They had drunk a Pouilly Fuissé followed by a Corton, and a very good port now reposed at Mr. Entwhistle’s elbow. Poirot, who did not care for port, was sipping Crème de Cacao.
“I don’t know,” murmured Mr. Entwhistle reminiscently, “how you manage to get hold of an escalope like that! It melted in the mouth!”
“I have a friend who is a Continental butcher. For him I solve a small domestic problem. He is appreciative—and ever since then he is most sympathetic to me in the matters of the stomach.”
“A domestic problem,” Mr. Entwhistle sighed. “I wish you had not reminded me… This is such a perfect moment….”
“Prolong it, my friend. We will have presently the demitasse and the fine brandy, and then, when digestion is peacefully under way, then you shall tell why you need my advice.”
The clock struck the half hour after nine before Mr. Entwhistle stirred in his chair. The psychological moment had come. He no longer felt reluctant to bring forth his perplexities—he was eager to do so.
“I don’t know,” he said, “whether I’m making the most colossal fool of myself. In any case I don’t see that there’s anything that can possibly be done. But I’d like to put the facts before you, and I’d like to know what you think.”
He paused for a moment or two, then in his dry meticulous way, he told his story. His trained legal brain enabled him to put the facts clearly, to leave nothing out, and to add nothing extraneous. It was a clear succinct account, and as such appreciated by the little elderly man with the egg-shaped head who sat listening to him.
When he had finished there was a pause. Mr. Entwhistle was prepared to answer questions, but for some few moments no question came. Hercule Poirot was reviewing the evidence.
He said at last:
“It seems very clear. You have in your mind the suspicion that your friend, Richard Abernethie, may have been murdered? That suspicion, or assumption, rests on the basis of one thing only—the words spoken by Cora Lansquenet at Richard Abernethie’s funeral. Take those away—and there is nothing left. The fact that she herself was murdered the day afterwards may be the purest coincidence. It is true that Richard Abernethie died suddenly, but he was attended by a reputable doctor who knew him well, and that doctor had no suspicions and gave a death certificate. Was Richard buried or cremated?”
“Cremated—according to his own request.”
“Yes, that is the law. And it means that a second doctor signed the certificate—but there would be no difficulty about that. So we come back