After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [29]
“Yes.”
“And the real point is—that you believe she was speaking the truth.”
The lawyer hesitated for a moment, then he said:
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Entwhistle repeated the word, slightly puzzled.
“But yes, why? Is it because, already, deep down, you had an uneasiness about the manner of Richard’s death?”
The lawyer shook his head. “No, no, not in the least.”
“Then it is because of her—of Cora herself. You knew her well?”
“I had not seen her for—oh—over twenty years.”
“Would you have known her if you had met her in the street?”
Mr. Entwhistle reflected.
“I might have passed her by in the street without recognizing her. She was a thin slip of a girl when I saw her last and she had turned into a stout, shabby, middle-aged woman. But I think that the moment I spoke to her face to face I should have recognized her. She wore her hair in the same way, a bang cut straight across the forehead, and she had a trick of peering up at you through her fringe like a rather shy animal, and she had a very characteristic, abrupt way of talking, and a way of putting her head on one side and then coming out with something quite outrageous. She had character, you see, and character is always highly individual.”
“She was, in fact, the same Cora you had known years ago. And she still said outrageous things! The things, the outrageous things, she had said in the past—were they usually—justified?”
“That was always the awkward thing about Cora. When truth would have been better left unspoken, she spoke it.”
“And that characteristic remained unchanged. Richard Abernethie was murdered—so Cora at once mentioned the fact.”
Mr. Entwhistle stirred.
“You think he was murdered?”
“Oh, no, no, my friend, we cannot go so fast. We agree on this—Cora thought he had been murdered. She was quite sure he had been murdered. It was, to her, more a certainty than a surmise. And so, we come to this, she must have had some reason for the belief. We agree, by your knowledge of her, that it was not just a bit of mischief making. Now tell me—when she said what she did, there was, at once, a kind of chorus of protest—that is right?”
“Quite right.”
“And she then became confused, abashed, and retreated from the position—saying—as far as you can remember, something like ‘But I thought—from what he told me—’”
The lawyer nodded.
“I wish I could remember more clearly. But I am fairly sure of that. She used the words ‘he told me’ or ‘he said—’”
“And the matter was then smoothed over and everyone spoke of something else. You can remember, looking back, no special expression on anyone’s face? Anything that remains in your memory as—shall we say—unusual?”
“No.”
“And the very next day, Cora is killed—and you ask yourself: ‘Can it be cause and effect?’”
The lawyer stirred.
“I suppose that seems to you quite fantastic?”
“Not at all,” said Poirot. “Given that the original assumption is correct, it is logical. The perfect murder, the murder of Richard Abernethie, has been committed, all has gone off smoothly—and suddenly it appears that there is one person who has a knowledge of the truth! Clearly that person must be silenced as quickly as possible.”
“Then you do think that—it was murder?”
Poirot said gravely:
“I think, mon cher, exactly as you thought—that there is a case for investigation. Have you taken any steps? You have spoken of these matters to the police?”
“No.” Mr. Entwhistle shook his head. “It did not seem to me that any good purpose could be achieved. My position is that I represent the family. If Richard Abernethie was murdered, there seems only one method by which it could be done.”
“By poison?”
“Exactly. And the body has been cremated. There is now no evidence available. But I decided that I, myself, must be satisfied on the point. That is why, Poirot, I have come to you.”
“Who was in the house at the time of his death?”
“An old butler who has been with him for years, a cook and a housemaid. It would seem,