After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [32]
“Yes. Or I will do so.” He paused and then said in a different voice: “Has it occurred to you, my friend, that your Miss Gilchrist may be in some danger herself?”
Mr. Entwhistle looked surprised.
“I can’t say that it had.”
“But, yes. Cora voiced her suspicions on the day of the funeral. The question in the murderer’s mind will be, did she voice them to anybody when she first heard of Richard’s death? And the most likely person for her to have spoken to about them will be Miss Gilchrist. I think, mon cher, that she had better not remain alone in that cottage.”
“I believe Susan is going down.”
“Ah, so Mrs. Banks is going down?”
“She wants to look through Cora’s things.”
“I see… I see… Well, my friend, do what I have asked of you. You might also prepare Mrs. Abernethie—Mrs. Leo Abernethie, for the possibility that I may arrive in the house. We will see. From now on I occupy myself of everything.”
And Poirot twirled his moustaches with enormous energy.
Eight
I
Mr. Entwhistle looked at Dr. Larraby thoughtfully.
He had had a lifetime of experience in summing people up. There had been frequent occasions on which it had been necessary to tackle a difficult situation or a delicate subject. Mr. Entwhistle was an adept by now in the art of how exactly to make the proper approach. How would it be best to tackle Dr. Larraby on what was certainly a very difficult subject and one which the doctor might very well resent as reflecting upon his own professional skill?
Frankness, Mr. Entwhistle thought—or at least a modified frankness. To say that suspicions had arisen because of a haphazard suggestion thrown out by a silly woman would be ill-advised. Dr. Larraby had not known Cora.
Mr. Entwhistle cleared his throat and plunged bravely.
“I want to consult you on a very delicate matter,” he said. “You may be offended, but I sincerely hope not. You are a sensible man and you will realize, I’m sure, that a—er—preposterous suggestion is best dealt with by finding a reasonable answer and not by condemning it out of hand. It concerns my client, the late Mr. Abernethie. I’ll ask you my question flat out. Are you certain, absolutely certain, that he died what is termed a natural death?”
Dr. Larraby’s good-humoured, rubicund middle-aged face turned in astonishment on his questioner.
“What on earth—Of course he did. I gave a certificate, didn’t I? If I hadn’t been satisfied—”
Mr. Entwhistle cut in adroitly:
“Naturally, naturally. I assure you that I am not assuming anything to the contrary. But I would be glad to have your positive assurance—in face of the—er—rumours that are flying around.”
“Rumours? What rumours?”
“One doesn’t know quite how these things start,” said Mr. Entwhistle mendaciously. “But my feeling is that they should be stopped—authoritatively, if possible.”
“Abernethie was a sick man. He was suffering from a disease that would have proved fatal within, I should say, at the earliest, two years. It might have come much sooner. His son’s death had weakened his will to live, and his powers of resistance. I admit that I did not expect his death to come so soon, or indeed so suddenly, but there are precedents—plenty of precedents. Any medical man who predicts exactly when a patient will die, or exactly how long he will live, is bound to make a fool of himself. The human factor is always incalculable. The weak have often unexpected powers of resistance, the strong sometimes succumb.”
“I understand all that. I am not doubting your diagnosis. Mr. Abernethie was, shall we say (rather melodramatically, I’m afraid) under sentence of death. All I’m asking you is, is it quite possible that a man, knowing or suspecting that he is doomed, might of his own accord shorten that period of life? Or that someone else might do it for him?”
Dr. Larraby frowned.
“Suicide, you mean? Abernethie wasn’t a suicidal type.”
“I see. You can assure me, medically speaking,