After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [34]
“I hope it was like that. It might well be.”
“Let me understand. Someone claims that Abernethie told her—it was a woman, I suppose?”
“Oh yes, it was a woman.”
“—told her someone was trying to kill him?”
Cornered, Mr. Entwhistle reluctantly told the tale of Cora’s remark at the funeral. Dr. Larraby’s face lightened.
“My dear fellow. I shouldn’t pay any attention! The explanation is quite simple. The woman’s at a certain time of life—craving for sensation, unbalanced, unreliable—might say anything. They do, you know!”
Mr. Entwhistle resented the doctor’s easy assumption. He himself had had to deal with plenty of sensation-hunting and hysterical women.
“You may be quite right,” he said, rising. “Unfortunately we can’t tackle her on the subject, as she’s been murdered herself.”
“What’s that—murdered?” Dr. Larraby looked as though he had grave suspicions of Mr. Entwhistle’s own stability of mind.
“You’ve probably read about it in the paper. Mrs. Lansquenet at Lytchett St. Mary in Berkshire.”
“Of course—I’d no idea she was a relation of Richard Abernethie’s!” Dr. Larraby was looking quite shaken.
Feeling that he had revenged himself for the doctor’s professional superiority, and unhappily conscious that his own suspicions had not been assuaged as a result of the visit, Mr. Entwhistle took his leave.
II
Back at Enderby, Mr. Entwhistle decided to talk to Lanscombe.
He started by asking the old butler what his plans were.
“Mrs. Leo has asked me to stay on here until the house is sold, sir, and I’m sure I shall be very pleased to oblige her. We are all very fond of Mrs. Leo.” He sighed. “I feel it very much, sir, if you will excuse me mentioning it, that the house has to be sold. I’ve known it for so very many years, and seen all the young ladies and gentlemen grow up in it. I always thought that Mr. Mortimer would come here after his father and perhaps bring up a family here, too. It was arranged, sir, that I should go to the North Lodge when I got past doing my work here. A very nice little place, the North Lodge—and I looked forward to having it very spick and span. But I suppose that’s all over now.”
“I’m afraid so, Lanscombe. The estate will have to be sold together. But with your legacy—”
“Oh I’m not complaining, sir, and I’m very sensible of Mr. Abernethie’s generosity. I’m well provided for, but it’s not so easy to find a little place to buy nowadays and though my married niece has asked me to make my home with them, well, it won’t be quite the same thing as living on the estate.”
“I know,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “It’s a hard new world for us old fellows. I wish I’d seen more of my old friend before he went. How did he seem those last few months?”
“Well, he wasn’t himself, sir, not since Mr. Mortimer’s death.”
“No, it broke him up. And then he was a sick man—sick men have strange fancies sometimes. I imagine Mr. Abernethie suffered from that sort of thing in his last days. He spoke of enemies sometimes, of somebody wishing to do him harm—perhaps? He may even have thought his food was being tampered with?”
Old Lanscombe looked surprised—surprised and offended.
“I cannot recall anything of that kind, sir.”
Entwhistle looked at him keenly.
“You’re a very loyal servant, Lanscombe, I know that. But such fancies on Mr. Abernethie’s part would be quite—er—unimportant—a natural symptom in some—er diseases.”
“Indeed, sir? I can only say Mr. Abernethie never said anything like that to me, or in my hearing.”
Mr. Entwhistle slid gently to another subject.
“He had some of his family down to stay with him, didn’t he, before he died. His nephew and his two nieces and their husbands?”
“Yes, sir, that is so.”
“Was he satisfied with those visits? Or was he disappointed?
Lanscombe’s eyes became remote, his old back stiffened.
“I really could not say, sir.”
“I think you could, you know,” said Mr. Entwhistle gently.