After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [39]
“I know I said I wouldn’t. But it seemed rather mean for none of the family to be there. I rang up George but he said he was very busy and couldn’t possibly make it, and Rosamund had an audition and Uncle Timothy, of course, is a crock. So it had to be me.”
“Your husband didn’t come with you?”
“Greg had to settle up with his tiresome shop.”
Seeing a startled look in Miss Gilchrist’s eye, Susan said: “My husband works in a chemist’s shop.”
A husband in retail trade did not quite square with Miss Gilchrist’s impression of Susan’s smartness, but she said valiantly: “Oh yes, just like Keats.”
“Greg’s no poet,” said Susan.
She added:
“We’ve got great plans for the future—a double-barrelled establishment—Cosmetics and Beauty parlour and a laboratory for special preparations.”
“That will be much nicer,” said Miss Gilchrist approvingly. “Something like Elizabeth Arden who is really a Countess, so I have been told—or is that Helena Rubenstein? In any case,” she added kindly, “a pharmacist’s is not in the least like an ordinary shop—a draper, for instance, or a grocer.”
“You kept a tea shop, you said, didn’t you?”
“Yes, indeed,” Miss Gilchrist’s face lit up. That the Willow Tree had ever been “trade” in the sense that a shop was trade, would never have occurred to her. To keep a tea shop was in her mind the essence of gentility. She started telling Susan about the Willow Tree.
Mr. Entwhistle, who had heard about it before, let his mind drift to other matters. When Susan had spoken to him twice without his answering he hurriedly apologized.
“Forgive me, my dear, I was thinking, as a matter of fact, about your Uncle Timothy. I am a little worried.”
“About Uncle Timothy? I shouldn’t be. I don’t believe really there’s anything the matter with him. He’s just a hypochondriac.”
“Yes—yes, you may be right. I confess it was not his health that was worrying me. It’s Mrs. Timothy. Apparently she’s fallen downstairs and twisted her ankle. She’s laid up and your uncle is in a terrible state.”
“Because he’ll have to look after her instead of the other way about? Do him a lot of good,” said Susan.
“Yes—yes, I dare say. But will your poor aunt get any looking after? That is really the question. With no servants in the house?”
“Life is really hell for elderly people,” said Susan. “They live in a kind of Georgian Manor house, don’t they?”
Mr. Entwhistle nodded.
They came rather warily out of the King’s Arms, but the Press seemed to have dispersed.
A couple of reporters were lying in wait for Susan by the cottage door. Shepherded by Mr. Entwhistle she said a few necessary and noncommittal words. Then she and Miss Gilchrist went into the cottage and Mr. Entwhistle returned to the King’s Arms where he had booked a room. The funeral was to be on the following day.
“My car’s still in the quarry,” said Susan. “I’d forgotten about it. I’ll drive it along to the village later.”
Miss Gilchrist said anxiously:
“Not too late. You won’t go out after dark, will you?”
Susan looked at her and laughed.
“You don’t think there’s a murderer still hanging about, do you?”
“No—no, I suppose not.” Miss Gilchrist looked embarrassed.
“But it’s exactly what she does think, thought Susan. “How amazing!”
Miss Gilchrist had vanished towards the kitchen.
“I’m sure you’d like tea early. In about half an hour, do you think, Mrs. Banks?”
Susan thought that tea at half past three was overdoing it, but she was charitable enough to realize that “a nice cup of tea” was Miss Gilchrist’s idea of restoration for the nerves and she had her own reasons for wishing to please Miss Gilchrist, so she said:
“Whenever you like, Miss Gilchrist.”
A happy clatter of kitchen implements began and Susan went into the sitting room. She had only been there a few minutes when the bell sounded and was succeeded by a very precise little rat-tat-tat.
Susan came out into the hall and Miss Gilchrist appeared at the kitchen door wearing an apron and wiping floury hands on it.
“Oh dear, who do you think that can be?”
“More reporters, I expect,” said