After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [42]
Thanking them for the tea he took a polite farewell of the two women. Miss Gilchrist saw him out and helped him on with his overcoat. From the window of the sitting room, Susan watched him trot briskly down the front path to the gate.
Miss Gilchrist came back into the room with a small parcel in her hand.
“The postman must have been while we were at the inquest. He pushed it through the letter box and it had fallen in the corner behind the door. Now I wonder—why, of course, it must be wedding cake.”
Happily Miss Gilchrist ripped off the paper. Inside was a small white box tied with silver ribbon.
“It is!” She pulled off the ribbon, inside was a modest wedge of rich cake with almond paste and white icing. “How nice! Now who—” She consulted the card attached. “John and Mary. Now who can that be? How silly to put no surname.”
Susan, rousing herself from contemplation, said vaguely:
“It’s quite difficult sometimes with people just using Christian names. I got a postcard the other day signed Joan. I counted up I knew eight Joans—and with telephoning so much, one often doesn’t know their handwriting.”
Miss Gilchrist was happily going over the possible Johns and Marys of her acquaintance.
“It might be Dorothy’s daughter—her name was Mary, but I hadn’t heard of an engagement, still less of a marriage. Then there’s little John Banfield—I suppose he’s grown up and old enough to be married—or the Enfield girl—no, her name was Margaret. No address or anything. Oh well, I dare say it will come to me….”
She picked up the tray and went out to the kitchen.
Susan roused herself and said:
“Well— I suppose I’d better go and put the car somewhere.”
Ten
Susan retrieved the car from the quarry where she had left it and drove it into the village. There was a petrol pump but no garage and she was advised to take it to the King’s Arms. They had room for it there and she left it by a big Daimler which was preparing to go out. It was chauffeur driven and inside it, very much muffled up, was an elderly foreign gentleman with a large moustache.
The boy to whom Susan was talking about the car was staring at her with such rapt attention that he did not seem to be taking in half of what she said.
Finally he said in an awe-stricken voice:
“You’re her niece, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“You’re the victim’s niece,” the boy repeated with relish.
“Oh—yes—yes, I am.”
“Ar! Wondered where I’d seen you before.”
“Ghoul,” thought Susan as she retraced her steps to the cottage.
Miss Gilchrist greeted her with:
“Oh, you’re safely back,” in tones of relief which further annoyed her. Miss Gilchrist added anxiously:
“You can eat spaghetti, can’t you? I thought for tonight—”
“Oh yes, anything. I don’t want much.”
“I really flatter myself that I can make a very tasty spaghetti au gratin.”
The boast was not an idle one. Miss Gilchrist, Susan reflected, was really an excellent cook. Susan offered to help wash up but Miss Gilchrist, though clearly gratified by the offer, assured Susan that there was very little to do.
She came in a little while after with coffee. The coffee was less excellent, being decidedly weak. Miss Gilchrist offered Susan a piece of the wedding cake which Susan refused.
“It’s really very good cake,” Miss Gilchrist insisted, tasting it. She had settled to her own satisfaction that it must have been sent by someone whom she alluded to as “dear Ellen’s daughter who I know was engaged to be married but I can’t remember her name.”
Susan let Miss Gilchrist chirrup away into silence before starting her own subject of conversation. This moment, after supper, sitting before the fire, was a companionable one.
She said at last:
“My Uncle Richard came down here before he died, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did.”
“When was that exactly?”
“Let me see—it must have been one, two—nearly three weeks before his death was announced.”
“Did he seem—ill?”
“Well, no, I wouldn’t say he seemed exactly ill. He had a very hearty vigorous manner. Mrs. Lansquenet was very surprised to see him. She said, ‘Well, really, Richard,