After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [45]
She stood by the telephone, frowning abstractedly. Then suddenly an idea came to her.
“Of course,” she murmured. “Just the thing.”
Lifting the receiver she asked for Trunk Enquiry.
Some quarter of an hour later a weary voice from the exchange was saying:
“I’m afraid there’s no reply.”
“Please go on ringing them.”
Susan spoke autocratically. She listened to the far-off buzzing of a telephone bell. Then, suddenly it was interrupted and a man’s voice, peevish and slightly indignant, said:
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
“Uncle Timothy?”
“What’s that? I can’t hear you.”
“Uncle Timothy? I’m Susan Banks.”
“Susan who?”
“Banks. Formerly Abernethie. Your niece Susan.”
“Oh, you’re Susan, are you? What’s the matter? What are you ringing up for at this time of night?”
“It’s quite early still.”
“It isn’t. I was in bed.”
“You must go to bed very early. How’s Aunt Maude?”
“Is that all you rang up to ask? Your aunt’s in a good deal of pain and she can’t do a thing. Not a thing. She’s helpless. We’re in a nice mess, I can tell you. That fool of a doctor says he can’t even get a nurse. He wanted to cart Maude off to hospital. I stood out against that. He’s trying to get hold of someone for us. I can’t do anything— I daren’t even try. There’s a fool from the village staying in the house tonight—but she’s murmuring about getting back to her husband. Don’t know what we’re going to do.”
“That’s what I rang up about. Would you like Miss Gilchrist?”
“Who’s she? Never heard of her.”
“Aunt Cora’s companion. She’s very nice and capable.”
“Can she cook?”
“Yes, she cooks very well, and she could look after Aunt Maude.”
“That’s all very well, but when could she come? Here I am, all on my own, with only these idiots of village women popping in and out at odd hours, and it’s not good for me. My heart’s playing me up.”
“I’ll arrange for her to get off to you as soon as possible. The day after tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Well, thanks very much,” said the voice rather grudgingly. “You’re a good girl, Susan—er—thank you.”
Susan rang off and went into the kitchen.
“Would you be willing to go up to Yorkshire and look after my aunt? She fell and broke her ankle and my uncle is quite useless. He’s a bit of a pest but Aunt Maude is a very good sort. They have help in from the village, but you could cook and look after Aunt Maude.”
Miss Gilchrist dropped the coffee pot in her agitation.
“Oh, thank you, thank you—that really is kind. I think I can say of myself that I am really good in the sickroom, and I’m sure I can manage your uncle and cook him nice little meals. It’s really very kind of you, Mrs. Banks, and I do appreciate it.”
Eleven
I
Susan lay in bed and waited for sleep to come. It had been a long day and she was tired. She had been quite sure that she would go to sleep at once. She never had any difficulty in going to sleep. And yet here she lay, hour after hour, wide awake, her mind racing.
She had said she did not mind sleeping in this room, in this bed. This bed where Cora Abernethie—
No, no she must put all that out of her mind. She had always prided herself on having no nerves. Why think of that afternoon less than a week ago? Think ahead—the future. Her future and Greg’s. Those premises in Cardigan Street—just what they wanted. The business on the ground floor and a charming flat upstairs. The room out at the back a laboratory for Greg. For purposes of income tax it would be an excellent setup. Greg would get calm and well again. There would be no more of those alarming brainstorms. The times when he looked at her without seeming to know who she was. Once or twice she’d been quite frightened… And old Mr. Cole—he’d hinted—threatened: “If this happens again…” And it might have happened again—it would have happened again. If Uncle Richard hadn’t died just when he did….
Uncle Richard—but really why look at it like that? He’d nothing to live for. Old and tired and