After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [46]
Houses where a murder had been committed were sometimes haunted. Perhaps this cottage would come to be known as the haunted cottage. Haunted by the spirit of Cora Lansquenet… Aunt Cora. Odd, really, how ever since she had arrived she had felt as though Aunt Cora were quite close to her…within reach. All nerves and fancy. Cora Lansquenet was dead, tomorrow she would be buried. There was no one in the cottage except Susan herself and Miss Gilchrist. Then why did she feel that there was someone in this room, someone close beside her….
She had lain on this bed when the hatchet fell… Lying there trustingly asleep… Knowing nothing till the hatchet fell… And now she wouldn’t let Susan sleep….
The furniture creaked again…was that a stealthy step? Susan switched on the light. Nothing. Nerves, nothing but nerves. Relax…close your eyes….
Surely that was a groan—a groan or a faint moan… Someone in pain—someone dying….
“I mustn’t imagine things, I mustn’t, I mustn’t,” Susan whispered to herself.
Death was the end—there was no existence after death. Under no circumstances could anyone come back. Or was she reliving a scene from the past—a dying woman groaning….
There it was again…stronger…someone groaning in acute pain….
But—this was real. Once again Susan switched on the light, sat up in bed and listened. The groans were real groans and she was hearing them through the wall. They came from the room next door.
Susan jumped out of bed, flung on a dressing gown and crossed to the door. She went out on to the landing, tapped for a moment on Miss Gilchrist’s door and then went in. Miss Gilchrist’s light was on. She was sitting up in bed. She looked ghastly. Her face was distorted with pain.
“Miss Gilchrist, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”
“Yes. I don’t know what—I—” she tried to get out of bed, was seized with a fit of vomiting and then collapsed back on the pillows.
She murmured: “Please—ring up doctor. Must have eaten something….”
“I’ll get you some bicarbonate. We can get the doctor in the morning if you’re no better.”
Miss Gilchrist shook her head.
“No, get the doctor now. I— I feel dreadful.”
“Do you know his number? Or shall I look in the book?”
Miss Gilchrist gave her the number. She was interrupted by another fit of retching.
Susan’s call was answered by a sleepy male voice.
“Who? Gilchrist? In Mead’s Lane. Yes, I know. I’ll be right along.”
He was as good as his word. Ten minutes later Susan heard his car draw up outside and she went to open the door to him.
She explained the case and she took him upstairs. “I think,” she said, “she must have eaten something that disagreed with her. But she seems pretty bad.”
The doctor had had the air of one keeping his temper in leash and who has had some experience of being called out unnecessarily on more than one occasion. But as soon as he examined the moaning woman his manner changed. He gave various curt orders to Susan and presently came down and telephoned. Then he joined Susan in the sitting room.
“I’ve sent for an ambulance. Must get her into hospital.”
“She’s really bad then?”
“Yes. I’ve given her a shot of morphia to ease the pain. But it looks—” He broke off. “What’s she eaten?”
“We had macaroni au gratin for supper and a custard pudding. Coffee afterwards.”
“You have the same things?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re all right? No pain or discomfort?”
“No.”
“She’s taken nothing else? No tinned fish? Or sausages?”
“No. We had lunch at the King’s Arms—after the inquest.”
“Yes, of course. You’re Mrs. Lansquenet’s niece?”
“Yes.”
“That was a nasty business. Hope they catch the man who did it.