After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [59]
“Perhaps… But I don’t remember looking at anyone in particular. We were all staring at Cora.”
“It may have been something you heard—something dropped perhaps…or broken….”
Helen frowned in an effort of remembrance.
“No… I don’t think so….”
“Ah well, some day it will come back. And it may be of no consequence. Now tell me, Madame, of those there, who knew Cora best?”
Helen considered.
“Lanscombe, I suppose. He remembers her from a child. The housemaid, Janet, only came after she had married and gone away.”
“And next to Lanscombe?”
Helen said thoughtfully: “I suppose—I did. Maude hardly knew her at all.”
“Then, taking you as the person who knew her best, why do you think she asked that question as she did?”
Helen smiled.
“It was very characteristic of Cora!”
“What I mean is, was it a bêtise pure and simple? Did she just blurt out what was in her mind without thinking? Or was she being malicious—amusing herself by upsetting everyone?”
Helen reflected.
“You can’t ever be quite sure about a person, can you? I never have known whether Cora was just ingenuous—or whether she counted, childishly, on making an effect. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I was thinking: Suppose this Mrs. Cora says to herself ‘What fun it would be to ask if Richard was murdered and see how they all look!’ That would be like her, yes?”
Helen looked doubtful.
“It might be. She certainly had an impish sense of humour as a child. But what difference does it make?”
“It would underline the point that it is unwise to make jokes about murder,” said Poirot drily.
Helen shivered.
“Poor Cora.”
Poirot changed the subject.
“Mrs. Timothy Abernethie stayed the night after the funeral?”
“Yes.”
“Did she talk to you at all about what Cora had said?”
“Yes, she said it was outrageous and just like Cora!”
“She didn’t take it seriously?”
“Oh no. No, I’m sure she didn’t.”
The second “no,” Poirot thought, had sounded suddenly doubtful. But was not that almost always the case when you went back over something in your mind?
“And you, Madame, did you take it seriously?”
Helen Abernethie, her eyes looking very blue and strangely young under the sideways sweep of crisp grey hair, said thoughtfully:
“Yes, M. Poirot, I think I did.”
“Because of your feeling that something was wrong?”
“Perhaps.”
He waited—but as she said nothing more, he went on:
“There had been an estrangement, lasting many years, between Mrs. Lansquenet and her family?”
“Yes. None of us liked her husband and she was offended about it, and so the estrangement grew.”
“And then, suddenly, your brother-in-law went to see her. Why?”
“I don’t know—I suppose he knew, or guessed, that he hadn’t very long to live and wanted to be reconciled—but I really don’t know.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me?”
“Yes. You were here, staying with him, just before he went there. He didn’t even mention his intention to you?”
He thought a slight reserve came into her manner.
“He told me that he was going to see his brother Timothy—which he did. He never mentioned Cora at all. Shall we go in? It must be nearly lunchtime.”
She walked beside him carrying the flowers she had picked. As they went in by the side door, Poirot said:
“You are sure, quite sure, that during your visit, Mr. Abernethie said nothing to you about any member of the family which might be relevant?”
A faint resentment in her manner, Helen said:
“You are speaking like a policeman.”
“I was a policeman—once. I have no status—no right to question you. But you want the truth—or so I have been led to believe?”
They entered the green drawing room. Helen said with a sigh:
“Richard was disappointed in the younger generation. Old men usually are. He disparaged them in various ways—but there was nothing—nothing, do you understand—that could possibly suggest a motive for murder.”
“Ah,” said Poirot. She reached for a Chinese bowl, and began to arrange the roses in it. When they were disposed to her satisfaction she looked round for a place to put it.
“You arrange flowers admirably,