After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [6]
Cora’s unfortunate gaffe had been forgotten. After all, Cora had always been, if not subnormal, at any rate embarrassingly näive. She had never had any idea of what should or should not be said. At nineteen it had not mattered so much. The mannerisms of an enfant terrible can persist to then, but an enfant terrible of nearly fifty is decidedly disconcerting. To blurt out unwelcome truths—
Mr. Entwhistle’s train of thought came to an abrupt check. It was the second time that that disturbing word had occurred. Truths. And why was it so disturbing? Because, of course, that had always been at the bottom of the embarrassment that Cora’s outspoken comments had caused. It was because her näive statements had been either true or had contained some grain of truth that they had been so embarrassing!
Although in the plump woman of forty-nine, Mr. Entwhistle had been able to see little resemblance to the gawky girl of earlier days, certain of Cora’s mannerisms had persisted—the slight birdlike twist of the head as she brought out a particularly outrageous remark—a kind of air of pleased expectancy. In just such a way had Cora once commented on the figure of the kitchen maid. “Mollie can hardly get near the kitchen table, her stomach sticks out so. It’s only been like that the last month or two. I wonder why she’s getting so fat?”
Cora had been quickly hushed. The Abernethie household was Victorian in tone. The kitchen maid had disappeared from the premises the next day, and after due inquiry the second gardener had been ordered to make an honest woman of her and had been presented with a cottage in which to do so.
Far-off memories—but they had their point….
Mr. Entwhistle examined his uneasiness more closely. What was there in Cora’s ridiculous remarks that had remained to tease his subconscious in this manner? Presently he isolated two phrases. “I did think from what he said—” and “his death was so sudden….”
Mr. Entwhistle examined that last remark first. Yes, Richard’s death could, in a fashion, be considered sudden. Mr. Entwhistle had discussed Richard’s health both with Richard himself and with his doctor. The latter had indicated plainly that a long life could not be expected. If Mr. Abernethie took reasonable care of himself he might live two or even three years. Perhaps longer—but that was unlikely. In any case the doctor had anticipated no collapse in the near future.
Well, the doctor had been wrong—but doctors, as they were the first to admit themselves, could never be sure about the individual reaction of a patient to disease. Cases given up, unexpectedly recovered. Patients on the way to recovery relapsed and died. So much depended on the vitality of the patient. On his own inner urge to live
And Richard Abernethie, though a strong and vigorous man, had had no great incentive to live.
For six months previously his only surviving son, Mortimer, had contracted infantile paralysis and had died within a week. His death had been a shock greatly augmented by the fact that he had been such a particularly strong and vital young man. A keen sportsman, he was also a good athlete and was one of those people of whom it was said that he had never had a day’s illness in his life. He was on the point of becoming engaged to a very charming girl and his father’s hopes for the future were centred in this dearly loved and thoroughly satisfactory son of his.
Instead had come tragedy. And besides the sense of personal loss, the future had held little to stir Richard Abernethie’s interest. One son had died in infancy, the second without issue. He had no grandchildren. There was, in fact, no one of the Abernethie name to come after him, and he was the holder of a vast fortune with wide business interests which he himself still controlled to a certain extent. Who was to succeed to that fortune and to the control of those interests?
That this had worried Richard deeply, Entwhistle knew. His only surviving brother was very much of an invalid. There remained