After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [61]
“Susan struck me as being a very competent girl.”
“Yes. She is competent. Did you hear that Miss Gilchrist had a narrow escape from death with a piece of poisoned wedding cake?”
“No!” Helen looked startled. “I do remember now that Maude said over the telephone that Miss Gilchrist had just come out of hospital but I’d no idea why she had been in hospital. Poisoned? But, M. Poirot—why—”
“Do you really ask that?”
Helen said with sudden vehemence:
“Oh! get them all here! Find out the truth! There mustn’t be any more murders.”
“So you will cooperate?”
“Yes— I will cooperate.”
Fifteen
I
“That linoleum does look nice, Mrs. Jones. What a hand you have with lino. The teapot’s on the kitchen table, so go and help yourself. I’ll be there as soon as I’ve taken up Mr. Abernethie’s elevenses.”
Miss Gilchrist trotted up the staircase, carrying a daintily set out tray. She tapped on Timothy’s door, interpreted a growl from within as an invitation to enter, and tripped briskly in.
“Morning coffee and biscuits, Mr. Abernethie. I do hope you’re feeling brighter today. Such a lovely day.”
Timothy grunted and said suspiciously:
“Is there skim on that milk?”
“Oh no, Mr. Abernethie. I took it off very carefully, and anyway I’ve brought up the little strainer in case it should form again. Some people like it, you know, they say it’s the cream—and so it is really.”
“Idiots!” said Timothy. “What kind of biscuits are those?”
“They’re those nice digestive biscuits.”
“Digestive tripe. Ginger-nuts are the only biscuits worth eating.”
“I’m afraid the grocer hadn’t got any this week. But these are really very nice. You try them and see.”
“I know what they’re like, thank you. Leave those curtains alone, can’t you?”
“I thought you might like a little sunshine. It’s such a nice sunny day.”
“I want the room kept dark. My head’s terrible. It’s this paint. I’ve always been sensitive to paint. It’s poisoning me.”
Miss Gilchrist sniffed experimentally and said brightly:
“One really can’t smell it much in here. The workmen are over on the other side.”
“You’re not sensitive like I am. Must I have all the books I’m reading taken out of my reach?”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Abernethie, I didn’t know you were reading all of them.”
“Where’s my wife? I haven’t seen her for over an hour.”
“Mrs. Abernethie is resting on the sofa.”
“Tell her to come and rest up here.”
“I’ll tell her, Mr. Abernethie. But she may have dropped off to sleep. Shall we say in about a quarter of an hour?”
“No, tell her I want her now. Don’t monkey about with that rug. It’s arranged the way I like it.”
“I’m so sorry. I thought it was slipping off the far side.”
“I like it slipping off. Go and get Maude. I want her.”
Miss Gilchrist departed downstairs and tiptoed into the drawing room where Maude Abernethie was sitting with her leg up reading a novel.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Abernethie,” she said apologetically. “Mr. Abernethie is asking for you.”
Maude thrust aside her novel with a guilty expression.
“Oh dear,” she said. “I’ll go at once.”
She reached for her stick.
Timothy burst out as soon as his wife entered the room:
“So there you are at last!”
“I’m so sorry dear, I didn’t know you wanted me.”
“That woman you’ve got into the house will drive me mad. Twittering and fluttering round like a demented hen. Real typical old maid, that’s what she is.”
“I’m sorry she annoys you. She tries to be kind, that’s all.”
“I don’t want anybody kind. I don’t want a blasted old maid always chirruping over me. She’s so damned arch, too—”
“Just a little, perhaps.”
“Treats me as thought I was a confounded kid! It’s maddening.”
“I’m sure it must be. But please, please, Timothy, do try not to be rude to her. I’m really very helpless still—and you yourself say she cooks well.”
“Her cooking’s all right,” Mr. Abernethie admitted grudgingly. “Yes, she’s a decent enough cook. But keep her in the kitchen, that’s all I ask. Don’t let her come fussing round me.”
“No, dear, of course not. How are you feeling?”
“Not at all well. I think