After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [73]
M. Pontarlier was, therefore, now accepted—as a nuisance but also as a nonentity. He had become, as it were, a piece of foreign décor. The general opinion was that Helen should have avoided having him here this particular weekend, but as he was here they must make the best of it. Fortunately this queer little foreigner did not seem to know much English. Quite often he did not understand what you said to him, and when everyone was speaking more or less at once he seemed completely at sea. He appeared to be interested only in refugees and postwar conditions, and his vocabulary only included those subjects. Ordinary chit-chat appeared to bewilder him. More or less forgotten by all, Hercule Poirot leant back in his chair, sipped his coffee and observed, as a cat may observe the twitterings and comings and goings of a flock of birds. The cat is not ready yet to make its spring.
After twenty-four hours of prowling round the house and examining its contents, the heirs of Richard Abernethie were ready to state their preferences, and, if need be, to fight for them.
The subject of conversation was, first, a certain Spode dinner dessert service off which they had just been eating dessert.
“I don’t suppose I have long to live,” said Timothy in a faint melancholy voice. “And Maude and I have no children. It is hardly worthwhile our burdening ourselves with useless possessions. But for sentiment’s sake I should like to have the old dessert service. I remember it in the dear old days. It’s out of fashion, of course, and I understand dessert services have very little value nowadays—but there it is. I shall be quite content with that—and perhaps the Boule Cabinet in the White Boudoir.”
“You’re too late, Uncle,” George spoke with debonair insouciance. “I asked Helen to mark off the Spode service to me this morning.”
Timothy became purple in the face.
“Mark it off—mark it off? What do you mean? Nothing’s been settled yet. And what do you want with a dessert service? You’re not married.”
“As a matter of fact I collect Spode. And this is really a splendid specimen. But it’s quite all right about the Boule Cabinet, Uncle. I wouldn’t have that as a gift.”
Timothy waved aside the Boule Cabinet.
“Now look here, young George. You can’t go butting in, in this way. I’m an older man than you are—and I’m Richard’s only surviving brother. That dessert service is mine.”
“Why not take the Dresden service, Uncle? A very fine example and I’m sure just as full of sentimental memories. Anyway, the Spode’s mine. First come, first served.”
“Nonsense—nothing of the kind!” Timothy spluttered.
Maude said sharply:
“Please don’t upset your uncle, George. It’s very bad for him. Naturally he will take the Spode if he wants to! The first choice is his, and you young people must come afterwards. He was Richard’s brother, as he says, and you are only a nephew.”
“And I can tell you this, young man.” Timothy was seething with fury. “If Richard had made a proper will, the disposal of the contents of this place would have been entirely in my hands. That’s the way the property should have been left, and if it wasn’t, I can only suspect undue influence. Yes—and I repeat it—undue influence.”
Timothy glared at his nephew.
“A preposterous will,” he said. “Preposterous!”
He leant back, placed a hand to his heart, and groaned:
“This is very bad for me. If I could have—a little brandy.”
Miss Gilchrist hurried to get it and returned with the restorative in a small glass.
“Here you are, Mr. Abernethie. Please—please don’t excite youself.