After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [80]
“I asked her if it was something about one of the people who were there that day, and she said, yes, it was. She said it had come to her when she was looking in the glass—”
“Yes?”
“That was all.”
“She gave no hint as to—which of the people concerned it was?”
“I should hardly fail to let you know if she had told me that,” said Mr. Entwhistle acidly.
“I apologize, mon ami. Of course you would have told me.”
Mr. Entwhistle said:
“We shall just have to wait until she recovers consciousness before we know.”
Poirot said gravely:
“That may not be for a very long time. Perhaps never.”
“Is it as bad as that?” Mr. Entwhistle’s voice shook a little.
“Yes, it is as bad as that.”
“But—that’s terrible, Poirot.”
“Yes, it is terrible. And it is why we cannot afford to wait. For it shows that we have to deal with someone who is either completely ruthless or so frightened that it comes to the same thing.”
“But look here, Poirot. What about Helen? I feel worried. Are you sure she will be safe at Enderby?”
“No, she would not be safe. So she is not at Enderby. Already the ambulance has come and is taking her to a nursing home where she will have special nurses and where no one, family or otherwise, will be allowed in to see her.”
Mr. Entwhistle sighed.
“You relieve my mind! She might have been in danger.”
“She assuredly would have been in danger!”
Mr. Entwhistle’s voice sounded deeply moved.
“I have a great regard for Helen Abernethie. I always have had. A woman of very exceptional character. She may have had certain—what shall I say?—reticences in her life.”
“Ah, there were reticences?”
“I have always had an idea that such was the case.”
“Hence the villa in Cyprus. Yes, that explains a good deal….”
“I don’t want you to begin thinking—”
“You cannot stop me thinking. But now, there is a little commission that I have for you. One moment.”
There was a pause, then Poirot’s voice spoke again.
“I had to make sure that nobody was listening. All is well. Now here is what I want you to do for me. You must prepare to make a journey.”
“A journey?” Mr. Entwhistle sounded faintly dismayed. “Oh, I see—you want me to come down to Enderby?”
“Not at all. I am in charge here. No, you will not have to travel so far. Your journey will not take you very far from London. You will travel to Bury St. Edmunds—(Ma foi! what names your English towns have!) and there you will hire a car and drive to Forsdyke House. It is a Mental Home. Ask for Dr. Penrith and inquire of him particulars about a patient who was recently discharged.”
“What patient? Anyway, surely—”
Poirot broke in:
“The name of the patient is Gregory Banks. Find out for what form of insanity he was being treated.”
“Do you mean that Gregory Banks is insane?”
“Sh! Be careful what you say. And now—I have not yet breakfasted and you, too, I suspect, have not breakfasted?”
“Not yet. I was too anxious—”
“Quite so. Then, I pray you, eat your breakfast, repose yourself. There is a good train to Bury St. Edmunds at twelve o’clock. If I have any more news I will telephone you before you start.”
“Be careful of yourself, Poirot,” said Mr. Entwhistle with some concern.
“Ah that, yes! Me, I do not want to be hit on the head with a marble doorstop. You may be assured that I will take every precaution. And now—for the moment—good-bye.”
Poirot heard the sound of the receiver being replaced at the other end, then he heard a very faint second click—and smiled to himself. Somebody had replaced the receiver on the telephone in the hall.
He went out there. There was no one about. He tiptoed to the cupboard at the back of the stairs and looked inside. At that moment Lanscombe came through the service door carrying a tray with toast and a silver coffeepot. He looked slightly surprised to see Poirot emerge from the cupboard.
“Breakfast is ready in the dining room, sir,” he said.
Poirot surveyed him thoughtfully.
The old butler looked white and shaken.
“Courage,