After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [84]
“But the family wasn’t, Uncle Timothy,” said Rosamund.
“Hey—what’s that?”
Timothy peered at her under beetling brows of displeasure.
“We weren’t satisfied. And what about Aunt Helen this morning?”
Maude said sharply:
“Helen’s just the age when you’re liable to get a stroke. That’s all there is to that.”
“I see,” said Rosamund. “Another coincidence, you think?”
She looked at Poirot.
“Aren’t there rather too many coincidences?”
“Coincidences,” said Hercule Poirot, “do happen.”
“Nonsense,” said Maude. “Helen felt ill, came down and rang up the doctor, and then—”
“But she didn’t ring up the doctor,” said Rosamund. “I asked him—”
Susan said sharply:
“Who did she ring up?”
“I don’t know,” said Rosamund, a shade of vexation passing over her face. “But I dare say I can find out,” she added hopefully.
II
Hercule Poirot was sitting in the Victorian summerhouse. He drew his large watch from his pocket and laid it on the table in front of him.
He had announced that he was leaving by the twelve o’clock train. There was still half an hour to go. Half an hour for someone to make up their mind and come to him. Perhaps more than one person….
The summerhouse was clearly visible from most of the windows of the house. Surely, soon, someone would come?
If not, his knowledge of human nature was deficient, and his main premises incorrect.
He waited—and above his head a spider in its web waited for a fly.
It was Miss Gilchrist who came first. She was flustered and upset and rather incoherent.
“Oh, Mr. Pontarlier—I can’t remember your other name,” she said. “I had to come and speak to you although I don’t like doing it—but really I feel I ought to. I mean, after what happened to poor Mrs. Leo this morning—and I think myself Mrs. Shane was quite right—and not coincidence, and certainly not a stroke—as Mrs. Timothy suggested, because my own father had a stroke and it was quite a different appearance, and anyway the doctor said concussion quite clearly!”
She paused, took breath and looked at Poirot with appealing eyes.
“Yes,” said Poirot gently and encouragingly. “You want to tell me something?”
“As I say, I don’t like doing it—because she’s been so kind. She found me the position with Mrs. Timothy and everything. She’s been really very kind. That’s why I feel so ungrateful. And even gave me Mrs. Lansquenet’s musquash jacket which is really most handsome and fits beautifully because it never matters if fur is a little on the large side. And when I wanted to return her amethyst brooch she wouldn’t hear of it—”
“You are referring,” said Poirot gently, “to Mrs. Banks?”
“Yes, you see—” Miss Gilchrist looked down, twisting her fingers unhappily. She looked up and said with a sudden gulp:
“You see, I listened!”
“You mean you happened to overhear a conversation—”
“No.” Miss Gilchrist shook her head with an air of heroic determination. “I’d rather speak the truth. And it’s not so bad telling you because you’re not English.”
Hercule Poirot understood her without taking offence.
“You mean that to a foreigner it is natural that people should listen at doors and open letters, or read letters that are left about?”
“Oh, I’d never open anybody else’s letters,” said Miss Gilchrist in a shocked tone. “Not that. But I did listen that day—the day that Mr. Richard Abernethie came down to see his sister. I was curious, you know, about his turning up suddenly after all those years. And I did wonder why—and—and—you see when you haven’t much life of your own or very many friends,