After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [86]
“So you know that?”
“Yes.”
“She nearly died.” He spoked in a satisfied manner. “That shows you I’m not the sort of person to be trifled with! Richard Abernethie despised me—and what happened to him? He died.”
“A most successful murder,” said Poirot with grave congratulation.
He added: “But why come and give yourself away—to me?”
“Because you said you were through with it all! You said he hadn’t been murdered. I had to show you that you’re not as clever as you think you are—and besides—besides—”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “And besides?”
Greg collapsed suddenly on the bench. His face changed. It took on a sudden ecstatic quality.
“It was wrong—wicked… I must be punished… I must go back there—to the place of punishment…to atone… Yes, to atone! Repentance! Retribution!”
His face was alight now with a kind of glowing ecstasy. Poirot studied him for a moment or two curiously.
Then he asked:
“How badly do you want to get away from your wife?”
Gregory’s face changed.
“Susan? Susan is wonderful—wonderful!”
“Yes. Susan is wonderful. That is a grave burden. Susan loves you devotedly. That is a burden, too?”
Gregory sat looking in front of him. Then he said, rather in the manner of a sulky child:
“Why couldn’t she let me alone?”
He sprang up.
“She’s coming now—across the lawn. I’ll go now. But you’ll tell her what I told you? Tell her I’ve gone to the police station. To confess.”
IV
Susan came in breathlessly.
“Where’s Greg? He was here! I saw him.”
“Yes.” Poirot paused a moment—before saying: “He came to tell me that it was he who poisoned Richard Abernethie….”
“What absolute nonsense! You didn’t believe him, I hope?”
“Why should I not believe him?”
“He wasn’t even near this place when Uncle Richard died!”
“Perhaps not. Where was he when Cora Lansquenet died?”
“In London. We both were.”
Hercule Poirot shook his head.
“No, no, that will not do. You, for instance, took out your car that day and were away all the afternoon. I think I know where you went. You went to Lytchett St. Mary.”
“I did no such thing!”
Poirot smiled.
“When I met you here, Madame, it was not, as I told you, the first time I had seen you. After the inquest on Mrs. Lansquenet you were in the garage of the King’s Arms. You talk there to a mechanic and close by you is a car containing an elderly foreign gentleman. You did not notice him, but he noticed you.”
“I don’t see what you mean. That was the day of the inquest.”
“Ah, but remember what that mechanic said to you! He asked you if you were a relative of the victim, and you said you were her niece.”
“He was just being a ghoul. They’re all ghouls.”
“And his next words were, ‘Ah, wondered where I’d seen you before.’ Where did he see you before, Madame? It must have been in Lytchett St. Mary, since in his mind his seeing you before was accounted for by your being Mrs. Lansquenet’s niece. Had he seen you near her cottage? And when? It was a matter, was it not, that demands inquiry. And the result of the inquiry is, that you were there—in Lytchett St. Mary—on the afternoon Cora Lansquenet died. You parked your car in the same quarry where you left it the morning of the inquest. The car was seen and the number was noted. By this time Inspector Morton knows whose car it was.”
Susan stared at him. Her breath came rather fast, but she showed no signs of discomposure.
“You’re talking nonsense, M. Poirot. And you’re making me forget what I came here to say—I wanted to try and find you alone—”
“To confess to me it was you and not your husband who committed the murder?”
“No, of course not. What kind of a fool do you think I am? And I’ve already told you that Gregory never left London that day.”
“A fact which you cannot possibly know since you were away yourself. Why did you go down to Lytchett St. Mary, Mrs. Banks?”
Susan drew a deep breath.
“All right, if you must have it! What Cora said at the funeral worried me. I kept on thinking about it. Finally I decided to run down in the car and see her, and ask her what had put the idea into her head. Greg thought it a silly idea,