After the Funeral

Chapter Seventeen
Michael tossed the letter across the table to Rosamund.

"What about it?"

"Oh, we'll go. Don't you think so?"

Michael said slowly:

"It might be as well."

"There might be some jewellery... Of course all the things in the house are quite hideous - stuffed birds and wax flowers - ugh!"

"Yes. Bit of a mausoleum. As a matter of fact I'd like to make a sketch or two - particularly in that drawing-room. The mantelpiece, for instance, and that very odd shaped couch. They'd be just right for The Baronet's Progress - if we revive it."

He got up and looked at his watch.

"That reminds me. I must go round and see Rosenheim. Don't expect me until rather late this evening. I'm dining with Oscar and we're going into the question of taking up that option and how it fits in with the American offer."

"Darling Oscar. He'll be pleased to see you after all this time. Give him my love."

Michael looked at her sharply. He no longer smiled and his face had an alert predatory look.

"What do you mean - after all this time? Anyone would think I hadn't seen him for months."

"Well, you haven't, have you?" murmured Rosamund.

"Yes, I have. We lunched together only a week ago."

"How funny. He must have forgotten about it. He rang up yesterday and said he hadn't seen you since the first night of Tilly Looks West."

"The old fool must be off his head."

Michael laughed. Rosamund, her eyes wide and blue, looked at him without emotion.

"You think I'm a fool, don't you, Mick?"

Michael protested.

"Darling, of course I don't."

"Yes, you do. But I'm not an absolute nitwit. You didn't go near Oscar that day. I know where you did go."

"Rosamund darling - what do you mean?"

"I mean I know where you really were..."

Michael, his attractive face uncertain, stared at his wife. She stared back at him, placid, unruffled.

How very disconcerting, he suddenly thought, a really empty stare could be.

He said rather unsuccessfully:

"I don't know what you're driving at..."

"I just meant it's rather silly, telling me a lot of lies."

"Look here, Rosamund -"

He had started to bluster - but he stopped, taken aback as his wife said softly:

"We do want to take up this option and put this play on, don't we?"

"Want to? It's the part I've always dreamed must exist somewhere."

"Yes - that's what I mean."

"Just what do you mean?"

"Well - it's worth a good deal, isn't it? But one mustn't take too many risks."

He stared at her and said slowly:

"It's your money - I know that. If you don't want to risk it -"

"It's our money, darling." Rosamund stressed it. "I think that's rather important."

"Listen, darling. The part of Eileen - it would bear writing up."

Rosamund smiled.

"I don't think - really - I want to play it."

"My dear girl." Michael was aghast. "What's come over you?"

"Nothing."

"Yes, there is, you've been different lately - moody - nervous, what is it?"

"Nothing. I only want you to be - careful, Mick."

"Careful about what? I'm always careful."

"No, I don't think you are. You alway think you can get away with things and that everyone will believe whatever you want them to. You were stupid about Oscar that day."

Michael flushed angrily.

"And what about you? You said you were going shopping with Jane. You didn't. Jane's in America, has been for weeks."

"Yes," said Rosamund. "That was stupid, too. I really just went for a walk in Regent's Park."

Michael looked at her curiously.

"Regent's Park? You never went for a walk in Regent's Park in your life. What's it all about? Have you got a boy friend? You may say what you like, Rosamund, you have been different lately. Why?"

"I've been - thinking about things. About what to do..."

Michael came round the table to her in a satisfying spontaneous rush. His voice held fervour as he cried:

"Darling - you know I love you madly!"

She responded satisfactorily to the embrace, but as they drew apart he was struck again disagreeably by the odd calculation in those beautiful eyes.

"Whatever I'd done, you'd always forgive me, wouldn't you?" he demanded.

"I suppose so," said Rosamund vaguely. "That's not the point. You see, it's all different now. We've got to think and plan."

"Think and plan what?"

Rosamund, frowning, said:

"Things aren't over when you've done them. It's really a sort of beginning and then one's got to arrange what to do next, and what's important and what is not."

"Rosamund..."

She sat, her face perplexed, her wide gaze on a middle distance in which Michael, apparently, did not feature.

At the third repetition of her name, she started slightly and came out of her reverie.

"What did you say?"

"I asked you what you were thinking about..."

"Oh? Oh yes, I was wondering if I'd go down to - what is it? - Lytchett St Mary, and see that Miss Somebody - the one who was with Aunt Cora."

"But why?"

"Well, she'll be going away soon, won't she? To relatives or someone. I don't think we ought to let her go away until we've asked her."

"Asked her what?"

"Asked her who killed Aunt Cora."

Michael stared.

"You mean - you think she knows?"

Rosamund said rather absently:

"Oh yes, I expect so... She lived there, you see."

"But she'd have told the police."

"Oh, I don't mean she knows that way - I just mean that she's probably quite sure. Because of what Uncle Richard said when he went down there. He did go down there, you know, Susan told me so."

"But she wouldn't have heard what he said."

"Oh yes, she would, darling." Rosamund sounded like someone arguing with an unreasonable child.

"Nonsense, I can hardly see old Richard Abernethie discussing his suspicions of his family before an outsider."

"Well, of course. She'd have heard it through the door."

"Eavesdropping, you mean?"

"I expect so - in fact I'm sure. It must be so deadly dull shut up, two women in a cottage and nothing ever happening except washing up and the sink and putting the cat out and things like that. Of course she listened and read letters - anyone would."

Michael looked at her with something faintly approaching dismay.

"Would you?" he demanded bluntly.

"I wouldn't go and be a companion in the country." Rosamund shuddered. "I'd rather die."

"I meant - would you read letters and - and all that?"

Rosamund said calmly:

"If I wanted to know, yes. Everybody does, don't you think so?"

The limpid gaze met his.

"One just wants to know," said Rosamund. "One doesn't want to do anything about it. I expect that's how she feels - Miss Gilchrist, I mean. But I'm certain she knows."

Michael said in a stifled voice:

"Rosamund, who do you think killed Cora? And old Richard?"

Once again that limpid blue gaze met his.

"Darling - don't be absurd... You know as well as I do. But it's much, much better never to mention it. So we won't."