After the Funeral

Chapter Twenty
There was a moment of extraordinary tenseness. Poirot felt it, though he himself did not remove his eyes from Rosamund's lovely placid face.

He said with a little bow, "You have great perspicacity, Madame."

"Not really," said Rosamund. "You were pointed out to me once in a restaurant. I remembered."

"But you have not mentioned it - until now?"

"I thought it would be more fun not to," said Rosamund

Michael said in an imperfectly controlled voice:

"My - dear girl."

Poirot shifted his gaze then to look at him.

Michael was angry. Angry and something else - apprehensive?

Poirot's eyes went slowly round all the faces. Susan's, angry and watchful; Gregory's dead and shut in; Miss Gilchrist's, foolish, her mouth wide open; George, wary; Helen, dismayed and nervous...

All those expressions were normal ones under the circumstances. He wished he could have seen their faces a split second earlier, when the words "a detective" fell from Rosamund's lips. For now, inevitably, it could not be quite the same...

He squared his shoulders and bowed to them. His language and his accent became less foreign.

"Yes," he said. "I am a detective."

George Crossfield said, the white dints showing once more each side of his nose, "Who sent you here?"

"I was commissioned to inquire into the circumstances of Richard Abernethie's death."

"By whom?"

"For the moment, that does not concern you. But it would be an advantage, would it not, if you could be assured beyond any possible doubt that Richard Abernethie died a natural death?"

"Of course he died a natural death. Who says anything else?"

"Cora Lansquenet said so. And Cora Lansquenet is dead herself."

A little wave of uneasiness seemed to sigh through the room like an evil breeze.

"She said it here - in this room," said Susan. "But I didn't really think -"

"Didn't you, Susan?" George Crossfield turned his sardonic glance upon her. "Why pretend any more? You won't take M. Pontarlier in?"

"We all thought so really," said Rosamund.

"And his name isn't Pontarlier it's Hercules something."

"Hercule Poirot - at your service."

Poirot bowed.

There were no gasps of astonishment or of apprehension. His name seemed to mean nothing at all to them.

They were less alarmed by it than they had been by the single word

"detective."

"May I ask what conclusions you have come to?" asked George.

"He won't tell you, darling," said Rosamund. "Or if he does tell you, what he says won't be true."

Alone of the company she appeared to be amused.

Hercule Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.

II

Hercule Poirot did not sleep well that night. He was perturbed, and he was not quite sure why he was perturbed. Elusive snatches of conversation, various glances, odd movements - all seemed fraught with a tantalising significance in the loneliness of the night. He was on the threshold of sleep, but sleep would not come. Just as he was about to drop off, something flashed into his mind and woke him up again. Paint - Timothy and paint. Oil paint - the smell of oil paint - connected somehow with Mr Entwhistle. Paint and Cora. Cora's paintings - picture postcards... Cora was deceitful about her painting... No, back to Mr Entwhistle - something Mr Entwhistle had said - or was it Lanscombe? A nun who came to the house on the day that Richard Abernethie died. A nun with a moustache. A nun at Stansfield Grange - and at Lytchett St Mary. Altogether too many nuns! Rosamund looking glamorous as a nun on the stage. Rosamund - saying that he was a detective - and everyone staring at her when she said it. That was the way that they must all have stared at Cora that day when she said "But he was murdered, wasn't he?" What was it Helen Abernethie had felt to be "wrong" on that occasion? Helen Abernethie - leaving the past behind - going to Cyprus... Helen dropping the wax flowers with a crash when he had said - what was it he had said? He couldn't quite remember...

He slept then, and as he slept he dreamed...

He dreamed of the green malachite table. On it was the glass-covered stand of wax flowers - only the whole thing had been painted over with thick crimson oil paint. Paint the colour of blood. He could smell the paint, and Timothy was groaning, was saying "I'm dying - dying... this is the end." And Maude, standing by, tall and stern, with a large knife in her hand was echoing him, saying "Yes, it's the end..." The end - a deathbed, with candles and a nun praying. If he could just see the nun's face, he would know...

Hercule Poirot woke up - and he did know!

Yes, it was the end...

Though there was still a long way to go.

He sorted out the various bits of the mosaic.

Mr Entwhistle, the smell of paint, Timothy's house and something that must be in it - or might be in it... the wax flowers... Helen... Broken glass...

III

Helen Abernethie, in her room, took some time in going to bed. She was thinking.

Sitting in front of her dressing-table, she stared at herself unseeingly in the glass.

She had been forced into having Hercule Poirot in the house. She had not wanted it. But Mr Entwhistle had made it hard for her to refuse. And now the whole thing had come out into the open. No question any more of letting Richard Abernethie lie quiet in his grave. All started by those few words of Cora's...

That day after the funeral... How had they all looked, she wondered?

How had they looked to Cora? How had she herself looked?

What was it George had said? About seeing oneself?

There was some quotation, too. To see ourselves as others see us... As others see us.

The eyes that were staring into the glass unseeingly suddenly focused. She was seeing herself - but not really herself - not herself as others saw her - not as Cora had seen her that day.

Her right - no, her left eyebrow was arched a little higher than the right. The mouth? No, the curve of the mouth was symmetrical. If she met herself she would surely not see much difference from this mirror image. Not like Cora.

Cora - the picture came quite clearly... Cora, on the day of the funeral, her head tilted sideways - asking her question - looking at Helen...

Suddenly Helen raised her hands to her face. She said to herself. "It doesn't make sense... it can't make sense...."

IV

Miss Entwhistle was aroused from a delightful dream in which she was playing Piquet with Queen Mary, by the ringing of the telephone.

She tried to ignore it - but it persisted. Sleepily she raised her head from the pillow and looked at the watch beside her bed. Five minutes to seven - who on earth could be ringing up at that hour? It must be a wrong number.

The irritating ding-ding continued. Miss Entwhistle sighed, snatched up a dressing-gown and marched into the sitting-room.

"This is Kensington 675498," she said with asperity as she picked up the receiver.

"This is Mrs Abernethie speaking. Mrs Leo Abernethie. Can I speak to Mr Entwhistle?"

"Oh, good morning, Mrs Abernethie." The "good morning" was not cordial. "This is Miss Entwhistle. My brother is still asleep I'm afraid. I was asleep myself."

"I'm so sorry," Helen was forced to the apology. "But it's very important that I should speak to your brother at once."

"Wouldn't it do later?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Oh, very well then."

Miss Entwhistle was tart.

She tapped at her brother's door and went in.

"Those Abernethies again!" she said bitterly.

"Eh! The Abernethies?"

"Mrs Leo Abernethie. Ringing up before seven in the morning! Really!"

"Mrs Leo, is it? Dear me. How remarkable. Where is my dressing- gown? Ah, thank you."

Presently he was saying:

"Entwhistle speaking. Is that you, Helen?"

"Yes. I'm terribly sorry to get you out of bed like this. But you did tell me once to ring you up at once if I remembered what it was that struck me as having been wrong somehow on the day of the funeral when Cora electrified us all by suggesting that Richard had been murdered."

"Ah! You have remembered?"

Helen said in a puzzled voice:

"Yes, but it doesn't make sense."

"You must allow me to be the judge of that. Was it something you noticed about one of the people?"

"Yes."

"Tell me."

"It seems absurd." Helen's voice sounded apologetic. "But I'm quite sure of it. It came to me when I was looking at myself in the glass last night. Oh..."

The little startled half cry was succeeded by a sound that came oddly through the wires - a dull heavy sound that Mr Entwhistle couldn't place at all.

He said urgently:

"Hallo - hallo - are you there? Helen, are you there?... Helen..."