After the Funeral

Chapter Twenty-one
It was not until nearly an hour later that Mr Entwhistle, after a great deal of conversation with supervisors and others, found himself at last speaking to Hercule Poirot.

"Thank heaven!" said Mr Entwhistle with pardonable exasperation.

"The Exchange seems to have had the greatest difficulty in getting the number."

"That is not surprising. The receiver was off the hook."

There was a grim quality in Poirot's voice which carried through to the listener.

Mr Entwhistle said sharply:

"Has something happened?"

"Yes. Mrs Leo Abernethie was found by the housemaid about twenty minutes ago lying by the telephone in the study. She was unconscious. A serious concussion."

"Do you mean she was struck on the head?"

"I think so. It is just possible that she fell and struck her head on a marble doorstop, but me I do not think so, and the doctor, he does not think so either."

"She was telephoning to me at the time. I wondered when we were cut off so suddenly.

"So it was to you she was telephoning? What did she say?"

"She mentioned to me some time ago that on the occasion when Cora Lansquenet suggested her brother had been murdered, she herself had a feeling of something being wrong - odd - she did not quite know how to put it - unfortunately she could not remember why she had that impression."

"And suddenly, she did remember?"

"Yes."

"And rang you up to tell you?"

"Yes."

"Eh bien?"

"There's no eh bien about it," said Mr Entwhistle testily. "She started to tell me, but was interrupted."

"How much had she said?"

"Nothing pertinent."

"You will excuse me, mon ami, but I am the judge of that, not you. What exactly did she say?"

"She reminded me that I had asked her to let me know at once if she remembered what it was that had struck her as peculiar. She said she had remembered - but that it 'didn't make sense.'

"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 apologise, 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 would 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 to see her."

Mr Entwhistle sighed.

"You relieve my mind! She might have been in danger."

"She assuredly would have been in danger!"

M 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 coffee pot. 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," said Poirot, clapping him on the shoulder. "All will yet be well. Would it be too much trouble to serve me a cup of coffee in my bedroom?"

"Certainly, sir. I will send Janet up with it, sir."

Lanscombe looked disapprovingly at Hercule Poirot's back as the latter climbed the stairs. Poirot was attired in an exotic silk dressing- gown with a pattern of triangles and squares.

"Foreigners!" thought Lanscombe bitterly. "Foreigners in the house!

And Mrs Leo with concussion! I don't know what we're coming to. Nothing's the same since Mr Richard died."

Hercule Poirot was dressed by the time he received his coffee from Janet. His murmurs of sympathy were well received, since he stressed the shock her discovery must have given her.

"Yes, indeed, sir, what I felt when I opened the door of the study and came in with the Hoover and saw Mrs Leo lying there I never shall forget. There she lay - and I made sure she was dead. She must have been taken faint as she stood at the phone - and fancy her being up at that time in the morning! I've never known her do such a thing before."

"Fancy, indeed!" He added casually: "No one else was up, I suppose?"

"As it happens, sir, Mrs Timothy was up and about. She's a very early riser always - often goes for a walk before breakfast."

"She is of the generation that rises early," said Poirot nodding his head. "The younger ones, now - they do not get up so early?"

"No, indeed, sir, all fast asleep when I brought them their tea - and very late I was, too, what with the shock and getting the doctor to come and having to have a cup first to steady myself."

She went off and Poirot reflected on what she had said.

Maude Abernethie had been up and about, and the younger generation had been in bed - but that, Poirot reflected, meant nothing at all. Anyone could have heard Helen's door open and close, and have followed her down to listen - and would afterwards have made, a point of being fast asleep in bed.

"But if I am right," thought Poirot. "And after all, it is natural to me to be right - it is a habit I have! - then there is no need to go into who was here and who was there. First, I must seek a proof where I have deduced the proof may be. And then - I make my little speech. And I sit back and see what happens...

As soon as Janet had left the room, Poirot drained his coffee cup, put on his overcoat and his hat, left his room, ran nimbly down the back stairs and left the house by the side door. He walked briskly the quarter-mile to the post office where he demanded a trunk call. Presently he was once more speaking to Mr Entwhistle.

"Yes, it is I yet again! Pay no attention to the commission with which I entrusted you. C'etait une blague! Someone was listening. Now, mon viex, to the real commission. You must, as I said, take a train. But not to Bury St Edmunds. I want you to proceed to the house of Mr Timothy Abernethie."

"But Timothy and Maude are at Enderby."

"Exactly. There is no one in the house but a woman by the name of Jones who has been persuaded by the offer of considerable largesse to guard the house whilst they are absent. What I want you to do is to take something out of that house!"

"My dear Poirot! I really can't stoop to burglary!"

"It will not seem like burglary. You will say to the excellent Mrs Jones who knows you, that you have been asked by Mr or Mrs, Abernethie to fetch this particular object and take it to London. She will not suspect anything amiss."

"No, no, probably not. But I'don't like it." Mr Entwhistle sounded most reluctant. "Why can't you go and get whatever it is yourself."

"Because, my friend, I should be a stranger of foreign appearance and as such a suspicious character, and Mrs Jones would at once raise the difficulties! With you, she will not."

"No, no - I see that. But what on earth are Timothy and Maude going to think when they hear about it? I have known them for forty odd years."

"And you knew Richard Abernethie for that time also! And you knew Cora Lansquenet when she was a little girl!"

In a martyred voice Mr Entwhistle asked:

"You're sure this is really necessary, Poirot?"

"The old question they asked in the wartime on the posters. Is your journey really necessary? I say to you, it is necessary. It is vital!"

"And what is this object I've got to get hold of?"

Poirot told him.

"But really, Poirot, I don't see -"

"It is not necessary for you to see. I am doing the seeing."

"And what do you want me to do with the damned thing?"

"You will take it to London, to an address in Elm Park Gardens. If you have a pencil, note it down."

Having done so, Mr Entwhistle said, still in his martyred voice:

"I hope you know what you are doing, Poirot?"

He sounded very doubtful - but Poirot's reply was not doubtful at all.

"Of course I know what I am doing. We are nearing the end."

Mr Entwhistle sighed:

"If we could only guess what Helen was going to tell me."

"No need to guess. I know."

"You know? But my dear Poirot -"

"Explanations must wait. But let me assure you of this. I know what Helen Abernethie saw when she looked in her mirror."

II

Breakfast had been an uneasy meal. Neither Rosamund nor Timothy had appeared, but the others were there and had talked in rather subdued tones and eaten a little less than they normally would have done.

George was the first one to recover his spirits. His temperament was mercurial and optimistic.

"I expect Aunt Helen will be all right," he said. "Doctors always like to pull a long face. After all, what's concussion? Often clears up completely in a couple of days."

"A woman I knew had concussion during the war," said Miss Gilchrist conversationally. "A brick or something hit her as she was walking down Tottenham Court Road - it was during fly bomb time - and she never felt anything at all. Just went on with what she was doing - and collapsed in a tram to Liverpool twelve hours later. And would you believe it, she had no recollection at all of going to the station and catching the train or anything. She just couldn't understand it when she woke up in hospital. She was there for nearly three weeks."

"What I can't make out," said Susan, "is what Helen was doing telephoning at that unearthly hour, and who she was telephoning to?"

"Felt ill," said Maude with decision. "Probably woke up feeling queer and came down to ring up the doctor. Then had a giddy fit and fell. That's the only thing that makes sense."

"Bad luck hitting her head on that doorstop," said Michael. "If she'd just pitched over on to that thick pile carpet she'd have been all right."

The door opened and Rosamund came in, frowning.

"I can't find those wax flowers, she said. "I mean the ones that were standing on the malachite table the day of Uncle Richard's funeral." She looked accusingly at Susan. "You haven't taken them?"

"Of course I haven't! Really, Rosamund, you're not still thinking about malachite tables with poor old Helen carted off to hospital with concussion?"

"I don't see why I shouldn't think about them. If you've got concussion you don't know what's happening and it doesn't matter to you. We can't do anything for Aunt Helen, and Michael and I have got to get back to London by tomorrow lunch-time because we're seeing Jackie Lygo about opening dates for The Baronet's Progress. So I'd like to fix up definitely about the table. But I'd like to have a look at those wax flowers again. There's a kind of Chinese vase on the table now - nice - but not nearly so period. I do wonder where they are - perhaps Lanscombe knows."

Lanscombe had just looked in to see if they had finished breakfast.

"We're all through, Lanscombe," said George getting up. "What's happened to our foreign friend?"

"He is having his coffee and toast served upstairs, sir."

"Petit dejeuner for NARCO."

"Lanscombe, do you know where those wax flowers are that used to be on that green table in the drawing-room?" asked Rosamund.

"I understand Mrs Leo had an accident with them, ma'am. She was going to have a new glass shade made, but I don't think she has seen about it yet."

"Then where is the thing?"

"It would probably be in the cupboard behind the staircase, ma'am. That is where things are usually placed when awaiting repair. Shall I ascertain for you?"

"I'll go and look myself. Come with me, Michael sweetie. It's dark there, and I'm not going in any dark corners by myself after what happened to Aunt Helen."

Everybody showed a sharp reaction. Maude demanded in her deep voice:

"What do you mean, Rosamund?"

"Well, she was coshed by someone, wasn't she?"

Gregory Banks said sharply:

"She was taken suddenly faint and fell."

Rosamund laughed.

"Did she tell you so? Don't be silly, Greg, of course she was coshed."

George said sharply:

"You shouldn't say things like that, Rosamund."

"Nonsense," said Rosamund. "She must have been. I mean, it all adds up. A detective in the house looking for clues, and Uncle Richard poisoned, and Aunt Cora killed with a hatchet, and Miss Gilchrist given poisoned wedding cake, and now Aunt Helen struck down with a blunt instrument. You'll see, it will go on like that. One after another of us will be killed and the one that's left will be It - the murderer, I mean. But it's not going to be me - who's killed, I mean."

"And why should anyone want to kill you, beautiful Rosamund?" asked George lightly.

Rosamund opened her eyes very wide.

"Oh," she said. "Because I know too much, of course."

"What do you know?" Maude Abernethie and Gregory Banks spoke almost in unison.

Rosamund gave her vacant and angelic smile.

"Wouldn't you all like to know?" she said agreeably. "Come on, Michael."