“How long was he here?”
“He stayed for lunch. Beef olives, I made. Fortunately it was the day the butcher called.”
Miss Gilchrist’s memory seemed to be almost wholly culinary.
“They seemed to be getting on well together?”
“Oh, yes.”
Susan paused and then said:
“Was Aunt Cora surprised when—he died?”
“Oh yes, it was quite sudden, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was sudden… I mean—she was surprised. He hadn’t given her any indication how ill he was.”
“Oh—I see what you mean.” Miss Gilchrist paused a moment. “No, no, I think perhaps you are right. She did say that he had got very old— I think she said senile….”
“But you didn’t think he was senile?”
“Well, not to look at. But I didn’t talk to him much, naturally I left them alone together.”
Susan looked at Miss Gilchrist speculatively. Was Miss Gilchrist the kind of woman who listened at doors? She was honest, Susan felt sure, she wouldn’t ever pilfer, or cheat over the housekeeping, or open letters. But inquisitiveness can drape itself in a mantle of rectitude. Miss Gilchrist might have found it necessary to garden near an open window, or to dust the hall… That would be within the permitted lengths. And then, of course, she could not have helped hearing something….
“You didn’t hear any of their conversation?” Susan asked.
Too abrupt. Miss Gilchrist flushed angrily.
“No, indeed, Mrs. Banks. It has never been my custom to listen at doors!”
That means she does, thought Susan, otherwise she’d just say “No.”
Aloud she said: “I’m so sorry, Miss Gilchrist. I didn’t mean it that way. But sometimes, in these small flimsily built cottages, one simply can’t help overhearing nearly everything that goes on, and now that they are both dead, it’s really rather important to the family to know just what was said at that meeting between them.”
The cottage was anything but flimsily built—it dated from a sturdier era of building, but Miss Gilchrist accepted the bait, and rose to the suggestion held out.
“Of course what you say is quite true, Mrs. Banks—this is a very small place and I do appreciate that you would want to know what passed between them, but really I’m afraid I can’t help very much. I think they were talking about Mr. Abernethie’s health—and certain—well, fancies he had. He didn’t look it, but he must have been a sick man and as is so often the case, he put his illhealth down to outside agencies. A common symptom, I believe. My aunt—”
Miss Gilchrist described her aunt.
Susan, like Mr. Entwhistle, sidetracked the aunt.
“Yes,” she said. “That is just what we thought. My uncle’s servants were all very attached to him and naturally they are upset by his thinking—” She paused.
“Oh, of course! Servants are very touchy about anything of that kind. I remember that my aunt—”
Again Susan interrupted.
“It was the servants he suspected, I suppose? Of poisoning him, I mean?”
“I don’t know… I—really—”
Susan noted her confusion.
“It wasn’t the servants. Was it one particular person?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Banks. Really I don’t know—”
But her eye avoided Susan’s. Susan thought to herself that Miss Gilchrist knew more than she was willing to admit.
It was possible that Miss Gilchrist knew a good deal….
Deciding not to press the point for the moment, Susan said:
“What are your own plans for the future, Miss Gilchrist?”
“Well, really, I was going to speak to you about that, Mrs. Banks. I told Mr. Entwhistle I would be willing to stay on until everything here was cleared up.”
“I know. I’m very grateful.”
“And I wanted to ask you how long that was likely to be, because, of course, I must start looking about for another post.”
Susan considered.
“There’s really not very much to be done here. In a couple of days I can get things sorted out and notify the auctioneer.”
“You have decided to sell up everything, then?”
“Yes. I don’t suppose there will be any difficulty in letting the cottage?”
“Oh, no—people will queue up for it, I’m sure. There are so few cottages to rent. One nearly always has to buy.”
“So it’s all very simple, you see.” Susan hesitated a moment before saying, “I wanted to tell you—that I hope you’ll accept three months’ salary.”
“That’s very generous of you, I’m sure, Mrs. Banks. I do appreciate it. And you would be prepared to—I mean I could ask you—if necessary—to—to recommend me? To say that I had been with a relation of yours and that I had—proved satisfactory?”
“Oh, of course.”
“I don’t know whether I ought to ask it.” Miss Gilchrist’s hands began to shake and she tried to steady her voice. “But would it be possible not to—to mention the circumstances—or even the name?”
Susan stared.
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s because you haven’t thought, Mrs. Banks. It’s murder. A murder that’s been in the papers and that everybody has read about. Don’t you see? People might think, ‘Two women living together, and one of them is killed—and perhaps the companion did it.’ Don’t you see, Mrs. Banks? I’m sure that if I was looking for someone, I’d—well, I’d think twice before engaging myself—if you understand what I mean. Because one never knows! It’s been worrying me dreadfully, Mrs. Banks; I’ve been lying awake at night thinking that perhaps I’ll never get another job—not of this kind. And what else is there that I can do?”
The question came out with unconscious pathos. Susan felt suddenly stricken. She realized the desperation of this pleasant-spoken commonplace woman who was dependent for existence on the fears and whims of employers. And there was a lot of truth in what Miss Gilchrist had said. You wouldn’t, if you could help it, engage a woman to share domestic intimacy who had figured, however innocently, in a murder case.
Susan said: “But if they find the man who did it—”
“Oh then, of course, it will be quite all right. But will they find him? I don’t think, myself, the police have the least idea. And if he’s not caught—well, that leaves me as—as not quite the most likely person, but as a person who could have done it.”
Susan nodded thoughtfully. It was true that Miss Gilchrist did not benefit from Cora Lansquenet’s death—but who was to know that? And besides, there were so many tales—ugly tales—of animosity arising between women who lived together—strange pathological motives for sudden violence. Someone who had not known them might imagine that Cora Lansquenet and Miss Gilchrist had lived on those terms….
Susan spoke with her usual decision.
“Don’t worry, Miss Gilchrist,” she said, speaking briskly and cheerfully. “I’m sure I can find you a post amongst my friends. There won’t be the least difficulty.”
“I’m afraid,” said Miss Gilchrist, regaining some of her customary manner, “that I couldn’t undertake any really rough work. Just a little plain cooking and housework—”
The telephone rang and Miss Gilchrist jumped.
“Dear me, I wonder who that can be.”
“I expect it’s my husband,” said Susan, jumping up. “He said he’d ring me tonight.”
She went to the telephone.
“Yes?—yes, this is Mrs. Banks speaking personally…” There was a pause and then her voice changed. It became soft and warm. “Hallo, darling—yes, it’s me… Oh, quite well… Murder by someone unknown…the usual thing… Only Mr. Entwhistle…What?…it’s difficult to say, but I think so… Yes, just as we thought… Absolutely according to plan… I shall sell the stuff. There’s nothing we’d want… Not for a day or two… Absolutely frightful… Don’t fuss. I know what I’m doing… Greg, you didn’t… You we
re careful to… No, it’s nothing. Nothing at all. Goodnight, darling.”
She rang off. The nearness of Miss Gilchrist had hampered her a little. Miss Gilchrist could probably hear from the kitchen, where she had tactfully retired, exactly what went on. There were things she had wanted to ask Greg, but she hadn’t liked to.
She stood by the telephone, frowning abstractedly. Then suddenly an idea came to her.
“Of course,” she murmured. “Just the thing.”
Lifting the receiver she asked for Trunk Enquiry.
Some quarter of an hour later a weary voice from the exchange was saying:
“I’m afraid there’s no reply.”
“Please go on ringing them.”
Susan spoke autocratically. She listened to the far-off buzzing of a telephone bell. Then, suddenly it was interrupted and a man’s voice, peevish and slightly indignant, said:
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
“Uncle Timothy?”
“What’s that? I can’t hear you.”
“Uncle Timothy? I’m Susan Banks.”
“Susan who?”
“Banks. Formerly Abernethie. Your niece Susan.”
“Oh, you’re Susan, are you? What’s the matter? What are you ringing up for at this time of night?”
“It’s quite early still.”
“It isn’t. I was in bed.”
“You must go to bed very early. How’s Aunt Maude?”
“Is that all you rang up to ask? Your aunt’s in a good deal of pain and she can’t do a thing. Not a thing. She’s helpless. We’re in a nice mess, I can tell you. That fool of a doctor says he can’t even get a nurse. He wanted to cart Maude off to hospital. I stood out against that. He’s trying to get hold of someone for us. I can’t do anything— I daren’t even try. There’s a fool from the village staying in the house tonight—but she’s murmuring about getting back to her husband. Don’t know what we’re going to do.”
“That’s what I rang up about. Would you like Miss Gilchrist?”
“Who’s she? Never heard of her.”
“Aunt Cora’s companion. She’s very nice and capable.”
“Can she cook?”
“Yes, she cooks very well, and she could look after Aunt Maude.”
“That’s all very well, but when could she come? Here I am, all on my own, with only these idiots of village women popping in and out at odd hours, and it’s not good for me. My heart’s playing me up.”
“I’ll arrange for her to get off to you as soon as possible. The day after tomorrow, perhaps?”
“Well, thanks very much,” said the voice rather grudgingly. “You’re a good girl, Susan—er—thank you.”
Susan rang off and went into the kitchen.
“Would you be willing to go up to Yorkshire and look after my aunt? She fell and broke her ankle and my uncle is quite useless. He’s a bit of a pest but Aunt Maude is a very good sort. They have help in from the village, but you could cook and look after Aunt Maude.”
Miss Gilchrist dropped the coffee pot in her agitation.
“Oh, thank you, thank you—that really is kind. I think I can say of myself that I am really good in the sickroom, and I’m sure I can manage your uncle and cook him nice little meals. It’s really very kind of you, Mrs. Banks, and I do appreciate it.”
Eleven
I
Susan lay in bed and waited for sleep to come. It had been a long day and she was tired. She had been quite sure that she would go to sleep at once. She never had any difficulty in going to sleep. And yet here she lay, hour after hour, wide awake, her mind racing.
She had said she did not mind sleeping in this room, in this bed. This bed where Cora Abernethie—
No, no she must put all that out of her mind. She had always prided herself on having no nerves. Why think of that afternoon less than a week ago? Think ahead—the future. Her future and Greg’s. Those premises in Cardigan Street—just what they wanted. The business on the ground floor and a charming flat upstairs. The room out at the back a laboratory for Greg. For purposes of income tax it would be an excellent setup. Greg would get calm and well again. There would be no more of those alarming brainstorms. The times when he looked at her without seeming to know who she was. Once or twice she’d been quite frightened… And old Mr. Cole—he’d hinted—threatened: “If this happens again…” And it might have happened again—it would have happened again. If Uncle Richard hadn’t died just when he did….
Uncle Richard—but really why look at it like that? He’d nothing to live for. Old and tired and ill. His son dead. It was a mercy really. To die in his sleep quietly like that. Quietly…in his sleep… If only she could sleep. It was so stupid lying awake hour after hour…hearing the furniture creak, and the rustling of trees and bushes outside the window and the occasional queer melancholy hoot—an owl, she supposed. How sinister the country was, somehow. So different from the big noisy indifferent town. One felt so safe there—surrounded by people—never alone. Whereas here….
Houses where a murder had been committed were sometimes haunted. Perhaps this cottage would come to be known as the haunted cottage. Haunted by the spirit of Cora Lansquenet… Aunt Cora. Odd, really, how ever since she had arrived she had felt as though Aunt Cora were quite close to her…within reach. All nerves and fancy. Cora Lansquenet was dead, tomorrow she would be buried. There was no one in the cottage except Susan herself and Miss Gilchrist. Then why did she feel that there was someone in this room, someone close beside her….
She had lain on this bed when the hatchet fell… Lying there trustingly asleep… Knowing nothing till the hatchet fell… And now she wouldn’t let Susan sleep….
The furniture creaked again…was that a stealthy step? Susan switched on the light. Nothing. Nerves, nothing but nerves. Relax…close your eyes….
Surely that was a groan—a groan or a faint moan… Someone in pain—someone dying….
“I mustn’t imagine things, I mustn’t, I mustn’t,” Susan whispered to herself.
Death was the end—there was no existence after death. Under no circumstances could anyone come back. Or was she reliving a scene from the past—a dying woman groaning….
There it was again…stronger…someone groaning in acute pain….
But—this was real. Once again Susan switched on the light, sat up in bed and listened. The groans were real groans and she was hearing them through the wall. They came from the room next door.
Susan jumped out of bed, flung on a dressing gown and crossed to the door. She went out on to the landing, tapped for a moment on Miss Gilchrist’s door and then went in. Miss Gilchrist’s light was on. She was sitting up in bed. She looked ghastly. Her face was distorted with pain.
“Miss Gilchrist, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”
“Yes. I don’t know what—I—” she tried to get out of bed, was seized with a fit of vomiting and then collapsed back on the pillows.
She murmured: “Please—ring up doctor. Must have eaten something….”
“I’ll get you some bicarbonate. We can get the doctor in the morning if you’re no better.”
Miss Gilchrist shook her head.
“No, get the doctor now. I— I feel dreadful.”
“Do you know his number? Or shall I look in the book?”
Miss Gilchrist gave her the number. She was interrupted by another fit of retching.
Susan’s call was answered by a sleepy male voice.
“Who? Gilchrist? In Mead’s Lane. Yes, I know. I’ll be right along.”
He was as good as his word. Ten minutes later Susan heard his car draw up outside and she went to open the door to him.
She explained the case and she took him upstairs. “I think,” she said, “she must have eaten something that disagreed with her. But she seems pretty bad.”
The doctor had had the air of one keeping his temper in leash and who has had some experience of being called out unnecessarily on more than one occasion. But as soon as he examin
ed the moaning woman his manner changed. He gave various curt orders to Susan and presently came down and telephoned. Then he joined Susan in the sitting room.
“I’ve sent for an ambulance. Must get her into hospital.”
“She’s really bad then?”
“Yes. I’ve given her a shot of morphia to ease the pain. But it looks—” He broke off. “What’s she eaten?”
“We had macaroni au gratin for supper and a custard pudding. Coffee afterwards.”
“You have the same things?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re all right? No pain or discomfort?”
“No.”
“She’s taken nothing else? No tinned fish? Or sausages?”
“No. We had lunch at the King’s Arms—after the inquest.”
“Yes, of course. You’re Mrs. Lansquenet’s niece?”
“Yes.”
“That was a nasty business. Hope they catch the man who did it.”
“Yes, indeed.”
The ambulance came. Miss Gilchrist was taken away and the doctor went with her. He told Susan he would ring her up in the morning. When he had left she went upstairs to bed.
This time she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
II
The funeral was well-attended. Most of the village had turned out. Susan and Mr. Entwhistle were the only mourners, but various wreaths had been sent by the other members of the family. Mr. Entwhistle asked where Miss Gilchrist was, and Susan explained the circumstances in a hurried whisper. Mr. Entwhistle raised his eyebrows.
“Rather an odd occurrence?”
“Oh, she’s better this morning. They rang up from the hospital. People do get these bilious turns. Some make more fuss than others.”
Mr. Entwhistle said no more. He was returning to London immediately after the funeral.
Susan went back to the cottage. She found some eggs and made herself an omelette. Then she went up to Cora’s room and started to sort through the dead woman’s things.