After the meal was over, Lanscombe indicated the library for coffee. This was his feeling for niceties. The time had come when business—in other words, The Will—would be discussed. The library had the proper atmosphere for that, with its bookshelves and its heavy red velvet curtains. He served coffee to them there and then withdrew, closing the door.
After a few desultory remarks, everyone began to look tentatively at Mr. Entwhistle. He responded promptly after glancing at his watch.
“I have to catch the 3:30 train,” he began.
Others, it seemed, also had to catch that train.
“As you know,” said Mr. Entwhistle, “I am the executor of Richard Abernethie’s will—”
He was interrupted.
“I didn’t know,” said Cora Lansquenet brightly. “Are you? Did he leave me anything?”
Not for the first time, Mr. Entwhistle felt that Cora was too apt to speak out of turn.
Bending a repressive glance at her he continued:
“Up to a year ago, Richard Abernethie’s will was very simple. Subject to certain legacies he left everything to his son Mortimer.”
“Poor Mortimer,” said Cora. “I do think all this infantile paralysis is dreadful.”
“Mortimer’s death, coming so suddenly and tragically, was a great blow to Richard. It took him some months to rally from it. I pointed out to him that it might be advisable for him to make new testamentary dispositions.”
Maude Abernethie asked in her deep voice:
“What would have happened if he hadn’t made a new will? Would it—would it all have gone to Timothy—as the next of kin, I mean?”
Mr. Entwhistle opened his mouth to give a disquisition on the subject of next of kin, thought better of it, and said crisply:
“On my advice, Richard decided to make a new will. First of all, however, he decided to get better acquainted with the younger generation.”
“He had us upon appro,” said Susan with a sudden rich laugh. “First George and then Greg and me, and then Rosamund and Michael.”
Gregory Banks said sharply, his thin face flushing:
“I don’t think you ought to put it like that, Susan. On appro, indeed!”
“But that was what it was, wasn’t it, Mr. Entwhistle?”
“Did he leave me anything?” repeated Cora.
Mr. Entwhistle coughed and spoke rather coldly:
“I propose to send you all copies of the will. I can read it to you in full now if you like but its legal phraseology may seem to you rather obscure. Briefly it amounts to this: After certain small bequests and a substantial legacy to Lanscombe to purchase an annuity, the bulk of the estate—a very considerable one—is to be divided into six equal portions. Four of these, after all duties are paid, are to go to Richard’s brother Timothy, his nephew George Crossfield, his niece Susan Banks, and his niece Rosamund Shane. The other two portions are to be held upon trust and the income from them paid to Mrs. Helen Abernethie, the widow of his brother Leo; and to his sister Mrs. Cora Lansquenet, during their lifetime. The capital after their death to be divided between the other four beneficiaries or their issue.”
“That’s very nice!” said Cora Lansquenet with real appreciation. “An income! How much?”
“I—er—can’t say exactly at present. Death duties, of course, will be heavy and—”
“Can’t you give me any idea?”
Mr. Entwhistle realized that Cora must be appeased.
“Possibly somewhere in the neighbourhood of three to four thousand a year.”
“Goody!” said Cora. “I shall go to Capri.”
Helen Abernethie said softly:
“How very kind and generous of Richard. I do appreciate his affection towards me.”
“He was very fond of you,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “Leo was his favourite brother and your visits to him were always much appreciated after Leo died.”
Helen said regretfully:
“I wish I had realized how ill he was—I came up to see him not long before he died, but although I knew he had been ill, I did not think it was serious.”
“It was always serious,” said Mr. Entwhistle. “But he did not want it talked about and I do not believe that anybody expected the end to come as soon as it did. The doctor was quite surprised, I know.”
“‘Suddenly, at his residence’ that’s what it said in the paper,” said Cora, nodding her head. “I wondered then.”
“It was a shock to all of us,” said Maude Abernethie. “It upset poor Timothy dreadfully. So sudden, he kept saying. So sudden.”
“Still, it’s been hushed up very nicely, hasn’t it?” said Cora.
Everybody stared at her and she seemed a little flustered.
“I think you’re all quite right,” she said hurriedly. “Quite right. I mean—it can’t do any good—making it public. Very unpleasant for everybody. It should be kept strictly in the family.”
The faces turned towards her looked even more blank.
Mr. Entwhistle leaned forward:
“Really, Cora, I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.”
Cora Lansquenet looked round at the family in wide-eyed surprise. She tilted her head on one side with a birdlike movement.
“But he was murdered, wasn’t he?” she said.
Three
I
Travelling to London in the corner of a first-class carriage Mr. Entwhistle gave himself up to somewhat uneasy thought over that extraordinary remark made by Cora Lansquenet. Of course Cora was a rather unbalanced and excessively stupid woman, and she had been noted, even as a girl, for the embarrassing manner in which she had blurted out unwelcome truths. At least, he didn’t mean truths—that was quite the wrong word to use. Awkward statements—that was a much better term.
In his mind he went back over the immediate sequence to that unfortunate remark. The combined stare of many startled and disapproving eyes had roused Cora to a sense of the enormity of what she had said.
Maude had exclaimed, “Really, Cora!” George had said, “My dear Aunt Cora.” Somebody else had said, “What do you mean?”
And at once Cora Lansquenet, abashed, and convicted of enormity, had burst into fluttering phrases.
“Oh I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—oh, of course, it was very stupid of me, but I did think from what he said—Oh, of course I know it’s quite all right, but his death was so sudden—please forget that I said anything at all—I didn’t mean to be so stupid—I know I’m always saying the wrong thing.”
And then the momentary upset had died down and there had been a practical discussion about the disposition of the late Richard Abernethie’s personal effects. The house and its contents, Mr. Entwhistle supplemented, would be put up for sale.
Cora’s unfortunate gaffe had been forgotten. After all, Cora had always been, if not subnormal, at any rate embarrassingly näive. She had never had any idea of what should or should not be said. At nineteen it had not mattered so much. The mannerisms of an enfant terrible can persist to then, but an enfant terrible of nearly fifty is decidedly disconcerting. To blurt out unwelcome truths—
Mr. Entwhistle’s train of thought came to an abrupt check. It was the second time that that disturbing word had occurred. Truths. And why was it so disturbing? Because, of course, that had always been at the bottom of the embarrassment that Cora’s outspoken comments had caused. It was because her näive statements had been either true or had contained some grain of truth that they had been so embarrassing!
Although in the plump woman of forty-nine, Mr. Entwhistle had been able to see little resemblance to the gawky girl of earlier days, certain of Cora’s mannerisms had persisted—the slight birdlike twist of the head as she brought out a particularly outrageous remark—a kind of air of pleased expectancy. In just such a way had Cora once commented on the figure of the kitchen maid. “Mollie can hardly get near the kitchen table, her stomach sticks out so. It’s only been like that the last month or two. I wonder why she’s g
etting so fat?”
Cora had been quickly hushed. The Abernethie household was Victorian in tone. The kitchen maid had disappeared from the premises the next day, and after due inquiry the second gardener had been ordered to make an honest woman of her and had been presented with a cottage in which to do so.
Far-off memories—but they had their point….
Mr. Entwhistle examined his uneasiness more closely. What was there in Cora’s ridiculous remarks that had remained to tease his subconscious in this manner? Presently he isolated two phrases. “I did think from what he said—” and “his death was so sudden….”
Mr. Entwhistle examined that last remark first. Yes, Richard’s death could, in a fashion, be considered sudden. Mr. Entwhistle had discussed Richard’s health both with Richard himself and with his doctor. The latter had indicated plainly that a long life could not be expected. If Mr. Abernethie took reasonable care of himself he might live two or even three years. Perhaps longer—but that was unlikely. In any case the doctor had anticipated no collapse in the near future.
Well, the doctor had been wrong—but doctors, as they were the first to admit themselves, could never be sure about the individual reaction of a patient to disease. Cases given up, unexpectedly recovered. Patients on the way to recovery relapsed and died. So much depended on the vitality of the patient. On his own inner urge to live
And Richard Abernethie, though a strong and vigorous man, had had no great incentive to live.
For six months previously his only surviving son, Mortimer, had contracted infantile paralysis and had died within a week. His death had been a shock greatly augmented by the fact that he had been such a particularly strong and vital young man. A keen sportsman, he was also a good athlete and was one of those people of whom it was said that he had never had a day’s illness in his life. He was on the point of becoming engaged to a very charming girl and his father’s hopes for the future were centred in this dearly loved and thoroughly satisfactory son of his.
Instead had come tragedy. And besides the sense of personal loss, the future had held little to stir Richard Abernethie’s interest. One son had died in infancy, the second without issue. He had no grandchildren. There was, in fact, no one of the Abernethie name to come after him, and he was the holder of a vast fortune with wide business interests which he himself still controlled to a certain extent. Who was to succeed to that fortune and to the control of those interests?
That this had worried Richard deeply, Entwhistle knew. His only surviving brother was very much of an invalid. There remained the younger generation. It had been in Richard’s mind, the lawyer thought, though his friend had not actually said so, to choose one definite successor, though minor legacies would probably have been made. Anyway, as Entwhistle knew, within the last six months Richard Abernethie had invited to stay with him, in succession, his nephew George, his niece Susan and her husband, his niece Rosamund and her husband, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Leo Abernethie. It was amongst the first three, so the lawyer thought, that Abernethie had looked for his successor. Helen Abernethie, he thought, had been asked out of personal affection and even possibly as someone to consult, for Richard had always held a high opinion of her good sense and practical judgement. Mr. Entwhistle also remembered that sometime during that six months period Richard had paid a short visit to his brother Timothy.
The net result had been the will which the lawyer now carried in his briefcase. An equable distribution of property. The only conclusion that could be drawn, therefore, was that he had been disappointed both in his nephew, and in his nieces or perhaps in his nieces’ husbands.
As far as Mr. Entwhistle knew, he had not invited his sister, Cora Lansquenet, to visit him—and that brought the lawyer back to that first disturbing phrase that Cora had let slip so incoherently— “but I did think from what he said—”
What had Richard Abernethie said? And when had he said it? If Cora had not been to Enderby, then Richard Abernethie must have visited her at the artistic village in Berkshire where she had a cottage. Or was it something that Richard had said in a letter?
Mr. Entwhistle frowned. Cora, of course, was a very stupid woman. She could easily have misinterpreted a phrase, and twisted its meaning. But he did wonder what the phrase could have been….
There was enough uneasiness in him to make him consider the possibility of approaching Mrs. Lansquenet on the subject. Not too soon. Better not make it seem of importance. But he would like to know just what it was that Richard Abernethie had said to her which had led her to pipe up so briskly with that outrageous question:
“But he was murdered, wasn’t he?”
II
In a third-class carriage, farther along the train, Gregory Banks said to his wife:
“That aunt of yours must be completely bats!”
“Aunt Cora?” Susan was vague. “Oh, yes, I believe she was always a bit simple or something.”
George Crossfield, sitting opposite, said sharply:
“She really ought to be stopped from going about saying things like that. It might put ideas into people’s heads.”
Rosamund Shane, intent on outlining the cupid’s bow of her mouth with lipstick, murmured vaguely:
“I don’t suppose anyone would pay any attention to what a frump like that says. The most peculiar clothes and lashings and lashings of jet—”
“Well, I think it ought to be stopped,” said George.
“All right, darling,” laughed Rosamund, putting away her lipstick and contemplating her image with satisfaction in the mirror. “You stop it.”
Her husband said unexpectedly:
“I think George is right. It’s so easy to set people talking.”
“Well, would it matter?” Rosamund contemplated the question. The cupid’s bow lifted at the corners in a smile. “It might really be rather fun.”
“Fun?” Four voices spoke.
“Having a murder in the family,” said Rosamund. “Thrilling, you know!”
It occurred to that nervous and unhappy young man Gregory Banks that Susan’s cousin, setting aside her attractive exterior, might have some faint points of resemblance to her Aunt Cora. Her next words rather confirmed his impression.
“If he was murdered,” said Rosamund, “who do you think did it?”
Her gaze travelled thoughtfully round the carriage.
“His death has been awfully convenient for all of us,” she said thoughtfully. “Michael and I are absolutely on our beam ends. Mick’s had a really good part offered to him in the Sandbourne show if he can afford to wait for it. Now we’ll be in clover. We’ll be able to back our own show if we want to. As a matter of fact there’s a play with a simply wonderful part—”
Nobody listened to Rosamund’s ecstatic disquisition. Their attention had shifted to their own immediate future.
“Touch and go,” thought George to himself. “Now I can put that money back and nobody will ever know… But it’s been a near shave.”
Gregory closed his eyes as he lay back against the seat. Escape from bondage.
Susan said in her clear rather hard voice, “I’m very sorry, of course, for poor old Uncle Richard. But then he was very old, and Mortimer had died, and he’d nothing to live for and it would have been awful for him to go on as an invalid year after year. Much better for him to pop off suddenly like this with no fuss.”
Her hard confident young eyes softened as they watched her husband’s absorbed face. She adored Greg. She sensed vaguely that Greg cared for her less than she cared for him—but that only strengthened her passion. Greg was hers, she’d do anything for him. Anything at all….
III
Maude Abernethie, changing her dress for dinner at Enderby (for she was staying the night), wondered if she ought to have offered to stay longer to help Helen out with the sorting and clearing of the house. There would be all Richard’s personal things… There might be letters… All important papers, she supposed, had already been taken possession of by Mr.
Entwhistle. And it really was necessary for her to get back to Timothy as soon as possible. He fretted so when she was not there to look after him. She hoped he would be pleased about the will and not annoyed. He had expected, she knew, that most of Richard’s fortune would come to him. After all, he was the only surviving Abernethie. Richard could surely have trusted him to look after the younger generation. Yes, she was afraid Timothy would be annoyed… And that was so bad for his digestion. And really, when he was annoyed, Timothy could become quite unreasonable. There were times when he seemed to lose his sense of proportion… She wondered if she ought to speak to Dr. Barton about it… Those sleeping pills—Timothy had been taking far too many of them lately—he got so angry when she wanted to keep the bottle for him. But they could be dangerous—Dr. Barton had said so—you could get drowsy and forget you’d taken them—and then take more. And then anything might happen! There certainly weren’t as many left in the bottle as there ought to be… Timothy was really very naughty about medicines. He wouldn’t listen to her… He was very difficult sometimes.
She sighed—then brightened. Things were going to be much easier now. The garden, for instance—
IV
Helen Abernethie sat by the fire in the green drawing room waiting for Maude to come down to dinner.
She looked round her, remembering old days here with Leo and the others. It had been a happy house. But a house like this needed people. It needed children and servants and big meals and plenty of roaring fires in winter. It had been a sad house when it had been lived in by one old man who had lost his son….