“Very little. My purpose was mainly, I think, elimination. It is distasteful to me to think that one of the Abernethie family is a murderer. I still can’t quite believe it. I hoped that by a few apparently idle questions I could exonerate certain members of the family beyond question. Perhaps, who knows, all of them? In which case, Cora would have been wrong in her assumption and her own death could be ascribed to some casual prowler who broke in. After all, the issue is very simple. What were the members of the Abernethie family doing on the afternoon that Cora Lansquenet was killed?”
“Eh bien,” said Poirot, “what were they doing?”
“George Crossfield was at Hurst Park races. Rosamund Shane was out shopping in London. Her husband—for one must include husbands—”
“Assuredly.”
“Her husband was fixing up a deal about an option on a play, Susan and Gregory Banks were at home all day, Timothy Abernethie, who is an invalid, was at his home in Yorkshire, and his wife was driving herself home from Enderby.”
He stopped.
Hercule Poirot looked at him and nodded comprehendingly.
“Yes, that is what they say. And is it all true?”
“I simply don’t know, Poirot. Some of the statements are capable of proof or disproof—but it would be difficult to do so without showing one’s hand pretty plainly. In fact to do so would be tantamount to an accusation. I will simply tell you certain conclusions of my own. George may have been at Hurst Park races, but I do not think he was. He was rash enough to boast that he had backed a couple of winners. It is my experience that so many offenders against the law ruin their own case by saying too much. I asked him the name of the winners, and he gave the names of two horses without any apparent hesitation. Both of them, I found, had been heavily tipped on the day in question and one had duly won. The other, though an odds on favourite, had unaccountably failed even to get a place.”
“Interesting. Had this George any urgent need for money at the time of his uncle’s death?”
“It is my impression that his need was very urgent. I have no evidence for saying so, but I strongly suspect that he has been speculating with his clients’ funds and that he was in danger of prosecution. It is only my impression but I have some experience in these matters. Defaulting solicitors, I regret to say, are not entirely uncommon. I can only tell you that I would not have cared to entrust my own funds to George, and I suspect that Richard Abernethie, a very shrewd judge of men, was dissatisfied with his nephew and placed no reliance on him.
“His mother,” the lawyer continued, “was a good-looking rather foolish girl and she married a man of what I should call dubious character.” He sighed. “The Abernethie girls were not good choosers.”
He paused and then went on:
“As for Rosamund, she is a lovely nitwit. I really cannot see her smashing Cora’s head in with a hatchet! Her husband, Michael Shane, is something of a dark horse—he’s a man with ambition and also a man of overweening vanity I should say. But really I know very little about him. I have no reason to suspect him of a brutal crime or of a carefully planned poisoning, but until I know that he really was doing what he says he was doing I cannot rule him out.”
“But you have no doubts about the wife?”
“No—no—there is a certain rather startling callousness…but no, I really cannot envisage the hatchet. She is a fragile-looking creature.”
“And beautiful!” said Poirot with a faint cynical smile. “And the other niece?”
“Susan? She is a very different type from Rosamund—a girl of remarkable ability, I should say. She and her husband were at home together that day. I said (falsely) that I had tried to get them on the telephone on the afternoon in question. Greg said very quickly that the telephone had been out of order all day. He had tried to get someone and failed.”
“So again it is not conclusive… You cannot eliminate as you hoped to do… What is the husband like?”
“I find him hard to make out. He has a somewhat unpleasing personality though one cannot say exactly why he makes this impression. As for Susan—”
“Yes?”
“Susan reminds me of her uncle. She has the vigour, the drive, the mental capacity of Richard Abernethie. It may be my fancy that she lacks some of the kindliness and the warmth of my old friend.”
“Women are never kind,” remarked Poirot. “Though they can sometimes be tender. She loves her husband?”
“Devotedly, I should say. But really, Poirot, I can’t believe— I won’t believe for one moment that Susan—”
“You prefer George?” said Poirot. “It is natural! As for me, I am not so sentimental about beautiful young ladies. Now tell me about your visit to the older generation?”
Mr. Entwhistle described his visit to Timothy and Maude at some length. Poirot summarized the result.
“So Mrs. Abernethie is a good mechanic. She knows all about the inside of a car. And Mr. Abernethie is not the invalid he likes to think himself. He goes out for walks and is, according to you, capable of vigorous action. He is also a bit of an egomaniac and he resented his brother’s success and superior character.”
“He spoke very affectionately of Cora.”
“And ridiculed her silly remark after the funeral. What of the sixth beneficiary?”
“Helen? Mrs. Leo? I do not suspect her for a moment. In any case, her innocence will be easy to prove. She was at Enderby. With three servants in the house.”
“Eh bien, my friend,” said Poirot. “Let us be practical. What do you want me to do?”
“I want to know the truth, Poirot.”
“Yes. Yes, I should feel the same in your place.”
“And you’re the man to find it out for me. I know you don’t take cases anymore, but I ask you to take this one. This is a matter of business. I will be responsible for your fees. Come now, money is always useful.”
Poirot grinned.
“Not if it all goes in the taxes! But I will admit, your problem interests me! Because it is not easy… It is all so nebulous… One thing, my friend, had better be done by you. After that, I will occupy myself of everything. But I think it will be best if you yourself seek out the doctor who attended Mr. Richard Abernethie. You know him?”
“Slightly.”
“What is he like?”
“Middle-aged G.P. Quite competent. On very friendly terms with Richard. A thoroughly good fellow.”
“Then seek him out. He will speak more freely to you than to me. Ask him about Mr. Abernethie’s illness. Find out what medicines Mr. Abernethie was taking at the time of his death and before. Find out if Richard Abernethie ever said anything to his doctor about fancying himself being poisoned. By the way, this Miss Gilchrist is sure that he used the term poisoned in talking to his sister?”
Mr. Entwhistle reflected.
“It was the word she used—but she is the type of witness who often changes the actual words used, because she is convinced she is keeping to the sense of them. If Richard had said he was afraid someone wanted to kill him, Miss Gilchrist might have assumed poison because she connected his fears with those of an aunt of hers who thought her food was being tampered with. I can take up the point with her again some time.”
“Yes. Or I will do so.” He paused and then said in a different voice: “Has it occurred to you, my friend, that your Miss Gilchrist may be in some danger herself?”
Mr. Entwhistle looked surprised.
“I can’t say that it had.”
“But, yes. Cora voiced her suspicions on the day of the funeral. The question in the murderer’s mind will be, did she voice them to anybody when she first heard of Richard’s death? And the most likely person for her to have spoken to about them will be Miss Gilchrist. I think, mon cher, that she had better not remain alone in that cottage.”
“I believe Susan is going down.”
“Ah, so Mrs. Banks is going down?”
“She wants to look through Cora’s things.”
&nb
sp; “I see… I see… Well, my friend, do what I have asked of you. You might also prepare Mrs. Abernethie—Mrs. Leo Abernethie, for the possibility that I may arrive in the house. We will see. From now on I occupy myself of everything.”
And Poirot twirled his moustaches with enormous energy.
Eight
I
Mr. Entwhistle looked at Dr. Larraby thoughtfully.
He had had a lifetime of experience in summing people up. There had been frequent occasions on which it had been necessary to tackle a difficult situation or a delicate subject. Mr. Entwhistle was an adept by now in the art of how exactly to make the proper approach. How would it be best to tackle Dr. Larraby on what was certainly a very difficult subject and one which the doctor might very well resent as reflecting upon his own professional skill?
Frankness, Mr. Entwhistle thought—or at least a modified frankness. To say that suspicions had arisen because of a haphazard suggestion thrown out by a silly woman would be ill-advised. Dr. Larraby had not known Cora.
Mr. Entwhistle cleared his throat and plunged bravely.
“I want to consult you on a very delicate matter,” he said. “You may be offended, but I sincerely hope not. You are a sensible man and you will realize, I’m sure, that a—er—preposterous suggestion is best dealt with by finding a reasonable answer and not by condemning it out of hand. It concerns my client, the late Mr. Abernethie. I’ll ask you my question flat out. Are you certain, absolutely certain, that he died what is termed a natural death?”
Dr. Larraby’s good-humoured, rubicund middle-aged face turned in astonishment on his questioner.
“What on earth—Of course he did. I gave a certificate, didn’t I? If I hadn’t been satisfied—”
Mr. Entwhistle cut in adroitly:
“Naturally, naturally. I assure you that I am not assuming anything to the contrary. But I would be glad to have your positive assurance—in face of the—er—rumours that are flying around.”
“Rumours? What rumours?”
“One doesn’t know quite how these things start,” said Mr. Entwhistle mendaciously. “But my feeling is that they should be stopped—authoritatively, if possible.”
“Abernethie was a sick man. He was suffering from a disease that would have proved fatal within, I should say, at the earliest, two years. It might have come much sooner. His son’s death had weakened his will to live, and his powers of resistance. I admit that I did not expect his death to come so soon, or indeed so suddenly, but there are precedents—plenty of precedents. Any medical man who predicts exactly when a patient will die, or exactly how long he will live, is bound to make a fool of himself. The human factor is always incalculable. The weak have often unexpected powers of resistance, the strong sometimes succumb.”
“I understand all that. I am not doubting your diagnosis. Mr. Abernethie was, shall we say (rather melodramatically, I’m afraid) under sentence of death. All I’m asking you is, is it quite possible that a man, knowing or suspecting that he is doomed, might of his own accord shorten that period of life? Or that someone else might do it for him?”
Dr. Larraby frowned.
“Suicide, you mean? Abernethie wasn’t a suicidal type.”
“I see. You can assure me, medically speaking, that such a suggestion is impossible.”
The doctor stirred uneasily.
“I wouldn’t use the word impossible. After his son’s death life no longer held the interest for Abernethie that it had done. I certainly don’t feel that suicide is likely—but I can’t say that it’s impossible.”
“You are speaking from the psychological angle. When I say medically, I really meant: do the circumstances of his death make such a suggestion impossible?”
“No, oh no. No, I can’t say that. He died in his sleep, as people often do. There was no reason to suspect suicide, no evidence of his state of mind. If one were to demand an autopsy every time a man who is seriously ill died in his sleep—”
The doctor’s face was getting redder and redder. Mr. Entwhistle hastened to interpose.
“Of course. Of course. But if there had been evidence—evidence of which you yourself were not aware? If, for instance, he had said something to someone—”
“Indicating that he was contemplating suicide? Did he? I must say it surprises me.”
“But if it were so—my case is purely hypothetical—could you rule out the possibility?”
Dr. Larraby said slowly:
“No—not—I could not do that. But I say again. I should be very much surprised.”
Mr. Entwhistle hastened to follow up his advantage.
“If, then, we assume that his death was not natural—all this is purely hypothetical—what could have caused it? What kind of a drug, I mean?”
“Several. Some kind of a narcotic would be indicated. There was no sign of cyanosis, the attitude was quite peaceful.”
“He had sleeping draughts or pills? Something of that kind.”
“Yes. I had prescribed Slumberyl—a very safe and dependable hypnotic. He did not take it every night. And he only had a small bottle of tablets at a time. Three or even four times the prescribed dose would not have caused death. In fact, I remember seeing the bottle on his washstand after his death still nearly full.”
“What else had you prescribed for him?”
“Various things—a medicine containing a small quantity of morphia to be taken when he had an attack of pain. Some vitamin capsules. An indigestion mixture.”
Mr. Entwhistle interrupted.
“Vitamin capsules? I think I was once prescribed a course of those. Small round capsules of gelatine.”
“Yes. Containing adexoline.”
“Could anything else have been introduced into—say—one of those capsules?”
“Something lethal, you mean?” The doctor was looking more and more surprised. “But surely no man would ever—look here, Entwhistle, what are you getting at? My God, man, are you suggesting murder?”
“I don’t quite know what I’m suggesting…I just want to know what would be possible.”
“But what evidence have you for even suggesting such a thing?”
“I haven’t any evidence,” said Mr. Entwhistle in a tired voice. “Mr. Abernethie is dead—and the person to whom he spoke is also dead. The whole thing is rumour—vague, unsatisfactory rumour, and I want to scotch it if I can. If you tell me that no one could possibly have poisoned Abernethie in any way whatsoever, I’ll be delighted! It would be a big weight off my mind, I can assure you.”
Dr. Larraby got up and walked up and down.
“I can’t tell you what you want me to tell you,” he said at last. “I wish I could. Of course it could have been done. Anybody could have extracted the oil from a capsule and replaced it with—say—pure nicotine or half a dozen other things. Or something could have been put in his food or drink? Isn’t that more likely?”
“Possibly. But you see, there were only the servants in the house when he died—and I don’t think it was any of them—in fact I’m quite sure it wasn’t. So I’m looking for some delayed action possibility. There’s no drug, I suppose, that you can administer and then the person dies weeks later?”
“A convenient idea—but untenable, I’m afraid,” said the doctor drily. “I know you’re a reasonable person, Entwhistle, but who is making this suggestion? It seems to me wildly farfetched.”
“Abernethie never said anything to you? Never hinted that one of his relations might be wanting him out of the way?”
The doctor looked at him curiously.
“No, he never said anything to me. Are you sure, Entwhistle, that somebody hasn’t been—well, playing up the sensational? Some hysterical subjects can give an appearance of being quite reasonable and normal, you know.”
“I hope it was like that. It might well be.”
“Let me understand. Someone claims that Abernethie told her—it was a woman, I suppose?”
“Oh yes, it was a woman.”
/> “—told her someone was trying to kill him?”
Cornered, Mr. Entwhistle reluctantly told the tale of Cora’s remark at the funeral. Dr. Larraby’s face lightened.
“My dear fellow. I shouldn’t pay any attention! The explanation is quite simple. The woman’s at a certain time of life—craving for sensation, unbalanced, unreliable—might say anything. They do, you know!”
Mr. Entwhistle resented the doctor’s easy assumption. He himself had had to deal with plenty of sensation-hunting and hysterical women.
“You may be quite right,” he said, rising. “Unfortunately we can’t tackle her on the subject, as she’s been murdered herself.”
“What’s that—murdered?” Dr. Larraby looked as though he had grave suspicions of Mr. Entwhistle’s own stability of mind.
“You’ve probably read about it in the paper. Mrs. Lansquenet at Lytchett St. Mary in Berkshire.”
“Of course—I’d no idea she was a relation of Richard Abernethie’s!” Dr. Larraby was looking quite shaken.
Feeling that he had revenged himself for the doctor’s professional superiority, and unhappily conscious that his own suspicions had not been assuaged as a result of the visit, Mr. Entwhistle took his leave.
II
Back at Enderby, Mr. Entwhistle decided to talk to Lanscombe.
He started by asking the old butler what his plans were.
“Mrs. Leo has asked me to stay on here until the house is sold, sir, and I’m sure I shall be very pleased to oblige her. We are all very fond of Mrs. Leo.” He sighed. “I feel it very much, sir, if you will excuse me mentioning it, that the house has to be sold. I’ve known it for so very many years, and seen all the young ladies and gentlemen grow up in it. I always thought that Mr. Mortimer would come here after his father and perhaps bring up a family here, too. It was arranged, sir, that I should go to the North Lodge when I got past doing my work here. A very nice little place, the North Lodge—and I looked forward to having it very spick and span. But I suppose that’s all over now.”
“I’m afraid so, Lanscombe. The estate will have to be sold together. But with your legacy—”