Читать книгу After the Funeral - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 13

‘Very good of you to come along,’ said Maude gruffly, as she greeted Mr Entwhistle on the platform of Bayham Compton station. ‘I can assure you that both Timothy and I much appreciate it. Of course the truth is that Richard’s death was the worst thing possible for Timothy.’

Mr Entwhistle had not yet considered his friend’s death from this particular angle. But it was, he saw, the only angle from which Mrs Timothy Abernethie was likely to regard it.

As they proceeded towards the exit, Maude developed the theme.

‘To begin with, it was a shock – Timothy was really very attached to Richard. And then unfortunately it put the idea of death into Timothy’s head. Being such an invalid has made him rather nervous about himself. He realized that he was the only one of the brothers left alive – and he started saying that he’d be the next to go – and that it wouldn’t be long now – all very morbid talk, as I told him.’

They emerged from the station and Maude led the way to a dilapidated car of almost fabulous antiquity.

‘Sorry about our old rattletrap,’ she said. ‘We’ve wanted a new car for years, but really we couldn’t afford it. This has had a new engine twice – and these old cars really stand up to a lot of hard work.

‘I hope it will start,’ she added. ‘Sometimes one has to wind it.’

She pressed the starter several times but only a meaningless whirr resulted. Mr Entwhistle, who had never wound a car in his life, felt rather apprehensive, but Maude herself descended, inserted the starting handle and with a vigorous couple of turns woke the motor to life. It was fortunate, Mr Entwhistle reflected, that Maude was such a powerfully built woman.

‘That’s that,’ she said. ‘The old brute’s been playing me up lately. Did it when I was coming back after the funeral. Had to walk a couple of miles to the nearest garage and they weren’t good for much – just a village affair. I had to put up at the local inn while they tinkered at it. Of course that upset Timothy, too. I had to phone through to him and tell him I couldn’t be back till the next day. Fussed him terribly. One tries to keep things from him as much as possible – but some things one can’t do anything about – Cora’s murder, for instance. I had to send for Dr Barton to give him a sedative. Things like murder are too much for a man in Timothy’s state of health. I gather Cora was always a fool.’

Mr Entwhistle digested this remark in silence. The inference was not quite clear to him.

‘I don’t think I’d seen Cora since our marriage,’ said Maude. ‘I didn’t like to say to Timothy at the time: “Your youngest sister’s batty,” not just like that. But it’s what I thought. There she was saying the most extraordinary things! One didn’t know whether to resent them or whether to laugh. I suppose the truth is she lived in a kind of imaginary world of her own – full of melodrama and fantastic ideas about other people. Well, poor soul, she’s paid for it now. She didn’t have any protégés, did she?’

‘Protégés? What do you mean?’

‘I just wondered. Some young cadging artist, or musician – or something of that kind. Someone she might have let in that day, and who killed her for her loose cash. Perhaps an adolescent – they’re so queer at that age sometimes – especially if they’re the neurotic arty type. I mean, it seems so odd to break in and murder her in the middle of the afternoon. If you break into a house surely you’d do it at night.’

‘There would have been two women there then.’

‘Oh yes, the companion. But really I can’t believe that anyone would deliberately wait until she was out of the way and then break in and attack Cora. What for? He can’t have expected she’d have any cash or stuff to speak of, and there must have been times when both the women were out and the house was empty. That would have been much safer. It seems so stupid to go and commit a murder unless it’s absolutely necessary.’

‘And Cora’s murder, you feel, was unnecessary?’

‘It all seems so stupid.’

Should murder make sense? Mr Entwhistle wondered. Academically the answer was yes. But many pointless crimes were on record. It depended, Mr Entwhistle reflected, on the mentality of the murderer.

What did he really know about murderers and their mental processes? Very little. His firm had never had a criminal practice. He was no student of criminology himself. Murderers, as far as he could judge, seemed to be of all sorts and kinds. Some had had overweening vanity, some had had a lust for power, some, like Seddon, had been mean and avaricious, others, like Smith and Rowse, had had an incredible fascination for women; some, like Armstrong, had been pleasant fellows to meet. Edith Thompson had lived in a world of violent unreality, Nurse Waddington had put her elderly patients out of the way with business-like cheerfulness.

Maude’s voice broke into his meditations.

‘If I could only keep the newspapers from Timothy! But he will insist on reading them – and then, of course, it upsets him. You do understand, don’t you, Mr Entwhistle, that there can be no question of Timothy’s attending the inquest? If necessary, Dr Barton can write out a certificate or whatever it is.’

‘You can set your mind at rest about that.’

‘Thank goodness!’

They turned in through the gates of Stansfield Grange, and up a neglected drive. It had been an attractive small property once – but had now a doleful and neglected appearance. Maude sighed as she said:

‘We had to let this go to seed during the war. Both gardeners called up. And now we’ve only got one old man – and he’s not much good. Wages have gone up so terribly. I must say it’s a blessing to realize that we’ll be able to spend a little money on the place now. We’re both so fond of it. I was really afraid that we might have to sell it . . . Not that I suggested anything of the kind to Timothy. It would have upset him – dreadfully.’

They drew up before the portico of a very old Georgian house which badly needed a coat of paint.

‘No servants,’ said Maude bitterly, as she led the way in. ‘Just a couple of women who come in. We had a resident maid until a month ago – slightly hunchbacked and terribly adenoidal and in many ways not too bright, but she was there which was such a comfort – and quite good at plain cooking. And would you believe it, she gave notice and went to a fool of a woman who keeps six Pekinese dogs (it’s a larger house than this and more work) because she was “so fond of little doggies,” she said. Dogs, indeed! Being sick and making messes all the time I’ve no doubt! Really, these girls are mental! So there we are, and if I have to go out any afternoon, Timothy is left quite alone in the house and if anything should happen, how could he get help? Though I do leave the telephone close by his chair so that if he felt faint he could dial Dr Barton immediately.’

Maude led the way into the drawing-room where tea was laid ready by the fireplace, and establishing Mr Entwhistle there, disappeared, presumably to the back regions. She returned in a few minutes’ time with a teapot and silver kettle, and proceeded to minister to Mr Entwhistle’s needs. It was a good tea with homemade cake and fresh buns. Mr Entwhistle murmured:

‘What about Timothy?’ and Maude explained briskly that she had taken Timothy his tray before she set out for the station.

‘And now,’ said Maude, ‘he will have had his little nap and it will be the best time for him to see you. Do try and not let him excite himself too much.’

Mr Entwhistle assured her that he would exercise every precaution.