After the Funeral. Agatha Christie

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      ‘Yes. What about her?’

      ‘Well,’ Mr Parrott sounded apologetic. ‘She’s – it’s really most extraordinary – she’s been well – murdered.’

      Mr Parrott said the last word with the uttermost deprecation. It was not the sort of word, he suggested, that ought to mean anything to the firm of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard.

       ‘Murdered?’

      ‘Yes – yes – I’m afraid so. Well, I mean, there’s no doubt about it.’

      ‘How did the police get on to us?’

      ‘Her companion, or housekeeper, or whatever she is – a Miss Gilchrist. The police asked for the name of her nearest relative or her solicitors. And this Miss Gilchrist seemed rather doubtful about relatives and their addresses, but she knew about us. So they got through at once.’

      ‘What makes them think she was murdered?’ demanded Mr Entwhistle.

      Mr Parrott sounded apologetic again.

      ‘Oh well, it seems there can’t be any doubt about that – I mean it was a hatchet or something of that kind – a very violent sort of crime.’

      ‘Robbery?’

      ‘That’s the idea. A window was smashed and there are some trinkets missing and drawers pulled out and all that, but the police seem to think there might be something – well – phony about it.’

      ‘What time did it happen?’

      ‘Some time between two and four-thirty this afternoon.’

      ‘Where was the housekeeper?’

      ‘Changing library books in Reading. She got back about five o’clock and found Mrs Lansquenet dead. The police want to know if we’ve any idea of who could have been likely to attack her. I said,’ Mr Parrott’s voice sounded outraged, ‘that I thought it was a most unlikely thing to happen.’

      ‘Yes, of course.’

      ‘It must be some half-witted local oaf – who thought there might be something to steal and then lost his head and attacked her. That must be it – eh, don’t you think so, Entwhistle?’

      ‘Yes, yes . . .’ Mr Entwhistle spoke absentmindedly. Parrott was right, he told himself. That was what must have happened . . .

      But uncomfortably he heard Cora’s voice saying brightly:

      ‘He was murdered, wasn’t he?’

      Such a fool, Cora. Always had been. Rushing in where angels fear to tread . . . Blurting out unpleasant truths . . .

       Truths!

      That blasted word again . . .

      II

      Mr Entwhistle and Inspector Morton looked at each other appraisingly.

      In his neat precise manner Mr Entwhistle had placed at the Inspector’s disposal all the relevant facts about Cora Lansquenet. Her upbringing, her marriage, her widowhood, her financial position, her relatives.

      ‘Mr Timothy Abernethie is her only surviving brother and her next of kin, but he is a recluse and an invalid, and is quite unable to leave home. He has empowered me to act for him and to make all such arrangements as may be necessary.’

      The Inspector nodded. It was a relief for him to have this shrewd elderly solicitor to deal with. Moreover he hoped that the lawyer might be able to give him some assistance in solving what was beginning to look like a rather puzzling problem.

      He said:

      ‘I understand from Miss Gilchrist that Mrs Lansquenet had been North, to the funeral of an elder brother, on the day before her death?’

      ‘That is so, Inspector. I myself was there.’

      ‘There was nothing unusual in her manner – nothing strange – or apprehensive?’

      Mr Entwhistle raised his eyebrows in well-simulated surprise.

      ‘Is it customary for there to be something strange in the manner of a person who is shortly to be murdered?’ he asked.

      The Inspector smiled rather ruefully.

      ‘I’m not thinking of her being “fey” or having a premonition. No, I’m just hunting around for something – well, something out of the ordinary.’

      ‘I don’t think I quite understand you, Inspector,’ said Mr Entwhistle.

      ‘It’s not a very easy case to understand, Mr Entwhistle. Say someone watched the Gilchrist woman come out of the house at about two o’clock and go along to the village and the bus stop. This someone then deliberately takes the hatchet that was lying by the woodshed, smashes the kitchen window with it, gets into the house, goes upstairs, attacks Mrs Lansquenet with the hatchet – and attacks her savagely. Six or eight blows were struck.’ Mr Entwhistle flinched – ‘Oh, yes, quite a brutal crime. Then the intruder pulls out a few drawers, scoops up a few trinkets – worth perhaps a tenner in all, and clears off.’

      ‘She was in bed?’

      ‘Yes. It seems she returned late from the North the night before, exhausted and very excited. She’d come into some legacy as I understand?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘She slept very badly and woke with a terrible headache. She had several cups of tea and took some dope for her head and then told Miss Gilchrist not to disturb her till lunch-time. She felt no better and decided to take two sleeping pills. She then sent Miss Gilchrist into Reading by the bus to change some library books. She’d have been drowsy, if not already asleep, when this man broke in. He could have taken what he wanted by means of threats, or he could easily have gagged her. A hatchet, deliberately taken up with him from outside, seems excessive.’

      ‘He may just have meant to threaten her with it,’ Mr Entwhistle suggested. ‘If she showed fight then –’

      ‘According to the medical evidence there is no sign that she did. Everything seems to show that she was lying on her side sleeping peacefully when she was attacked.’

      Mr Entwhistle shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘One does hear of these brutal and rather senseless murders,’ he pointed out.

      ‘Oh yes, yes, that’s probably what it will turn out to be. There’s an alert out, of course, for any suspicious character. Nobody local is concerned, we’re pretty sure of that. The locals are all accounted for satisfactorily. Most people are at work at that time of day. Of course her cottage is up a lane outside the village proper. Anyone could get there easily without being seen. There’s a maze of lanes all round the village. It was a fine morning and there has been no rain for some days, so there aren’t any distinctive car tracks to go by – in case anyone came by car.’

      ‘You think someone came by car?’ Mr Entwhistle asked sharply.

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