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葬礼之后6

时间：2025-03-03 02:52:27

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Six

“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 businesslike 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.

Studying her in the flickering firelight, he was seized by a feeling of compassion. This big,

stalwart matter-of-fact woman, so healthy, so vigorous, so full of common sense, and yet so

strangely, almost pitifully, vulnerable in one spot. Her love for her husband was maternal love,

Mr. Entwhistle decided. Maude Abernethie had borne no child and she was a woman built for

motherhood. Her invalid husband had become her child, to be shielded, guarded, watched over.

And perhaps, being the stronger character of the two, she had unconsciously imposed on him a

state of invalidism greater than might otherwise have been the case.

“Poor Mrs. Tim,” thought Mr. Entwhistle to himself.

“Good of you to come, Entwhistle.”

Timothy raised himself up in his chair as he held out a hand. He was a big man with a marked

resemblance to his brother Richard. But what was strength in Richard, in Timothy was weakness.

The mouth was irresolute, the chin very slightly receding, the eyes less deep-set. Lines of peevish

irritability showed on his forehead.

His invalid status was emphasized by the rug across his knees and a positive pharmacopoeia of

little bottles and boxes, on a table at his right hand.

“I mustn’t exert myself,” he said warningly. “Doctor’s forbidden it. Keeps telling me not to

worry! Worry! If he’d had a murder in his family he’d do a bit of worrying, I bet! It’s too much

for a man—first Richard’s death—then hearing all about his funeral and his will—what a will!—

and on top of that poor little Cora killed with a hatchet. Hatchet! ugh! This country’s full of

gangsters nowadays—thugs—left over from the war! Going about killing defenceless women.

Nobody’s got the guts to put these things down—to take a strong hand. What’s the country

coming to, I’d like to know? What’s the damned country coming to?”

Mr. Entwhistle was familiar with this gambit. It was a question almost invariably asked sooner

or later by his clients for the last twenty years and he had his routine for answering it. The

noncommittal words he uttered could have been classified under the heading of soothing noises.

“It all began with that damned Labour Government,” said Timothy. “Sending the whole country

to blazes. And the Government we’ve got now is no better. Mealy-mouthed, milk-and-water

socialists! Look at the state we’re in! Can’t get a decent gardener, can’t get servants—poor Maude

here has to work herself to a shadow messing about in the kitchen (by the way, I think a custard

pudding would go well with the sole tonight, my dear—and perhaps a little clear soup first?). I’ve

got to keep my strength up— Doctor Barton said so—let me see, where was I? Oh yes, Cora. It’s a

shock, I can tell you, to a man when he hears his sister—his own sister—has been murdered!

Why, I had palpitations for twenty minutes! You’ll have to attend to everything for me,

Entwhistle. I can’t go to the inquest or be bothered by business of any kind connected with Cora’s

estate. I want to forget the whole thing. What happened, by the way, to Cora’s share of Richard’s

money? Comes to me, I suppose?”

Murmuring something about clearing away tea, Maude left the room.

Timothy lay back in his chair and said:

“Good thing to get rid of the women. Now we can talk business without any silly interruptions.”

“The sum left in trust for Cora,” said Mr. Entwhistle, “goes equally to you and the nieces and

nephew.”

“But look here,” Timothy’s cheeks assumed a purplish hue of indignation. “Surely I’m her next

of kin? Only surviving brother.”

Mr. Entwhistle explained with some care the exact provisions of Richard Abernethie’s will,

reminding Timothy gently that he had had a copy sent him.

“Don’t expect me to understand all that legal jargon, do you?” said Timothy ungratefully. “You

lawyers! Matter of fact, I couldn’t believe it when Maude came home and told me the gist of it.

Thought she’d got it wrong. Women are never clear headed. Best woman in the world, Maude—

but women don’t understand finance. I don’t believe Maude even realizes that if Richard hadn’t

died when he did, we might have had to clear out of here. Fact!”

“Surely if you had applied to Richard—”

Timothy gave a short bark of harsh laughter.

“That’s not my style. Our father left us all a perfectly reasonable share of his money—that is, if

we didn’t want to go into the family concern. I didn’t. I’ve a soul above cornplasters, Entwhistle!

Richard took my attitude a bit hard. Well, what with taxes, depreciation of income, one thing and

another—it hasn’t been easy to keep things going. I’ve had to realize a good deal of capital. Best

thing to do these days. I did hint once to Richard that this place was getting a bit hard to run. He

took the attitude that we’d be much better off in a smaller place altogether. Easier for Maude, he

said, more labour saving—labour saving, what a term! Oh no, I wouldn’t have asked Richard for

help. But I can tell you, Entwhistle, that the worry affected my health most unfavourably. A man

in my state of health oughtn’t to have to worry. Then Richard died and though of course naturally

I was cut up about it—my brother and all that— I couldn’t help feeling relieved about future

prospects. Yes, it’s all plain sailing now—and a great relief. Get the house painted—get a couple

of really good men on the garden — you can get them at a price. Restock the rose garden

completely. And—where was I—”

“Detailing your future plans.”

“Yes, yes—but I mustn’t bother you with all that. What did hurt me—and hurt me cruelly—

were the terms of Richard’s will.”

“Indeed?” Mr. Entwhistle looked inquiring. “They were not—as you expected?”

“I should say they weren’t! Naturally, after Mortimer’s death, I assumed that Richard would

leave everything to me.”

“Ah—did he—ever—indicate that to you?”

“He never said so—not in so many words. Reticent sort of chap, Richard. But he asked himself

here—not long after Mortimer’s death. Wanted to talk over family affairs generally. We discussed

young George—and the girls and their husbands. Wanted to know my views—not that I could tell

him much. I’m an invalid and I don’t get about, and Maudie and I live out of the world. Rotten

silly marriages both of those girls made, if you ask me. Well, I ask you, Entwhistle, naturally I

thought he was consulting me as the head of the family after he was gone and naturally I thought

the control of the money would be mine. Richard could surely trust me to do the right thing by the

younger generation. And to look after poor old Cora. Dash it all, Entwhistle, I’m an Abernethie—

the last Abernethie. Full control should have been left in my hands.”

In his excitement Timothy had kicked aside his rug and had sat up in his chair. There were no

signs of weakness or fragility about him. He looked, Mr. Entwhistle thought, a perfectly healthy

man, even if a slightly excitable one. Moreover the old lawyer realized very clearly that Timothy

Abernethie had probably always been secretly jealous of his brother Richard. They had been

sufficiently alike for Timothy to resent his brother’s strength of character and firm grasp of affairs.

When Richard had died, Timothy had exulted in the prospect of succeeding at this late date to the

power to control the destinies of others.

Richard Abernethie had not given him that power. Had he thought of doing so and then decided

against it?

A sudden squalling of cats in the garden brought Timothy up out of his chair. Rushing to the

window he threw up the sash, bawled out, “Stop it, you!” and picking up a large book hurled it out

at the marauders.

“Beastly cats,” he grumbled, returning to his visitor. “Ruin the flower beds and I can’t stand that

damned yowling.”

He sat down again and asked:

“Have a drink, Entwhistle?”

“Not quite so soon. Maude has just given me an excellent tea.”

Timothy grunted.

“Capable woman. Maude. But she does too much. Even has to muck about with the inside of

that old car of ours—she’s quite a mechanic in her way, you know.”

“I hear she had a breakdown coming back from the funeral?”

“Yes. Car conked out. She had the sense to telephone through about it, in case I should be

anxious, but that ass of a daily woman of ours wrote down the message in a way that didn’t make

sense. I was out getting a bit of fresh air—I’m advised by the doctor to take what exercise I can if I

feel like it—I got back from my walk to find scrawled on a bit of paper: ‘Madame’s sorry car gone

wrong got to stay night.’ Naturally I thought she was still at Enderby. Put a call through and found

Maude had left that morning. Might have had the breakdown anywhere! Pretty kettle of fish! Fool

of a daily woman only left me a lumpy macaroni cheese for supper. I had to go down to the

kitchen and warm it up myself—and make myself a cup of tea—to say nothing of stoking the

boiler. I might have had a heart attack—but does that class of woman care? Not she! With any

decent feelings she’d have come back that evening and looked after me properly. No loyalty any