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 bird-like movement.
‘But he was murdered, wasn’t he?’ she said.
Chapter 3
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 naïve. 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 naïve 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 bird-like 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 getting so fat?’
Cora had been quickly hushed. The Abernethie house-hold 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.
