After The Funeral Part 42

Michael because he was ambitious and had a murderer's c.o.c.ksure vanity. Rosamund because she was/righteningly simple in outlook. Timothy because he had hated and resented his brother and had craved the power his brother's money would give. Maude because Timothy was her child and where her child was concerned she would be ruthless. Even Miss Gilchrist, he thought, might have contemplated murder if it could have restored to her the Willow Tree in its ladylike glory 1 And Helen ? He could not see Helen as committing murder.

She was too civilised--too removed from violence. And she and her husband had surely loved Richard Abernethie.

Poirot sighed to himself. There were to be no short cuts to the truth, Instead he would have to adopt a longer, but a 36

reasonably sure method. There would have to be conversa tion. Much conversation. For in the long run, either through

a lie, or through truth, people were bound to give themselves

away ....

He had been introduced by Helen to the gathering, and had

set to work to overcome the almost universal annoyance

caused by his presence--a foreign stranger !--in this family

gathering. He had used his eyes and his ears. He had

watched and listened--openly and behind doors! He had

noticed affinities, antagonisms, the unguarded words that

arose as always when property was to be divided. He had

engineered adroitly tte--ttes, walks upon the terrace, and

had made his deductions and observations. He had talked

with Miss Gilchrist about the vanished glories of her teashop and about the correct composition of brioches and chocolate

dclairs and had visited the kitchen garden with her to discuss

the proper use of herbs in cooking. He had spent some long

half-hours listening to Timothy talking about his own health

and about the effect upon it of paint.

Paint ? Poirot frowned. Somebody else had said some thing about paint--Mr. Entwhistle ?

There had also been discussion of a different kind of paint ing. Pierre Lansquenet as a painter. Cora Lansquenet's

paintings, rapturised over by Miss Gilchrist, dismissed scorn ,fully by Susan. "Just like picture ,postcards," she had said.

' She did them from postcards, too.

Miss Gilchrist had been quite upset by that and had said

sharply that dear Mrs. Lansquenet always painted from Nature.

"But I bet she cheated," said Susan to Poirot when Miss

Gilchrist had gone out of the room. "In fact I know she

did, though I won't upset the old p.u.s.s.y by saying so."

"And how do you know ?"

Poirot watched the strong confident line of Susan's chin.

"She will always be sure, this one," he, thought.

"And perhaps sometime, she will be too sure...

Susan was going on.

"I'll tell you, but don't pa.s.s it on to the Gilchrist. One picture is of Polflexan, the cove and the lighthouse and the pier--the usual aspect that all amateur artists sit down and sketch. But the pier was blown up in the war, and since Aunt Cora's sketch was done a couple of years ago, it can't very well be from Nature, can it ? But the postcards they sell there still show the pier as it used to be. There was one in her bedroom drawer. So Aunt Cora started her' rough sketch'

37

down there, I expect, and then finished it surrept.i.tiously

later at home from a po,s, tcard I It's funny, isn't it, the way

people get caught out ? '

"Yes, it is, as you say, funny." He paused, and then

thought that the opening was a good one.

"You do not remember me, Madame," he said, "but I

remember you. This is not the first time that I have seen

you."

She stared at him. Poirot nodded with great gusto.

"Yes, yes, it is so. I was inside an automobile, well

wrapped up and from the window I saw you.. You were

talking to one of the mechanics in the garage. You do not notice me--it is natural I am inside the car--an elderly

m.u.f.fled-up foreigner! But I notice you, for you are young

and agreeable to look at and you stand there in the sun. So

when I arrive here, I say to myself, ' Tiens I what a coinci dence I '"

"A garage ? Where ? When was this ?"

"Oh, a little time ago---a week--no, more. For the mo ment,'' said Poirot disingenuously and with a full recollection