After The Funeral Part 22

Susan went towards the front door and Miss Gilchrist hovered uncertainly. Susan wondered whether she thought a man with a hatchet was waiting outside.

The visitor, however proved to be an elderly gentleman who raised his hat when Susan opened the door and said, beaming at her in avuncular style.

"Mrs. Banks, I think ?" "Yes."

"My name is Guthrie--Alexander Guthrie. I was a friend --a very old friend, of Mrs. Lansquenet's. You, I think, axe her niece, formerly Miss Susan Abernethie ?"

"That's quite right."

"Then since we know who we are, I may come in ?" "Of course." Mr. Guthrie wiped his feet carefully on the mat, stepped inside, divested himself of his overcoat, laid it down with his 79

hat on a small oak chest anc1 flod Susan into the sitting.

room "This is a melancholy cOCcsi0," said Mr. Guthrie, to .wh.o.m melancholy did not ,sm t0come naturally, his own inclination being to beam. ' es, avery melancholy occasion. I was in this part of the worlld adl felt the least I could do

as to attend the inquest--a?nd of,ourse the funeral. Poor ora--poor foolish Cora. I na. we own her, my dear Mrs.

B. anks, since the early days ocr. her, arriae. A high-spirited glr!--and she took art very seriOUSly-took Pierre Lansquenet s.e. no,u, sly, too--as an artist, I : ean. fill things considered he dldn t make her too bad a hu and. He strayed, if you know what I mean, yes, he strayeclbutortunately Cora took it as part of the artistic tempeamem. He was an artist and therefore immor! In fact I'm not sure she didn't go further: he was immoral and therefore he must be an artist I No kind of sense in artistic cnatte, poor Cora--though in other ways, mind you, Cora ad a lot of sense--yes, a surprising lot of sense."

"That's what everybody sems to say," said Susan. "X didn't really know her."

"No, no, cut herself off fror her family because they didn't appreciate her precious Pierre. e was never a pretty ffirl but she had something. She w's goo company 1 You never knew what she'd say next and[ you ever knew if her naivetd was-genuine or whether she xsrs, doiag it deliberatel.y,,. She mad.e us all laugh a good deal. ne ,eternal child--that s what we always felt about her. Anciny the last time I saw her (I have seen her from time to t.i.tm ncc Pierre died) she struck me as still behaving very muclx like a child"

Susan offered Mr. Guth' rie a cigarette, but he old gentleman shook his head.

"No thank you, my dear. I doa't smoke. You must wonder why I've come ? To t11 y.ou the truth I was feeling rather conscience-stricken. I pfamSe Cora to come and see her, some weeks ag,o. I usually.,ca d upon her once a year, anct just lately she d taken up ,ne n0bby of buying pictures at local sales, and wanted me o look at some of them. My profe, ssion is that of art critic, you know. Of course most of Cora s purchases were horrible daubs, but take it all in all, it is.,n't such a bad speculation, l,ictures go for next to nothing

trese country sales and the -rames alone are worth more a,.you, pay for the picture, la.tur?lly any important sale s attenced by dealers and one sn t likely to get hold of masterpieces. But only the other dy, a small Cuyp was 80

knocked down for a few pounds at a farmhouse sale. The history of it was quit.e, int,ere?ting. It had been given to an old nurse by the mmuy sne rand served faithfully for many l ears--they had no idea of it:s value. Old nurse gave it to armer nephew who liked the horse in it but thought it was a dirty old thing I Yes, yes, t:hese things sometimes happen, and Cora was convinced that she had an eye for pictures.

She hadn't, of course. Wantmd me to come and look at a Rembrandt she had picked the last year. A Rembrandt l Not even a respectable copy of! ne I But she had got hold of a quite nice Bartolozzi englravingamp spotted unfortunately.

I sold it for her fo,r thirty pounds and of course that spurred her on. She wrote to me with great gusto about an Italian Primitive she had[ bought at some sale and I promised I'd come along and See it."

"That's it over there, I ex[oect," said Susan, gesturing to the wall behind him.

Mr. Guthrie got up, put on a pair of spectacles, and went over to study the picture.

"Poor dear Cora," he said a.t last.

"There are a lot more," said Susan. Mr. Guthrie proceeded to a leisurely inspection of the art treasures acquired by the hoDeful l[rs. Lansquenet. Occasionally he said, "Tchk, Tchk," occasionally he sighed.

Finally he removed his spectacles.

"Dirt," he said, "is a won'derful thing, Mrs. Banks I It gives a patina of romance to the most horrible examples of the painter's art. I'm afraid that Bartolozzi was beginner's luck.

Poor Cora. Still it gave her a,n interest in life. I am really thankful that I did not have to disillusion her."

"There are some pictures in, the dining-room," said Susan, "but I think they are all her husband's work."

Mr. Guthrie shuddered slightly and held up a protesting hand.

"Do not force me to look at those again. Life cla.s.ses have much to answer for I I alwaya tried to spare Cora's feelings.

A devoted wife--a very devoted wife. Well, dear Mrs. Banks, I must not take up more of yaur time."

"Oh, do stay and have some tea. I think it's nearly ready."

"That is very kind of you." Mr. Guthrie sat down again promptly.

"I'll just go and see."

In the kitchen, Miss Gilchrit was just lifting a last batch of scones from the oven. The tea-tray stood ready and the kettle was just gently rattling its lid.

8

"There's a Mr. Guthrie here, and I've asked him to stay for tea."

"Mr. Guthrie ? Oh, yes, he was a great friend of dear Mrs. Lansquenet's. He's the celebrated art critic. How fortunate; I've made a nice lot of scones and that's some home-made strawberry jam, and I just whipped up some little drop cakes. I'll just make the tea--I've warmed the pot. Oh, please, Mrs. Banks, don't carry that heavy tray. I can manage everything."

However, Susan took in the tray and Miss Gilchrist followed with teapot and kettle, greeted Mr. Guthrie, and they set to.

"Hot scones, that is a treat," said Mr. Guthrie, "and what delicious jam I Really, the stuff one buys nowadays."

Miss Gilchrist was flushed and delighted. The little cakes were excellent and so were the scones, and everyone did justice to them. The ghost of the Willow Tree hung over the party.

Here, it was clear, Miss Gilchrist was in her element.

"Well, thank you, perhaps I will," said Mr. Guthrie as he accepted the last cake, pressed upon him by Miss Gilchrist. "I do feel rather guilty, though---enjoying my tea here, where poor Cora was so brutally murdered."

Miss Gilchrist displayed an unexpected Victoia reaction to this.

"Oh, but Mrs. Lansquenet would have wished you to take a good tea. You've got to keep your strength up." "Yes, yes, perhaps you are right. The fact is, you know, that one cannot really bring oneself to believe that someone you knew--actually knew--can have been murdered I" "I agree," said Susan. "It just seems--fantastic."

"And certainly not by some casual tramp who broke in and attacked her. I can imagine, 3,}ou know, reasons why Cora might have been murdered Susan said quickly, "Can you ? What reasons ?" "Well, she wasn't discreet," said Mr. Guthrie. "Cora was never discreet. And she enjoyed--how shaw I put it--showing how sharp she could be ? Like a child who s got hold of somebody's secret. If Cora got hold of a secret she'd want to talk about it. Even if she promised not to, she'd still do it. She wouldn't be able to help herself."

Susan did not speak. Miss Gilchrist did not either. She looked worried. /lr. Guthrie went on: "Yes, a little dose of a.r.s.enic in a cup of tea--that would not have surprised me, or a box of chocolates by post. But sordid robbery and a.s.sault--that seems highly incongruous.

I may be wrong but I should have thought she had very little

to take that would be worth a burglar's while. She didn't keep much money in the house, did she ?"

Miss Gilchrist said, "Very little."

Mr. Guthrie sighed and rose to his feet.

"Ah! well, there's a lot of lawlessness about since the war. Times have changed." Thanking them for the tea he took a polite farewell of the two women. Miss Gilchrist saw him out and helped him on with his overcoat. From the window of the sitting-room, Susan watched him trot briskly down the front path to the gate.

Miss Gilchrist came back into the room with a small parcel in her hand.

"The postman must have been while we were at the inquest.

He pushed it through the letter-box and it had fallen in the corner behind the door. Now I wonder--why, of course, it must be wedding cake."

Happily Miss Gilchrist ripped off the paper. Inside was a small white box tied with silver ribbon.

"It is I" She pulled off the ribbon, inside was a modest wedge of rich cake with almond paste and white icing. "How nice I Now who "She consulted the card attached. ".John and Mary. Now who can that be? How silly to put no

Susan, rousing herself from contemplation, said vaguely: "It's quite difficult sometimes with people just using Christian names. I got a postcard the other day signed Joan.

I counted up I knew eight Joans--and with telephoning so much, one often doesn't know their handwriting."

Miss Gilchrist was happily going over the possible Johns or Marys of her acquaintance.

"It might be Dorothy's daughter--her name was Mary, but I hadn't heard of an engagement, still less of a marriage. Then there's little John Banfield--I suppose he's grown up and old enough to be married--or the Erdield girl--no, her name was Margaret. No address or anything. Oh well, I dare say it will come to me..."

She picked up the tray and went out to the kitchen.

Susan roused herself and said: "Well--I suppose I'd better go and put the car somewhere."

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CHAPTER X

SusASTmEVrI) the car from the quarry where she had left it and drove it into the village. There was a petrol pump but no garage and she was advised to take it to the King's Arms.

They had room for it there and she left it by a big Daintier which was preparing to go out. It was chauffeur driven and inside it, very much m.u.f.fled up, was an elderly foreign gentleman with a large moustache.

The boy to whom Susan was talking about the car was stming at her with such rapt attention the he did not seem to be taking in half of what she said.

Finall,y he said in an aw, e-stricke, n voice: "You re her niece, aren t you ? ,, Vrhat ? ,, "You're the victim's niece," the boy repeated with relish.

i Oh--yes--yes, I am."

Ar 1 Wondered where d seen you before."

"Ghoul," thought Susan as she retraced her steps to the cottage.

Miss Gilchrist greeted her with: "Oh, you're safely back," in tones of relief which further annoyed her. Miss Gilchrist added anxiously: "You can eat spaghetti, can't you ? I thought for tonight----"

"Oh yes, anything. I don't want much."

"I really flatter myself that I can make a very tasty spaghetti aw gratin."

The boast was not an idle one. Miss Gilchrist, Susan reflected, was really an excellent cook. Susan offered to help wash up but Miss Gilchrist, though clearly gratified by the offer, a.s.sured Susan that there was very little to do.

She came in a little while later with coffee. The coffee was less excellent, being decidedly weak. Miss Gilchrist offered Susan a piece of the wedding cake which Susan refused.

"It's really very good cake," Miss Gilchrist insisted, tasting it. She had settled to her own satisfaction that it must have been sent by someone whom she alluded to as "dear Ellen's daughter who I know was engaged to be married but I can't remember her name."

Susan let Miss Gilchrist chirrup away into silence before starting her own subject of conversation. This moment, after supper, sitting before the fire, was a companionable one.

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She said at last:

"My Uncle Richard came down here before he died, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did."