After the Funeral

'Yes.' Poirot paused a moment – before saying: 'He came to tell me that it was he who poisoned Richard Abernethie…'

'What absolute nonsense! You didn't believe him, I hope?'

'Why should I not believe him?'

'He wasn't even near this place when Uncle Richard died!'

'Perhaps not. Where was he when Cora Lansquenet died?'

'In London. We both were.'

Hercule Poirot shook his head.

'No, no, that will not do. You, for instance, took out your car that day and were away all the afternoon. I think I know where you went. You went to Lytchett St Mary.'

'I did no such thing!'

Poirot smiled.

'When I met you here, Madame, it was not, as I told you, the first time I had seen you. After the inquest on Mrs Lansquenet you were in the garage of the King's Arms. You talk there to a mechanic and close by you is a car containing an elderly foreign gentleman. You did not notice him, but he noticed you.'

'I don't see what you mean. That was the day of the inquest.'

'Ah, but remember what that mechanic said to you! He asked you if you were a relative of the victim, and you said you were her niece.'

'He was just being a ghoul. They're all ghouls.'

'And his next words were, 'Ah, wondered where I'd seen you before.' Where did he see you before, Madame? It must have been in Lytchett St Mary, since in his mind his seeing you before was accounted for by your being Mrs Lansquenet's niece. Had he seen you near her cottage? And when? It was a matter, was it not, that demands inquiry. And the result of the inquiry is, that you were there – in Lytchett St Mary – on the afternoon Cora Lansquenet died. You parked your car in the same quarry where you left it the morning of the inquest. The car was seen and the number was noted. By this time Inspector Morton knows whose car it was.'

Susan stared at him. Her breath came rather fast, but she showed no signs of discomposure.

'You're talking nonsense, M. Poirot. And you're making me forget what I came here to say – I wanted to try and find you alone -'

'To confess to me that it was you and not your husband who committed the murder?'

'No, of course not. What kind of a fool do you think I am? And I've already told you that Gregory never left London that day.'

'A fact which you cannot possibly know since you were away yourself. Why did you go down to Lytchett St Mary, Mrs Banks?'

Susan drew a deep breath.

'All right, if you must have it! What Cora said at the funeral worried me. I kept on thinking about it. Finally I decided to run down in the car and see her, and ask her what had put the idea into her head. Greg thought it a silly idea, so I didn't even tell him where I was going. I got there about three o'clock, knocked and rang, but there was no answer, so I thought she must be out or gone away. That's all there is to it. I didn't go round to the back of the cottage. If I had, I might have seen the broken window. I just went back to London without the faintest idea there was anything wrong.'

Poirot's face was non-committal. He said:

'Why does your husband accuse himself of the crime?'

'Because he's -' a word trembled on Susan's tongue and was rejected. Poirot seized on it.

'You were going to say 'because he is batty' speaking in jest – but the jest was too near the truth, was it not?'

'Greg's all right. He is. He is.'

'I know something of his history,' said Poirot. 'He was for some months in Forsdyke House Mental Home before you met him.'

'He was never certified. He was a voluntary patient.'

'That is true. He is not, I agree, to be classed as insane. But he is, very definitely, unbalanced. He has a punishment complex has had it, I suspect, since infancy.'

Susan spoke quickly and eagerly:

'You don't understand, M. Poirot. Greg has never had a chance. That's why I wanted Uncle Richard's money so badly. Uncle Richard was so matter-of-fact. He couldn't understand. I knew Greg had got to set up for himself. He had got to feel he was someone – not just a chemist's assistant, being pushed around. Everything will be different now. He will have his own laboratory. He can work out his own formulas.'

'Yes, yes – you will give him the earth – because you love him. Love him too much for safety or for happiness. But you cannot give to people what they are incapable of receiving. At the end of it all, he will still be something that he does not want to be…'

'What's that?'

'Susan's husband.'

'How cruel you are! And what nonsense you talk!'

'Where Gregory Banks is concerned you are unscrupulous. You wanted your uncle's money – not for yourself – but for your husband. How badly did you want it?'

Angrily, Susan turned and dashed away.

V

'I thought,' said Michael Shane lightly, 'that I'd just come along and say good-bye.'

He smiled, and his smile had a singularly intoxicating quality.

Poirot was aware of the man's vital charm.

He studied Michael Shane for some moments in silence. He felt as though he knew this man least well of all the house party, for Michael Shane only showed the side he wanted to show.

'Your wife,' said Poirot conversationally, 'is a very unusual woman.'

Michael raised his eyebrows.

'Do you think so? She's a lovely, I agree. But not, or so I've found, conspicuous for brains.'

'She will never try to be too clever,' Poirot agreed. 'But she knows what she wants.' He sighed. 'So few people do.'

'Ah!' Michael's smile broke out again. 'Thinking of the malachite table?'

'Perhaps.' Poirot paused and added: 'And of what was on it.'

'The wax flowers, you mean?'

'The wax flowers.'

Michael frowned.

'I don't always quite understand you, M. Poirot.' However, the smile was switched on again, 'I'm more thankful than I can say that we're all out of the wood. It's unpleasant to say the least of it, to go around with the suspicion that somehow or other one of us murdered poor old Uncle Richard.'

'That is how he seemed to you when you met him?' Poirot inquired. 'Poor old Uncle Richard?'

'Of course he was very well preserved and all that -'

'And in full possession of his faculties -'

'Oh yes.'

'And, in fact, quite shrewd?'

'I dare say.'

'A shrewd judge of character.'

The smile remained unaltered.

'You can't expect me to agree with that, M. Poirot. He didn't approve of me.'

'He thought you, perhaps, the unfaithful type?' Poirot suggested.

Michael laughed.