representations of Brixham harbour, Cockington Forge, Anstey's Cove, Kyance Cove, Polflexan harbour, Babbacombe Bay, etc., all signed in a dashing way, Cora Lansquenet. Her eyes rested with particular fondness on Polflexan harbour. On the chest of drawers a faded photograph carefully framed represented the Willow Teashop. Miss Gilchrist looked at it lovingly and sighed.
She was disturbed from her reverie by the sound of the door bell below.
'Dear me,' murmured Miss Gilchrist,' I wonder who -'
She went out of her room and down the rather rickety stairs. The bell sounded again and there was a sharp knock.
For some reason Miss Gilchrist felt nervous. For a moment or two her steps slowed up, then she went rather unwillingly to the door, adjuring herself not to be so silly.
A young woman dressed smartly in black and carrying a small suitcase was standing on the step. She noticed the alarmed look on Miss Gilchrist's face and said quickly:
'Miss Gilchrist? I am Mrs Lansquenet's niece – Susan Banks.'
'Oh dear, yes, of course. I didn't know. Do come in, Mrs Banks. Mind the hall-stand – it sticks out a little. In here, yes. I didn't know you were coming down for the inquest. I'd have had something ready – some coffee or something.'
Susan Banks said briskly:
'I don't want anything. I'm so sorry if I startled you.'
'Well, you know you did, in a way. It's very silly of me. I'm not usually nervous. In fact I told the lawyer that I wasn't nervous, and that I wouldn't be nervous staying on here alone, and really I'm not nervous. Only – perhaps it's just the inquest and – and thinking of things, but I have been jumpy all this morning. Just about half an hour ago the bell rang and I could hardly bring myself to open the door – which was really very stupid and so unlikely that a murderer would come back – and why should he? – and actually it was only a nun, collecting for an orphanage – and I was so relieved I gave her two shillings although I'm not a Roman Catholic and indeed have no sympathy with the Roman Church and all these monks and nuns though I believe the Little Sisters of the Poor do really do good work. But do please sit down, Mrs – Mrs -'
'Banks.'
'Yes, of course, Banks. Did you come down by train?'
'No, I drove down. The lane seemed so narrow I ran the car on a little way and found a sort of old quarry I backed it into.'
'This lane is very narrow, but there's hardly ever any traffic along here. It's rather a lonely road.'
Miss Gilchrist gave a little shiver as she said those last words.
Susan Banks was looking round the room.
'Poor old Aunt Cora,' she said. 'She left what she had to me, you know.'
'Yes, I know. Mr Entwhistle told me. I expect you'll be glad of the furniture. You're newly married, I understand, and furnishing is such an expense nowadays. Mrs Lansquenet had some very nice things.'
Susan did not agree. Cora had had no taste for the antique. The contents varied between 'modernistic' pieces and the 'arty' type.
'I shan't want any of the furniture,' she said. 'I've got my own, you know. I shall put it up for auction. Unless – is there any of it you would like? I'd be very glad…'
She stopped, a little embarrassed. But Miss Gilchrist was not at all embarrassed. She beamed.
'Now really, that's very kind of you, Mrs Banks – yes, very kind indeed. I really do appreciate it. But actually, you know, I have my own things. I put them in store in case – some day – I should need them. There are some pictures my father left too. I had a small tea-shop at one time, you know – but then the war came – it was all very unfortunate. But I didn't sell up everything, because I did hope to have my own little home again one day, so I put the best things in store with my father's pictures and some relics of our old home. But I would like very much, if you really wouldn't mind, to have that little painted tea table of dear Mrs Lansquenet's. Such a pretty thing and we always had tea on it.'
Susan, looking with a slight shudder at a small green table painted with large purple clematis, said quickly that she would be delighted for Miss Gilchrist to have it.
'Thank you wry much, Mrs Banks. I feel a little greedy. I've got all her beautiful pictures, you know, and a lovely amethyst brooch, but I feel that perhaps I ought to give that back to you.'
'No, no, indeed.'
'You'll want to go through her things? After the inquest, perhaps?'
'I thought I'd stay here a couple of days, go through things, and clear everything up.'
'Sleep here, you mean?'
'Yes. Is there any difficulty?'
'Oh no, Mrs Banks, of course not. I'll put fresh sheets on my bed, and I can doss down here on the couch quite well.'
'But there's Aunt Cora's room, isn't there? I can sleep in that.'
'You – you wouldn't mind?'
'You mean because she was murdered there? Oh no, I wouldn't mind. I'm very tough, Miss Gilchrist. It's been – I mean – it's all right again?'
Miss Gilchrist understood the question.
'Oh yes, Mrs Banks. All the blankets sent away to the cleaners and Mrs Panter and I scrubbed the whole room out thoroughly. And there are plenty of spare blankets. But come up and see for yourself.'
She led the way upstairs and Susan followed her.
The room where Cora Lansquenet had died was clean and fresh and curiously devoid of any sinister atmosphere. Like the sitting-room it contained a mixture of modern utility and elaborately painted furniture. It represented Cora's cheerful tasteless personality. Over the mantelpiece an oil painting showed a buxom young woman about to enter her bath.
Susan gave a slight shudder as she looked at it and Miss Gilchrist said:
'That was painted by Mrs Lansquenet's husband. There are a lot of more of his pictures in the dining-room downstairs.'
'How terrible.'
'Well, I don't care very much for that style of painting myself – but Mrs Lansquenet was very proud of her husband as an artist and thought that his work was sadly unappreciated.'
'Where are Aunt Cora's own pictures?'
'In my room. Would you like to see them?'
Miss Gilchrist displayed her treasures proudly.
Susan remarked that Aunt Cora seemed to have been fond of sea coast resorts.
'Oh yes. You see, she lived for many years with Mr Lansquenet at a small fishing village in Brittany. Fishing boats are always so picturesque, are they not?'
'Obviously,' Susan murmured. A whole series of picture postcards could, she thought, have been made from Cora Lansquenet's paintings which were faithful to detail and very highly coloured. They gave rise to the suspicion that they might actually have been painted from picture postcards.
But when she hazarded this opinion Miss Gilchrist was indignant. Mrs Lansquenet always painted from Nature! Indeed, once she had had a touch of the sun from reluctance to leave a subject when the light was just right.
'Mrs Lansquenet was a real artist,' said Miss Gilchrist reproachfully.
She glanced at her watch and Susan said quickly:
'Yes, we ought to start for the inquest. Is it far? Shall I get the car?'
It was only five minutes' walk, Miss Gilchrist assured her. So they set out together on foot. Mr Entwhistle, who had come down by train, met them and shepherded them into the Village Hall.
There seemed to be a large number of strangers present. The inquest was not sensational. There was evidence of identification of the deceased. Medical evidence as to the nature of the wounds that had killed her. There were no signs of a struggle. Deceased was probably under a narcotic at the time she was attacked and would have been taken quite unawares. Death was unlikely to have occurred later than four-thirty. Between two and four-thirty was the nearest approximation. Miss Gilchrist testified to finding the body. A police constable and
