well again. There would be no more of those alarming brainstorms. The times when he looked at her without seeming to know who she was. Once or twice she'd been quite frightened… And old Mr Cole – he'd hinted – threatened: 'If this happens again…' And it might have happened again – it would have happened again. If Uncle Richard hadn't died just when he did…
Uncle Richard – but really why look at it like that? He'd nothing to live for. Old and tired and ill. His son dead. It was a mercy really. To die in his sleep quietly like that. Quietly… in his sleep… If only she could sleep. It was so stupid lying awake hour after hour… hearing the furniture creak, and the rustling of trees and bushes outside the window and the occasional queer melancholy hoot – an owl, she supposed. How sinister the country was, somehow. So different from the big noisy indifferent town. One felt so safe there – surrounded by people – never alone. Whereas here…
Houses where a murder had been committed were sometimes haunted. Perhaps this cottage would come to be known as the haunted cottage. Haunted by the spirit of Cora Lansquenet… Aunt Cora. Odd, really, how ever since she had arrived she had felt as though Aunt Cora were quite close to her… within reach. All nerves and fancy. Cora Lansquenet was dead, tomorrow she would be buried. There was no one in the cottage except Susan herself and Miss Gilchrist. Then why did she feel that there was someone in this room, someone close beside her…
She had lain on this bed when the hatchet fell… Lying there trustingly asleep… Knowing nothing till the hatchet fell… And now she wouldn't let Susan sleep…
The furniture creaked again… was that a stealthy step? Susan switched on the light. Nothing. Nerves, nothing but nerves. Relax… close your eyes…
Surely that was a groan – a groan or a faint moan… Someone in pain – someone dying…
'I mustn't imagine things, I mustn't, I mustn't,' Susan whispered to herself.
Death was the end – there was no existence after death. Under no circumstances could anyone come back. Or was she reliving a scene from the past – a dying woman groaning…
There it was again… stronger… someone groaning in acute pain…
But – this was real. Once again Susan switched on the light, sat up in bed and listened. The groans were real groans and she was hearing them through the wall. They came from the room next door.
Susan jumped out of bed, flung on a dressing-gown and crossed to the door. She went out on to the landing, tapped for a moment on Miss Gilchrist's door and then went in. Miss Gilchrist's light was on. She was sitting up in bed. She looked ghastly. Her face was distorted with pain.
'Miss Gilchrist, what's the matter. Are you ill?'
'Yes. I don't know what – I -' she tried to get out of bed, was seized with a fit of vomiting and then collapsed back on the pillows.
She murmured: 'Please – ring up doctor. Must have eaten something…'
'I'll get you some bicarbonate. We can get the doctor in the morning if you're not better.'
Miss Gilchrist shook her head.
'No, get doctor now. I – I feel dreadful.'
'Do you know his number? Or shall I look in the book?'
Miss Gilchrist gave her the number. She was interrupted by another fit of retching.
Susan's call was answered by a sleepy male voice.
'Who? Gilchrist? In Mead's Lane. Yes, I know. I'll be right along.'
He was as good as his word. Ten minutes later Susan heard his car draw up outside and she went to open the door to him.
She explained the case as she took him upstairs. 'I think,' she said, 'she must have eaten something that disagreed with her. But she seems pretty bad.'
The doctor had had the air of one keeping his temper in leash and who has had some experience of being called out unnecessarily on more than one occasion. But as soon as he examined the moaning woman his manner changed. He gave various curt orders to Susan and presently came down and telephoned. Then he joined Susan in the sitting-room.
'I've sent for an ambulance. Must get her into hospital.'
'She's really bad then?'
'Yes. I've given her a shot of morphia to ease the pain. But it looks -' He broke off. 'What's she eaten?'
'We had macaroni au gratin for supper and a custard pudding. Coffee afterwards.'
'You have the same things?'
'Yes.'
'And you're all right? No pain or discomfort?'
'No.'
'She's taken nothing else? No tinned fish? Or sausages?'
'No. We had lunch at the King's Arms – after the inquest.'
'Yes, of course. You're Mrs Lansquenet's niece?'
'Yes.'
'That was a nasty business. Hope they catch the man who did it.'
'Yes, indeed.'
The ambulance came. Miss Gilchrist was taken away and the doctor went with her. He told Susan he would ring her up in the morning. When he had left she went upstairs to bed. This time she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
II
The funeral was well attended. Most of the village had turned out. Susan and Mr Entwhistle were the only mourners, but various wreaths had been sent by the other members of the family. Mr Entwhistle asked where Miss Gilchrist was, and Susan explained the circumstances in a hurried whisper. Mr Entwhistle raised his eyebrows.
'Rather an odd occurrence?'
'Oh, she's better this morning. They rang up from the hospital. People do get these bilious turns. Some make more fuss than others.'
Mr Entwhistle said no more. He was returning to London immediately after the funeral.
Susan went back to the cottage. She found some eggs and made herself an omelette. Then she went up to Cora's room and started to sort through the dead woman's things.
She was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor.
The doctor was looking worried. He replied to Susan's inquiry by saying that Miss Gilchrist was much better.
'She'll be out and around in a couple of days,' he said. 'But it was lucky I got called in so promptly. Otherwise – it might have been a near thing.'
Susan stared. 'Was she really so bad?'
'Mrs Banks, will you tell me again exactly what Miss Gilchrist had to eat and drink yesterday. Everything.'
Susan reflected and gave a meticulous account. The doctor shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
'There must have been something she had and you didn't?'
'I don't think so… Cakes, scones, jam, tea – and then supper. No, I can't remember anything.'
The doctor rubbed his nose. He walked up and down the room.
'Was it definitely something she ate? Definitely food poisoning?'
The doctor threw her a sharp glance. Then he seemed to come to a decision.
'It was arsenic,' he said.
'Arsenic?' Susan stared. 'You mean somebody gave her arsenic?'
'That's what it looks like.'
'Could she have taken it herself? Deliberately, I mean?'
'Suicide? She says not and she should know. Besides, if she wanted to commit suicide she wouldn't be likely
