suppositions, of inferences made from the character of a dead woman, or from a few irresponsible words. But he will not be averse to my telling you – no, he will be relieved. He does not wish to appear foolish or or fanciful, but he wants to know what may – only may – be the facts.'
Poirot paused as Georges entered with a glass of beer.
'Some refreshment, Inspector. No, no, I insist.'
'Won't you join me?'
'I do not drink the beer. But I will myself have a glass of sirop de cassis – the English they do not care for it, I have noticed.'
Inspector Morton looked gratefully at his beer.
Poirot, sipping delicately from his glass of dark purple fluid, said:
'It begins, all this, at a funeral. Or rather, to be exact, after the funeral.'
Graphically, with many gestures he set forth the story as Mr Entwhistle had told it to him, but with such embellishments as his exuberant nature suggested. One almost felt that Hercule Poirot had himself been an eye- witness of the scene.
Inspector Morton had an excellent clear-cut brain. He seized at once on what were, for his purposes, the salient points.
'This Mr Abernethie may have been poisoned?'
'It is a possibility.'
'And the body has been cremated and there is no evidence?'
'Exactly.'
Inspector Morton ruminated.
'Interesting. There's nothing in it for us. Nothing, that is, to make Richard Abernethie's death worth investigating. It would be waste of time.'
'Yes.'
'But there are the people – the people who were there – the people who heard Cora Lansquenet say what she did, and one of whom may have thought that she might say it again and with more detail.'
'As she undoubtedly would have. There are, Inspector, as you say, the people. And now you see why I was at the inquest, why I interest myself in the case – because it is, always, people in whom I interest myself.'
'Then the attack on Miss Gilchrist -'
'Was always indicated. Richard Abernethie had been down to the cottage. He had talked to Cora. He had, perhaps, actually mentioned a name. The only person who might possibly have known or overheard something was Miss Gilchrist. After Cora is silenced, the murderer might continue to be anxious. Does the other woman know something – anything? Of course, if the murderer is wise he will let well alone, but murderers, Inspector, are seldom wise. Fortunately for us. They brood, they feel uncertain, they desire to make sure – quite sure. They are pleased with their own cleverness. And so, in the end, they protrude their necks, as you say.'
Inspector Morton smiled faintly.
Poirot went on:
'This attempt to silence Miss Gilchrist, already it is a mistake. For now there are two occasions about which you make inquiry. There is the handwriting on the wedding label also. It is a pity the wrapping paper was burnt.'
'Yes, I could have been certain, then, whether it came by post or whether it didn't.'
'You have reason for thinking the latter, you say?'
'It's only what the postman thinks – he's not sure. If the parcel had gone through a village post office, it's ten to one the postmistress would have noticed it, but nowadays the mail is delivered by van from Market Keynes and of course the young chap does quite a round and delivers a lot of things. He thinks it was letters only and no parcel at the cottage – but he isn't sure. As a matter of fact he's having a bit of girl trouble and he can't think about anything else. I've tested his memory and he isn't reliable in any way. If he did deliver it, it seems to me odd that the parcel shouldn't have been noticed until after this Mr – whats-his-name – Guthrie -'
'Ah, Mr Guthrie.'
Inspector Morton smiled.
'Yes, M. Poirot. We're checking up on him. After all, it would be easy, wouldn't it, to come along with a plausible tale of having been a friend of Mrs Lansquenet's. Mrs Banks wasn't to know if he was or he wasn't. He could have dropped that little parcel, you know. It's easy to make a thing look as though it's been through the post. Lamp black a little smudged, makes quite a good postmark cancellation mark over a stamp.'
He paused and then added:
'And there are other possibilities.'
Poirot nodded.
'You think -?'
'Mr George Crossfield was down in that part of the world – but not until the next day. Meant to attend the funeral, but had a little engine trouble on the way. Know anything about him, M. Poirot?'
'A little. But not as much as I would like to know.'
'Like that, is it? Quite a little bunch interested in the late Mr Abernethie's will, I understand. I hope it doesn't mean going after all of them.'
'I have accumulated a little information. It is at your disposal. Naturally I have no authority to ask these people questions. In, fact it would not be wise for me to do so.'
'I shall go slowly myself. You don't want to fluster your bird too soon. But when you do fluster it, you want to fluster it well.'
'A very sound technique. For you then, my friend, the routine – with all the machinery you have at your disposal. It is slow – but sure. For myself -'
'Yes, M. Poirot?'
'For myself, I go North. As I have told you, it is people in whom I interest myself. Yes – a little preparatory camouflage – and I go North.
'I intend,' added Hercule Poirot, 'to purchase a country mansion for foreign refugees. I represent UNARCO.'
'And what's UNARCO?'
'United Nations Aid for Refugee Centres Organisation. It sounds well, do you not think?'
Inspector Morton grinned.
Chapter 14
Hercule Poirot said to a grim-faced Janet:
'Thank you very much. You have been most kind.'
Janet, her lips still fixed in a sour line, left the room. These foreigners! The questions they asked. Their impertinence! All very well to say that he was a specialist interested in unsuspected heart conditions such as Mr Abernethie must have suffered from. That was very likely true – gone very sudden the master had, and the doctor had been surprised. But what business was it of some foreign doctor coming along and nosing around?
All very well for Mrs Leo to say: 'Please answer Monsieur Pontarlier's questions. He has a good reason for asking.'
Questions. Always questions. Sheets of them sometimes to fill in as best you could – and what did the Government or anyone else want to know about your private affairs for? Asking your age at that census – downright impertinent and she hadn't told them, either! Cut off five years she had. Why not? If she only felt fifty-four, she'd call herself fifty-four!
At any rate Monsieur Pontarlier hadn't wanted to know her age. He'd had some decency. Just questions about the medicines the master had taken, and where they were kept, and if, perhaps, he might have taken too much of them if he was feeling not quite the thing – or if he'd been forgetful. As though she could remember all that rubbish – the master knew what he was doing! And asking if any of the medicines he took were still in the house. Naturally they'd all been thrown away. Heart condition – and some long word he'd used. Always thinking of
