to do next, and what's important and what is not.'
'Rosamund…'
She sat, her face perplexed, her wide gaze on a middle distance in which Michael, apparently, did not feature.
At the third repetition of her name, she started slightly and came out of her reverie.
'What did you say?'
'I asked you what you were thinking about…'
'Oh? Oh yes, I was wondering if I'd go down to – what is it? – Lytchett St Mary, and see that Miss Somebody – the one who was with Aunt Cora.'
'But why?'
'Well, she'll be going away soon, won't she? To relatives or someone. I don't think we ought to let her go away until we've asked her.'
'Asked her what?'
'Asked her who killed Aunt Cora.'
Michael stared.
'You mean – you think she knows?'
Rosamund said rather absently:
'Oh yes, I expect so… She lived there, you see.'
'But she'd have told the police.'
'Oh, I don't mean she knows that way – I just mean that she's probably quite sure. Because of what Uncle Richard said when he went down there. He did go down there, you know, Susan told me so.'
'But she wouldn't have heard what he said.'
'Oh yes, she would, darling.' Rosamund sounded like someone arguing with an unreasonable child.
'Nonsense, I can hardly see old Richard Abernethie discussing his suspicions of his family before an outsider.'
'Well, of course. She'd have heard it through the door.'
'Eavesdropping, you mean?'
'I expect so – in fact I'm sure. It must be so deadly dull shut up, two women in a cottage and nothing ever happening except washing up and the sink and putting the cat out and things like that. Of course she listened and read letters – anyone would.'
Michael looked at her with something faintly approaching dismay.
'Would you?' he demanded bluntly.
'I wouldn't go and be a companion in the country.' Rosamund shuddered. 'I'd rather die.'
'I meant – would you read letters and – and all that?'
Rosamund said calmly:
'If I wanted to know, yes. Everybody does, don't you think so?'
The limpid gaze met his.
'One just wants to know,' said Rosamund. 'One doesn't want to do anything about it. I expect that's how she feels – Miss Gilchrist, I mean. But I'm certain she knows.'
Michael said in a stifled voice:
'Rosamund, who do you think killed Cora? And old Richard?'
Once again that limpid blue gaze met his.
'Darling – don't be absurd… You know as well as I do. But it's much, much better never to mention it. So we won't.'
Chapter 18
From his seat by the fireplace in the library, Hercule Poirot looked at the assembled company.
His eyes passed thoughtfully over Susan, sitting upright, looking vivid and animated, over her husband, sitting near her, his expression rather vacant and his fingers twisting a loop of string; they went on to George Crossfield, debonair and distinctly pleased with himself, talking about card sharpers on atlantic cruises to Rosamund, who said mechanically, 'How extraordinary, darling. But why?' in a completely uninterested voice; went on to Michael with his very individual type of haggard good looks and his very apparent charm; to Helen, poised and slightly remote; to Timothy, comfortably settled in the best armchair with an extra cushion at his back; and Maude, sturdy and thick- set, in devoted attendance, and finally to the figure sitting with a tinge of apology just beyond the range of the family circle – the figure of Miss Gilchrist wearing a rather peculiar 'dressy' blouse. Presently, he judged, she would get up, murmur an excuse and leave the family gathering and go up to her room. Miss Gilchrist, he thought, knew her place. She had learned it the hard way.
Hercule Poirot sipped his after-dinner coffee and between half-closed lids made his appraisal.
He had wanted them there – all together, and he had got them. And what, he thought to himself, was he going to do with them now? He felt a sudden weary distaste for going on with the business. Why was that, he wondered? Was it the influence of Helen Abernethie? There was a quality of passive resistance about her that seemed unexpectedly strong. Had she, while apparently graceful and unconcerned, managed to impress her own reluctance upon him? She was averse to this raking up of the details of old Richard's death, he knew that. She wanted it left alone, left to die out into oblivion. Poirot was not surprised by that. What did surprise him was his own disposition to agree with her.
Mr Entwhistle's account of the family had, he realised, been admirable. He had described all these people shrewdly and well. With the old lawyer's knowledge and appraisal to guide him, Poirot had wanted to see for himself. He had fancied that, meeting these people intimately, he would have a very shrewd idea – not of how and when – (those were questions with which he did not propose to concern himself. Murder had been possible – that was all he needed to know!) but of who. For Hercule Poirot had a lifetime of experience behind him, and as a man who deals with pictures can recognise the artist, so Poirot believed he could recognise a likely type of the amateur criminal who will – if his own particular need arises be prepared to kill.
But it was not to be so easy.
Because he could visualise almost all of those people as a possible – though not a probable – murderer. George might kill – as the cornered rat kills. Susan calmly – efficiently – to further a plan. Gregory because he had that queer morbid streak which discounts and invites, almost craves, punishment. Michael because he was ambitious and had a murderer's cocksure vanity. Rosamund because she was frighteningly simple in outlook. Timothy because he had hated and resented his brother and had craved the power his brother's money would give. Maude because Timothy was her child and where her child was concerned she would be ruthless. Even Miss Gilchrist, he thought, might have contemplated murder if it could have restored to her the Willow Tree in its ladylike glory!
And Helen? He could not see Helen as committing murder. She was too civilised – too removed from violence. And she and her husband had surely loved Richard Abernethie.
Poirot sighed to himself. There were to be no short cuts to the truth, Instead he would have to adopt a longer, but a reasonably sure method. There would have to be conversation. Much conversation. For in the long run, either through a lie, or through truth, people were bound to give themselves away…
He had been introduced by Helen to the gathering, and had set to work to overcome the almost universal annoyance caused by his presence – a foreign stranger! – in this family gathering. He had used his eyes and his ears. He had watched and listened – openly and behind doors! He had noticed affinities, antagonisms, the unguarded words that arose as always when property was to be divided. He had engineered adroitly tete-a-tetes, walks upon the terrace, and had made his deductions and observations. He had talked with Miss Gilchrist about the vanished glories of her tea-shop and about the correct composition of brioches and chocolate eclairs and had visited the kitchen garden with her to discuss the proper use of herbs in cooking. He had spent some long half-hours listening to Timothy talking about his own health and about the effect upon it of paint.
Paint? Poirot frowned. Somebody else had said some thing about paint – Mr Entwhistle?
There had also been discussion of a different kind of painting. Pierre Lansquenet as a painter. Cora
