AFTER THE FUNERAL.

BY AGATHA CHRISTIE.

CHAPTER I

OLD LANs...o...b.. moved totteringly from room to room, pulling up the blinds. Now and then he peered with screwed up rheumy eyes through the windows.

Soon they would be coming back from the funeral. He shuffled along a little faster. There were so many windows.

Enderby Hall was a vast Victorian house built in the Gothic style. In every room the curtains were of rich faded brocade or velvet. Some of the walls were still hung with faded silk.

In the green drawing-room, the old butler glanced up at the portrait above the mantelpiece of old Cornelius Abernethie for whom Enderby Hall had been built. Cornelius Abernethie's brown beard stuck forward aggressively, his hand rested on a terrestrial globe, whether by desire of the sitter, or as a symbolic conceit on the part 'of the artist, no one could tell.

A very forceful looking gentleman, s6 old Lans...o...b.. had always thought, and was glad that he himself had never known him personally. Mr. Richard had been his gentleman. A good master, Mr. Richard. And taken very sudden, he'd been, though of course the doctor had been attending him for some little time. Ah, but the master had never recovered from the shock of young Mr. Mortimer's death. The old man shook his head as he hurried through a connecting door into the White Boudoir. Terrible, that had been, a real catastrophe.

Such a fine upstanding young gentleman, so strong and healthy. You'd never have thought such a thing likely to happen to him. Pitiful, it had been, quite pitiful. And Mr. Gordon killed in the war. One thing on top of another.

That was the way things went nowadays. Too much for the master, it had been. And yet he'd seemed almost himself a week ago.

The third blind in the White Boudoir refused to go up as it should. It went up a little way and stuck. The springs were weak--that's what it was--very old, these blinds were, like everything else in the house. And you couldn't get these old things mended nowadays. Too old-fashioned, that's what they'd say, shaking their heads in that silly superior way--as if the old things weren't a great deal better than the new ones! He could tell them that! Gimcrack, half the new stuff was---ca,ne to pieces in your hand. The material wasn't good, or the craftsmanship either. Oh yes, could tell them.

Couldn't do nything about this blind unless he got the steps. He didn t like climbing up the steps much, these days, made him come over iddy. Anyway, he'd leave the blind for now. It didn't matter, since the White Boudoir didn't face the front of the house where it would be seen as the cars came back from the funeral-and it wasn't as though the room was ever used nowadays. It was a lady's room, this, and there hadn't been a lady ,a,t Enderby for a long while now. A pity Mr. Mortimer hadn t married. Always going off to Norway for fishing and to Scotland for shooting and to Switzerland for those winter sports, instead of marrying some NICE youn lady and settling down at home with children running about the house. It was a long time since there had been any ch/ldren in the house.

And Lans...o...b..'s mind went ranging back to a time that stood out clearly and distinctly--much more distinctly than the last twenty years or so, which were all blurred and confused and he couldn't really remember who had come ad gone or indeed what they looked like. But he could remember the old days well enough.

More like a father to those young brothers and sisters of his, Mr. Richard had been. Twenty-four when his father had died, and he'd pitched in right away to the business, going off every lay as punctual as clockwork, and keeping the house runnin and everything as lavish as it could be. A very happy household with all those young ladies and gentlemen rowin up. Fights and quarrels now and again, of course, and those governesses had had a bad time of it I Poor sp/rited creatures, governesses, Lans...o...b.. had always despised them. Very sp/rited the young ladies had been. Miss Geraldine in particular.

Miss Cora, too, although she was so much younger.

And now Mr. Leo was dead, and Miss Laura gone too. And Mr. Timothy such a sad invalid. And Miss Geraldine dying somewhere abroad. And Mr. Gordon killed in the war.

Although he was the eldest, Mr. Richard himself turned out the strongest of the lot. Outlived them all, he had---at least not quite because Mr. Timothy was still alive and little Miss Cora who'd married that unpleasant artist chap. Twenty-five years since he'd seen her and she'd been a pretty young girl when she went of/with that chap, and now he'd hardly have known her, rown so stout--and so arty-crafty in her dress! A Frenchman her husband had been, or nearly a Frenchman--and no good ever came of marrying one of them I But Miss Cora had always been a bit--well, simple like you'd call it if she'd lived in a village. Always one of them in a family. "Why, it's Lans...o...b.. I"

She'd remembered him all right.

she'd said and seemed ever so pleased to see him. Ah, they'd all been fond of him in the old days and when there was a dinner party they'd crept down to the pantry and he d gave them jelly an,d. Charlotte Russe when it came out of the.dining-room.

They d all known old Lans...o...b.., and now there was hardly anyone who remembered. Just the younger lot whom he could never keep clear in his mind and who just thought of him as a butler who'd been there a long time. A lot of strangers, he had thought, when they all arrived for the funeral--and a seedy lot of strangers at that I Not Mrs. Leo--she was different. She and Mr. Leo had come here off and on ever since Mr. Leo married. She was a nice lady, Mrs. Leo---a rea/lady. Wore proper clothes and did her hair well and looked what she was. And the master had always ben fond of her. A pity that she and Mr. Leo had never had any children ....

Lans...o...b.. roused himself; what was he doing standing here and dreaming about old days with so much to be done ?

The blinds were all attended to on the ground floor now, and he'd told Janet' to go upstairs and do the bedrooms. He and Janet and the cook had gone to the funeral service in the church but instead of going on to the Crematorium they'd driven back to the house to get the blinds up and the lunch ready. Cold lunch, of course, it had to be. Ham and chicken and tongue and salad. With cold le,mon souffi and apple tart to follow. Hot soup first--and he d better go along and see that Mariorie had got it on ready to serve, for they'd be back in a minute or two now for certain.

Lans...o...b.. broke into a shuffling trot across the room. His gaze, abstracted and uncurious, just swept up to the picture over this mantelpiece--the companion portrait to the one in the green drawing-room. It was a nice painting of white satin and pearls. The human being round whom they were draped and clasped was not nearly so impressive. Meek features, a rosebud mouth, hair parted in the middle. A woman both modest and una.s.suming. The only thing really worthy of note about Mrs. Cornelius Abernethie had been her name--Coralie.

For over sixty years after their original appearance, Corm Cornplasters and the allied "Coral" foot preparations still always been a good devoted wife to Timothy. Looking after his health, fussing over him--fussing over him a bit too much, probably. Was there really anything the matter with Timothy ? Just a hypochondriac, Mr. Entwhistle suspected.

Richard Abernethie had suspected so, too. "Weak chest, of course, when he was a boy," he had said. "But blest if I think there's much wrong with him now." Oh well, everybody had to have some hobby. Timotly's hobby was the all absorbing one of his own health. Was Mrs. Tim taken in ?

Probably not--but women never admitted that sort of thing.

Timothy must be quite comfortably off. He'd never been a spendthrift. However, the extra would not come amiss--not in these days of taxation. He'd probably had to retrench his scale of living a good deal since the war.

Mr. Entwhistle transferred his attention to George Cross-field, Laura's son. Dubious sort of fellow Laura had married.

n.o.body had ever known much about him. A stockbroker he had called himself. Young George was in a solicitor's office--not a very reputable firm. Good-looking young fellow--but something a little shifty about him. He couldn't have too much to live on. Laura had been a complete fool over her investments. She'd left next to nothing when she died five years ago. A handsome romantic girl, she'd been, but no money sense.

Mr. Entwhistle's eyes went on from George Crossfield.

Which of the two girls was which ? Ah yes, that was Rosamund, Geraldine's daughter, looking at the wax flowers on the malachite table. Pretty girl, beautiful, in fact--rather a silly face. On the stage. Repertory companies or some nonsense like that. Had married an actor, too. Good-looking fellow. "And knows he is," thought Mr. Entwhistle, who was prejudiced against the stage as a profession. "Wonder what sort of a background he has and where he comes from."

He looked disapprovingly at Michael Shane with his fair hair and his haggard charm.

Now Susan, Gordon's daughter, would do much better on the stage than Rosamund. More personality. A little too much personality for everyday life, perhaps. She was quite near him and Mr. Entwhistle studied her covertly. Dark hair, hazel--almost golden-eyes, a sulky attractive mouth. Beside her was the husband she had just married--a chemist's a.s.sistant, he understood. Really, a chemist's a.s.sistant I In Mr. Entwhistle's creed girls did not marry young men who served behind a counter. But now of course, they married anybody I The young man, who had a pale nondescript face IO

ir. seemed very ill at ease. Mr. Entwhistle and sand, y ,ha c,-, aoided Eharitably that it was the strmn wonaere of his wife's relations.

of meeting so many ;* came to Cora Lans-.

Last m his Y 'L -- :--qce in that, for Cora h,a,d quenet. There was a certain .. n afterthought in the family. Richard decidedly b.een a, . ho her mother was just youngest sister, she tiaa vein v- n on fifty, and that meek woman had not survived her tenth children had died in infancy). Poor little pregnancy (ehrr fe, Cora had been rather an embarra.s.sment.

Cora I All d awkv, and given to blurting out remarks owing up tall an g . ' I1 her elder tat had always better have remained unsaid. A brothers and sisters had been very kind to Cora, atoning for her deficiencies and covering her social mistakes.

It had d to anyone that Cora would marry. She never really occurre -,:- ,i,1 and her rather obvious had not been a .very arracu li'usuall" caused the latter ' oull men na advances to ms,ting ,Y -- g . + ,n r. Entwhistle mused, to retreat in some amrm. ,,, , M e Lans uenet business--Pierre Lansquenet, there had come.th . ? c in an Art school half French, whom she naa vn, painting where she had been having very correct lessons in flowers in water colours. But somehow she had got into the Life cla.s.s and there she had met Pierre Lansquenet and had come home and announced her intention of marr,yi,g him: Richard Abernethie had put his foot down--he hadn t hked ierre Lansouenet and suspected that the what he saw of P,, .

o wife But whilst he voun man was r y - .--,- -o,, enet s anteceden.,

ew researches mtn ,-,o-i u . d was making a .f ..fed h m out of hun

Cora had bolted with the fellow and marr st of their married life in Brittany and The had seen} mo . -, ' al haunts Lansquenet Co'r all and other painters couventwn

had been a very bad painter and not, by M1 accounts, a very nice man, but Cora had remained devoted to him and had never forgive.n her f,a.mi l.y for the -::ttettuadneatl ?;?r celcaod n had generously m Y. - ' He doubted that they had, so Mr. Entwhtstle believed, lived.

ii Lansquenet had ever earned any money at all. He must . w twelve years or more, thought Mr. Ent- have been de-ad no , ' .- ..a.

ath cushion-hke ....... re was nm w,uu,,, .....

er whistle.

And now ed in wisny artistic black with festoons of

i.n shape, and d.

re.ss , ' ;h of her girlhood, movin g abo?

let beads, .vacl .m rue Ir .

recalled some ctxiktmn memory.

of grief at her brother s death.

But then, Mr.

Entwhistle reflected, Cora had never pretended.

II

Re-entering the room Lans...o...b.. murmured in muted tones suitable to the occasion: "Luncleon is served."

CHAPTER II

AITER THE delicious chicken soup, and plenty of cold viands accompanied by an excellent chablis, the funeral atmosphere lightened. n.o.body had really felt any deep grief for Richard Abernethie's death since none of them had had any close ties with him. Their behaviour had been suitably decorous and subdued (with the exception of the uninhibited Cora who was clearly enjoying herself) but it was now felt that the decencies had been observed and that normal conversation could be resumed. Mr. Entwhistle encouraged this att.i.tude. He was experienced in funerals and knew exactly how to set correct funeral timing.

After the meal was over, Lans...o...b.. indicated the library for coffee. This was his feeling for niceties. The time had come when business in other words, The Will--would be discussed. The hbrary had the proper atmosphere for that with its bookshelves and its heavy red velvet curtains. He served coffee to them there and then withdrew, closing the door.

After a few desultory remarks, everyone began to look tentatively at Mr. Entwhistle. He responded promptly after glancing at his watch.

"I have to catch the 3.30 train," he began.

Others, it seemed, also had to catch that train.

"As you know," said Mr. Entwhistle, "I am the executor of Richard Abernethie's will "

He was interrupted.

"I didn't know," said Cora Lansquenet brightly. "Are you ? Did he leave me anything ?"

Not for the first time, Mr. Entwhistle felt that Cora was too apt to speak out of turn.

Bending a repressive glance at her he continued: "Up to a year ago, Richard Abernethie's will was very simple. Subject to certain legacies he left everything to his son Mortimer."

"Poor Mortimer," said Cora. "I do think all this infantile paralysis is dreadful."

"Mortimer's death, coming so suddenly and tragically, was a great blow to Richard. It took him some months to rally

from it. I pointed out to him that it might be advisable for

him to make new testamentary dispositions."

Maude Abernethie asked in her deep voice:

"What would have happened if he hadn't made a new will ?