‘But not desperate,’ Mr Entwhistle pointed out. ‘It’s the desperation that counts.’
‘Are you thinking of something in particular?’
‘Oh no, not at all.’ He paused then went on: ‘It will be a little time before the estate is settled; would it be convenient for you to have an advance?’
‘As a matter of fact, I was going to raise the subject. However, I saw the Bank this morning and referred them to you and they were quite obliging about an overdraft.’
Again there came that flicker in George’s eyes, and Mr Entwhistle, from the depths of his experience, recognized it. George, he felt certain, had been, if not desperate, then in very sore straits for money. He knew at that moment, what he had felt subconsciously all along, that in money matters he would not trust George. He wondered if old Richard Abernethie, who also had had great experience in judging men, had felt that. Mr Entwhistle was also sure that after Mortimer’s death, Abernethie had formed the intention of making George his heir. George was not an Abernethie, but he was the only male of the younger generation. He was the natural successor to Mortimer. Richard Abernethie had sent for George, had had him staying in the house for some days. It seemed probable that at the end of the visit the older man had not found George satisfactory. Had he felt instinctively, as Mr Entwhistle felt, that George was not straight? George’s father, so the family had thought, had been a poor choice on Laura’s part. A stockbroker who had had other rather mysterious activities. George took after his father rather than after the Abernethies.
Perhaps misinterpreting the old lawyer’s silence, George said with an uneasy laugh:
‘Truth is, I’ve not been very lucky with my investments lately. I took a bit of a risk and it didn’t come off. More or less cleaned me out. But I’ll be able to recoup myself now. All one needs is a bit of capital. Ardens Consolidated are pretty good, don’t you think?’
Mr Entwhistle neither agreed nor dissented. He was wondering if by any chance George had been speculating with money that belonged to clients and not with his own? If George had been in danger of criminal prosecution –
Mr Entwhistle said precisely:
‘I tried to reach you the day after the funeral, but I suppose you weren’t in the office.’
‘Did you? They never told me. As a matter of fact, I thought I was entitled to a day off after the good news!’
‘The good news?’
George reddened.
‘Oh look here, I didn’t mean Uncle Richard’s death. But knowing you’ve come into money does give one a bit of a kick. One feels one must celebrate. As a matter of fact I went to Hurst Park. Backed two winners. It never rains but it pours! If your luck’s in, it’s in! Only a matter of fifty quid, but it all helps.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘It all helps. And there will now be an additional sum coming to you as a result of your Aunt Cora’s death.’
George looked concerned.
‘Poor old girl,’ he said. ‘It does seem rotten luck, doesn’t it? Probably just when she was all set to enjoy herself.’
‘Let us hope the police will find the person responsible for her death,’ said Mr Entwhistle.
‘I expect they’ll get him all right. They’re good, our police. They round up all the undesirables in the neighbourhood and go through ’em with a tooth comb – make them account for their actions at the time it happened.’
‘Not so easy if a little time has elapsed,’ said Mr Entwhistle. He gave a wintry little smile that indicated he was about to make a joke. ‘I myself was in Hatchard’s bookshop at 3.30 on the day in question. Should I remember that if I were questioned by the police in ten days’ time? I very much doubt it. And you, George, you were at Hurst Park. Would you remember which day you went to the races in – say – a month’s time?’
‘Oh I could fix it by the funeral – the day after.’
‘True – true. And then you backed a couple of winners. Another aid to memory. One seldom forgets the names of a horse on which one has won money. Which were they, by the way?’
‘Let me see. Gaymarck and Frogg II. Yes, I shan’t forget them in a hurry.’
Mr Entwhistle gave his dry little cackle of laughter and took his leave.
III
‘It’s lovely to see you, of course,’ said Rosamund without any marked enthusiasm. ‘But it’s frightfully early in the morning.’
She yawned heavily.
‘It’s eleven o’clock,’ said Mr Entwhistle.
Rosamund yawned again. She said apologetically:
‘We had the hell of a party last night. Far too much to drink. Michael’s got a terrible hangover still.’
Michael appeared at this moment, also yawning. He had a cup of black coffee in his hand and was wearing a very smart dressing-gown. He looked haggard and attractive – and his smile had the usual charm. Rosamund was wearing a black skirt, a rather dirty yellow pullover, and nothing else as far as Mr Entwhistle could judge.
The precise and fastidious lawyer did not approve at all of the young Shanes’ way of living. The rather ramshackle flat on the first floor of a Chelsea house – the bottles and glasses and cigarette ends that lay about in profusion – the stale air, and the general air of dust and dishevelment.
In the midst of this discouraging setting Rosamund and Michael bloomed with their wonderful good looks. They were certainly a very handsome couple and they seemed, Mr Entwhistle thought, very fond of each other. Rosamund was certainly adoringly fond of Michael.
‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Do you think just a teeny sip of champagne? Just to pull us together and toast the future. Oh, Mr Entwhistle, it really is the most marvellous luck Uncle Richard leaving us all that lovely money just now –’
Mr Entwhistle noted the quick, almost scowling, frown that Michael gave, but Rosamund went on serenely:
‘Because there’s the most wonderful chance of a play. Michael’s got an option on it. It’s a most wonderful part for him and even a small part for me, too. It’s about one of these young criminals, you know, they are really saints – it’s absolutely full of the latest modern ideas.’
‘So it would seem,’ said Mr Entwhistle stiffly.
‘He robs, you know, and he kills, and he’s hounded by the police and by society – and then in the end, he does a miracle.’
Mr Entwhistle sat in outraged silence. Pernicious nonsense these young fools talked! And wrote.
Not that Michael Shane was talking much. There was still a faint scowl on his face.
‘Mr Entwhistle doesn’t want to hear all our rhapsodies, Rosamund,’ he said. ‘Shut up for a bit and let him tell us why he’s come to see us.’
‘There are just one or two little matters to straighten out,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘I have just come back from Lytchett St Mary.’
‘Then it was Aunt Cora who was murdered? We saw it in the paper. And I said it must be because it’s a very uncommon name. Poor old Aunt Cora. I was looking at her at the funeral that day and thinking what a frump she was and that really one might as well be dead if one looked like that – and now she is dead. They absolutely wouldn’t believe it last night when I told them that that murder with the hatchet in the paper was actually my aunt! They just laughed, didn’t they, Michael?’
Michael Shane did not reply and Rosamund with every appearance of enjoyment said:
‘Two murders one after another. It’s almost too