LITMIR.BIZ

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it was the strain of meeting so many of his wife’s relations.

      Last in his survey Mr Entwhistle came to Cora Lansquenet. There was a certain justice in that, for Cora had decidedly been an afterthought in the family. Richard’s youngest sister, she had been born when her mother was just on fifty, and that meek woman had not survived her tenth pregnancy (three children had died in infancy). Poor little Cora! All her life, Cora had been rather an embarrassment, growing up tall and gawky, and given to blurting out remarks that had always better have remained unsaid. All her elder brothers and sisters had been very kind to Cora, atoning for her deficiencies and covering her social mistakes. It had never really occurred to anyone that Cora would marry. She had not been a very attractive girl, and her rather obvious advances to visiting young men had usually caused the latter to retreat in some alarm. And then, Mr Entwhistle mused, there had come the Lansquenet business – Pierre Lansquenet, half French, whom she had come across in an Art school where she had been having very correct lessons in painting flowers in water colours. But somehow she had got into the Life class and there she had met Pierre Lansquenet and had come home and announced her intention of marrying him. Richard Abernethie had put his foot down – he hadn’t liked what he saw of Pierre Lansquenet and suspected that the young man was really in search of a rich wife. But whilst he was making a few researches into Lansquenet’s antecedents, Cora had bolted with the fellow and married him out of hand. They had spent most of their married life in Brittany and Cornwall and other painters’ conventional haunts. Lansquenet had been a very bad painter and not, by all accounts, a very nice man, but Cora had remained devoted to him and had never forgiven her family for their attitude to him. Richard had generously made his young sister an allowance and on that they had, so Mr Entwhistle believed, lived. He doubted if Lansquenet had ever earned any money at all. He must have been dead now twelve years or more, thought Mr Entwhistle. And now here was his widow, rather cushion-like in shape and dressed in wispy artistic black with festoons of jet beads, back in the home of her girlhood, moving about and touching things and exclaiming with pleasure when she recalled some childish memory. She made very little pretence of grief at her brother’s death. But then, Mr Entwhistle reflected, Cora had never pretended.

      Re-entering the room Lanscombe murmured in muted tones suitable to the occasion:

      ‘Luncheon is served.’

      Chapter 2

      After the delicious chicken soup, and plenty of cold viands accompanied by an excellent Chablis, the funeral atmosphere lightened. Nobody 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 attitude. He was experienced in funerals and knew exactly how to set correct funeral timing.

      After the meal was over, Lanscombe 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 library 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? Would it – would it all have gone to Timothy – as the next of kin, I mean?’

      Mr Entwhistle opened his mouth to give a disquisition on the subject of next of kin, thought better of it, and said crisply:

      ‘On my advice, Richard decided to make a new will. First of all, however, he decided to get better acquainted with the younger generation.’

      ‘He had us upon appro,’ said Susan with a sudden rich laugh. ‘First George and then Greg and me, and then Rosamund and Michael.’

      Gregory Banks said sharply, his thin face flushing: ‘I don’t think you ought to put it like that, Susan. On appro, indeed!’

      ‘But that was what it was, wasn’t it, Mr Entwhistle?’

      ‘Did he leave me anything?’ repeated Cora.

      Mr Entwhistle coughed and spoke rather coldly:

      ‘I propose to send you all copies of the will. I can read it to you in full now if you like but its legal phraseology may seem to you rather obscure. Briefly it amounts to this: After certain small bequests and a substantial legacy to Lanscombe to purchase an annuity, the bulk of the estate – a very considerable one – is to be divided into six equal portions. Four of these, after all duties are paid, are to go to Richard’s brother Timothy, his nephew George Crossfield, his niece Susan Banks, and his niece Rosamund Shane. The other two portions are to be held upon trust and the income from them paid to Mrs Helen Abernethie, the widow of his brother Leo; and to his sister Mrs Cora Lansquenet, during their lifetime. The capital after their death to be divided between the other four beneficiaries or their issue.’

      ‘That’s very nice!’ said Cora Lansquenet with real appreciation. ‘An income! How much?’

      ‘I – er – can’t say exactly at present. Death duties, of course, will be heavy and –’

      ‘Can’t you give me any idea?’

      Mr Entwhistle realized that Cora must be appeased.

      ‘Possibly somewhere in the neighbourhood of three to four thousand a year.’

      ‘Goody!’ said Cora. ‘I shall go to Capri.’

      Helen Abernethie said softly:

      ‘How very kind and generous of Richard. I do appreciate his affection towards me.’

      ‘He was very fond of you,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘Leo was his favourite brother and your visits to him were always much appreciated after Leo died.’

      Helen said regretfully:

      ‘I wish I had realized how ill he was – I came up to see him not long before he died, but although I knew he had been ill, I did not think it was serious.’

      ‘It was always serious,’ said Mr Entwhistle. ‘But he did not want it talked about and I do not believe that anybody expected the end to come as soon as it did. The doctor was quite surprised, I know.’

      ‘“Suddenly, at his residence” that’s what it said in the paper,’ said Cora, nodding her head. ‘I wondered then.’

      ‘It was a shock to all of us,’ said Maude Abernethie. ‘It upset poor Timothy dreadfully. So sudden, he kept saying. So sudden.’

      ‘Still, it’s been hushed

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