She glanced up at the clock. Five minutes before her train went. She drank up her tea. Not very good tea. She made a grimace.

For a moment or two she sat dreaming. Dreaming of the future unfolding before her... She smiled like a happy child.

She was really going to enjoy herself at last... She went out to the small branch line train busily making plans...

Chapter 4

Mr Entwhistle passed a very restless night. He felt so tired and so unwell in the morning that he did not get up.

His sister who kept house for him, brought up his breakfast on a tray and explained to him severely how wrong he had been to go gadding off to the North of England at his age and in his frail state of health.

Mr Entwhistle contented himself with saying that Richard Abernethie had been a very old friend.

"Funerals!" said his sister with deep disapproval. "Funerals are absolutely fatal for a man of your age! You'll be taken off as suddenly as your precious Mr Abernethie was if you don't take more care of yourself."

The word "suddenly" made Mr Entwhistle wince. It also silenced him. He did not argue.

He was well aware of what had made him flinch at the word suddenly.

Cora Lansquenet! What she had suggested was definitely quite impossible, but all the same he would like to find out exactly why she had suggested it. Yes, he would go down to Lytchett St Mary and see her. He could pretend that it was business connected with probate, that he needed her signature. No need to let her guess that he had paid any attention to her silly remark. But he would go down and see her - and he would do it soon.

He finished his breakfast and lay back on his pillows and read The Times. He found The Times very soothing.

It was about a quarter to six that evening when his telephone rang.

He picked it up. The voice at the other end of the wire was that of Mr James Parrott, the present second partner of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard.

"Look here, Entwhistle," said Mr Parrott, "I've just been rung up by the police from a place called Lytchett St Mary."

"Lytchett St Mary?"

"Yes. It seems -" Mr Parrott paused a moment. He seemed embarrassed. "It's about a Mrs Cora Lansquenet. Wasn't she one of the heirs of the Abernethie estate?"

"Yes, of course. I saw her at the funeral yesterday."

"Oh? She was at the funeral, was she?"

"Yes. What about her?"

"Well," Mr Parrott sounded apologetic. "She's - it's really most extraordinary - she's been well - murdered."

Mr Parrott said the last word with the uttermost deprecation. It was not the sort of word, he suggested, that ought to mean anything to the firm of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard.

"Murdered?"

"Yes - yes - I'm afraid so. Well, I mean, there's no doubt about it."