Hercule Poirot #29
When Cora Lansquenet is savagely murdered with a hatchet, the extraordinary remark she made the previous day at her brother Richard's funeral suddenly takes on a chilling significance. At the reading of Richard's will, Cora was clearly heard to say, "It's been hushed up very nicely, hasn't it. . . . But he was murdered, wasn't he?"
In desperation, the family solicitor turns to Hercule Poirot to unravel the mystery. . . .
After the Funeral is a work of detective fiction by Agatha Christie and first published in the US by Dodd, Mead and Company in March 1953 under the title of Funerals are Fatal and in UK by the Collins Crime Club on 18 May of the same year under Christie's original title.
Old Lanscombe 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, so old Lanscombe 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 - came to pieces in your hand. The material wasn't good, or the craftsmanship either. Oh yes, could tell them.
Couldn't do anything about this blind unless he got the steps. He didn't like climbing up the steps much, these days, made him come over giddy. 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 at 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 young lady and settling down at home with children running about the house. It was a long time since there had been any children in the house.
And Lanscombe'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 and 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 day as punctual as clockwork, and keeping the house running and everything as lavish as it could be. A very happy household with all those young ladies and gentlemen growing up. Fights and quarrels now and again, of course, and those governesses had had a bad time of it! Poor-spirited creatures, governesses, Lanscombe had always despised them. Very spirited 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 off with that chap, and now he'd hardly have known her, grown 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! 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.
She'd remembered him all right. “Why, it's Lanscombe!” 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 and Charlotte Russe when it came out of the dining-room. They'd all known old Lanscombe, 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! 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 real 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... Lanscombe 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 lemon soufflé and apple tart to follow. Hot soup first - and he'd better go along and see that Marjorie had got it on ready to serve, for they'd be back in a minute or two now for certain.
Lanscombe 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 unassuming. The only thing really worthy of note about Mrs Cornelius Abernethie had been her name - Coralie.
For over sixty years after their original appearance, Coral Cornplasters and the allied “Coral” foot preparations still held their own. Whther there had ever been anything outstanding about Coral Cornplasters nobody could say - but they had appealed to the public fancy. On a foundation of Coral Cornplasters ther had arisen this neo-Gothic palace, its acres of gardens, and the money that had paid out an income to seven sons and daughters and had allowed Richard Abernethie to die three days ago a very rich man.
Release Date: June 24, 1963
Release Time: 81 minutes
Director: George Pollock
Cast:
Margaret Rutherford as Miss Marple
Stringer Davis as Mr Stringer
Robert Morley as Hector Enderby
Flora Robson as Miss Milchrest
Charles Tingwell as Inspector Craddock
Gordon Harris as Sergeant Bacon
Robert Urquhart as George Crossfield
Katya Douglas as Rosamund Shane
James Villiers as Michael Shane
Noel Howlett as Mr Trundell
Finlay Currie as Old Enderby
Duncan Lamont as Hillman
Kevin Stoney as Doctor Markwell
Notes:
This was adapted from the original novel featuring Hercule Poirot but changed to Miss Marple for the film, including changes to include the light hearted wit that Jane Marple was more known for.
Born in Torquay in 1890, Agatha Christie began writing during the First World War and wrote over 100 novels, plays and short story collections. She was still writing to great acclaim until her death, and her books have now sold over a billion copies in English and another billion in over 100 foreign languages. Yet Agatha Christie was always a very private person, and though Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple became household names, the Queen of Crime was a complete enigma to all but her closest friends.
After the Funeral #29
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Hercule Poirot Series
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