After the Funeral by Agatha Christie

late Mr Abernethie. I'll ask you my question flat out. Are you certain, absolutely certain, that he died what is termed a natural death?”
    Dr Larraby's good-humoured, rubicund middle-aged face turned in astonishment on his questioner.
    “What on earth - Of course he did. I gave a certificate, didn't I? If I hadn't been satisfied -”
    Mr Entwhistle cut in adroitly:
    “Naturally, naturally. I assure you that I am not assuming anything to the contrary. But I would be glad to have your positive assurance - in face of the - er - rumours that are flying around.”
    “Rumours? What rumours?”
    “One doesn't know quite how these things start,” said Mr Entwhistle mendaciously. “But my feeling is that they should be stopped - authoritatively, if possible.”
    “Abernethie was a sick man. He was suffering from a disease that would have proved fatal within, I should say, at the earliest, two years. It might have come much sooner. His son's death had weakened his will to live, and his powers of resistance. I admit that I did not expect his death to come so soon, or indeed so suddenly, but there are precedents - plenty of precedents. Any medical man who predicts exactly when a patient will die, or exactly how long he will live, is bound to make a fool of himself. The human factor is always incalculable. The weak have often unexpected powers of resistance, the strong sometimes succumb.”
    “I understand all that. I am not doubting your diagnosis. Mr Abernethie was, shall we say (rather melodramatically, I'm afraid) under sentence of death. All I'm asking you is, is it quite impossible that a man, knowing or suspecting that he is doomed, might of his own accord shorten that period of life? Or that someone else might do it for him?”
    Dr Larraby frowned.
    “Suicide, you mean? Abernethie wasn't a suicidal type.”
    “I see. You can assure me, medically speaking, that such a suggestion is impossible.”
    The doctor stirred uneasily.
    “I wouldn't use the word impossible. After his son's death life no longer held the interest for Abernethie that it had done. I certainly don't feel that suicide is likely - but I can't say that it's impossible.”
    “You are speaking from the psychological angle. When I said medically, I really meant: do the circumstances of his death make such a suggestion impossible?”
    “No, oh no. No, I can't say that. He died in his sleep, as people often do. There was no reason to suspect suicide, no evidence of his state of mind. If one were to demand an autopsy every time a man who is seriously ill died in his sleep -”
    The doctor's face was getting redder and redder. Mr Entwhistle hastened to interpose.
    “Of course. Of course. But if there had been evidence - evidence of which you yourself were not aware? If, for instance, he had said something to someone -”
    “Indicating that he was contemplating suicide? Did he? I must say it surprises me.”
    “But if it were so - my case is purely hypothetical - could you rule out the possibility?”
    Dr Larraby said slowly:
    “No - no - I could not do that. But I say again, I should be very much surprised.”
    Mr Entwhistle hastened to follow up his advantage.
    “If, then, we assume that his death was not natural - all this is purely hypothetical - what could have caused it? What kind of a drug, I mean?”
    “Several. Some kind of a narcotic would be indicated. There was no sign of cyanosis, the attitude was quite peaceful.”
    “He had sleeping draughts or pills? Something of that kind.”
    “Yes. I had prescribed Slumberyl - a very safe and dependable hypnotic. He did not take it every night. And he only had a small bottle of tablets at a time. Three or even four times the prescribed dose would not have caused death. In fact, I remember seeing the bottle on his wash-stand after his death still nearly full.”
    “What else had you prescribed for him?”
    “Various things - a medicine containing a small quantity of morphia to be taken when he had