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At the top of the stairs Marina Gregg and Jason Rudd were receiving this specially chosen élite. What had once been a spare bedroom had been thrown into the landing so as to make a wide lounge-like effect. Giuseppe the butler was officiating with drinks.
A stout man in livery was announcing guests.
‘Councillor and Mrs Allcock,’ he boomed.
Marina Gregg was being, as Mrs Bantry had described her to Miss Marple, completely natural and charming. She could already hear Mrs Allcock saying later: ‘—and so unspoiled, you know, in spite of being so famous.’
How very nice of Mrs Allcock to come, and the Councillor, and she did hope they’d enjoy their afternoon. ‘Jason, please look after Mrs Allcock.’
Councillor and Mrs Allcock were passed on to Jason and drinks.
‘Oh, Mrs Bantry, it is nice of you to come.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ said Mrs Bantry and moved on purposefully towards the Martinis.
The young man called Hailey Preston ministered to her in a tender manner and then made off, consulting a little list in his hand, to fetch, no doubt, more of the Chosen to the Presence. It was all being managed very well, Mrs Bantry thought, turning, Martini in hand, to watch the next arrivals. The vicar, a lean, ascetic man, was looking vague and slightly bewildered. He said earnestly to Marina Gregg:
‘Very nice of you to ask me. I’m afraid, you know, I haven’t got a television set myself, but of course I—er—I—well, of course my young people keep me up to the mark.’
Nobody knew what he meant. Miss Zielinsky, who was also on duty, administered a lemonade to him with a kindly smile. Mr and Mrs Badcock were next up the stairs. Heather Badcock, flushed and triumphant, came a little ahead of her husband.
‘Mr and Mrs Badcock,’ boomed the man in livery.
‘Mrs Badcock,’ said the vicar, turning back, lemonade in his hand, ‘the indefatigable secretary of the association. She’s one of our hardest workers. In fact I don’t know what the St John would do without her.’
‘I’m sure you’ve been wonderful,’ said Marina.
‘You don’t remember me?’ said Heather, in an arch manner. ‘How should you, with all the hundreds of people you meet. And anyway, it was years ago. In Bermuda of all places in the world. I was there with one of our ambulance units. Oh, it’s a long time ago now.’
‘Of course,’ said Marina Gregg, once more all charm and smiles.
‘I remember it all so well,’ said Mrs Badcock. ‘I was thrilled, you know, absolutely thrilled. I was only a girl at the time. To think there was a chance of seeing Marina Gregg in the flesh—oh! I was a mad fan of yours always.’
‘It’s too kind of you, really too kind of you,’ said Marina sweetly, her eyes beginning to hover faintly over Heather’s shoulder towards the next arrivals.
‘I’m not going to detain you,’ said Heather—‘but I must—’
‘Poor Marina Gregg,’ said Mrs Bantry to herself. ‘I suppose this kind of thing is always happening to her! The patience they need!’
Heather was continuing in a determined manner with her story.
Mrs Allcock breathed heavily at Mrs Bantry’s shoulder.
‘The changes they’ve made here! You wouldn’t believe till you saw for yourself. What it must have cost …’
‘I—didn’t feel really ill—and I thought I just must—’
‘This is vodka,’ Mrs Allcock regarded her glass suspiciously. ‘Mr Rudd asked if I’d like to try it. Sounds very Russian. I don’t think I like it very much …’
‘—I said to myself: I won’t be beaten! I put a lot of make-up on my face—’
‘I suppose it would be rude if I just put it down somewhere.’ Mrs Allcock sounded desperate.
Mrs Bantry reassured her gently.
‘Not at all. Vodka ought really to be thrown straight down the throat’—Mrs Allcock looked startled—‘but that needs practice. Put it down on the table and get yourself a Martini from that tray the butler’s carrying.’
She turned back to hear Heather Badcock’s triumphant peroration.
‘I’ve never forgotten how wonderful you were that day. It was a hundred times worth it.’
Marina’s response was this time not so automatic. Her eyes which had wavered over Heather Badcock’s shoulder, now seemed to be fixed on the wall midway up the stairs. She was staring and there was something so ghastly in her expression that Mrs Bantry half took a step forward. Was the woman going to faint? What on earth could she be seeing that gave her that basilisk look? But before she could reach Marina’s side the latter had recovered herself. Her eyes, vague and unfocussed, returned to Heather and the charm of manner was turned on once more, albeit a shade mechanically.
‘What a nice little story. Now, what will you have to drink? Jason! A cocktail?’
‘Well, really I usually have lemonade or orange juice.’
‘You must have something better than that,’ said Marina. ‘This is a feast day, remember.’
‘Let me persuade you to an American daiquiri,’ said Jason, appearing with a couple in his hand. ‘They’re Marina’s favourites, too.’
He handed one to his wife.
‘I shouldn’t drink any more,’ said Marina, ‘I’ve had three already.’ But she accepted the glass.
Heather took her drink from Jason. Marina turned away to meet the next person who was arriving.
Mrs Bantry said to Mrs Allcock, ‘Let’s go and see the bathrooms.’
‘Oh, do you think we can? Wouldn’t it look rather rude?’
‘I’m sure it wouldn’t,’ said Mrs Bantry. She spoke to Jason Rudd. ‘We want to explore your wonderful new bathrooms, Mr Rudd. May we satisfy this purely domestic curiosity?’
‘Sure,’ said Jason, grinning. ‘Go and enjoy yourselves, girls. Draw yourselves baths if you like.’
Mrs Allcock followed Mrs Bantry along the passage.
‘That was ever so kind of you, Mrs Bantry. I must say I wouldn’t have dared myself.’
‘One has to dare if one wants to get anywhere,’ said Mrs Bantry.
They went along the passage, opening various doors. Presently ‘Ahs’ and ‘Ohs’ began to escape Mrs Allcock and two other women who had joined the party.
‘I do like the pink one,’ said Mrs Allcock. ‘Oh, I like the pink one a lot.’
‘I like the one with the dolphin tiles,’ said one of the other women.
Mrs Bantry acted the part of hostess with complete enjoyment. For a moment she had really forgotten that the house no longer belonged to her.
‘All those showers!’ said Mrs Allcock with awe. ‘Not that I really like showers. I never know how you keep your head dry.’
‘It’d be nice to have a peep into the bedrooms,’ said one of the other women, wistfully, ‘but I suppose it’d be a bit too nosy. What do you think?’
‘Oh, I don’t think we could do that,’ said Mrs Allcock. They both looked hopefully at Mrs Bantry.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Bantry, ‘no, I suppose we oughtn’t to—’ then she took pity on them, ‘but—I don’t think anyone would know if we have one peep.’ She put her hand on a door-handle.
But that had been attended to. The bedrooms were locked. Everyone was very disappointed.
‘I suppose they’ve got to have some privacy,’ said Mrs Bantry kindly.
They retraced their steps along the corridors. Mrs Bantry looked out of one of the landing windows. She noted below her Mrs Meavy (from the Development) looking incredibly smart in a ruffled organdie dress. With Mrs Meavy, she noticed, was Miss Marple’s Cherry, whose last name for the moment Mrs Bantry could not remember. They seemed to be enjoying themselves and were laughing and talking.
Suddenly the house felt to Mrs Bantry old, worn-out and highly artificial. In spite of its new gleaming paint, its alterations, it was in essence a tired old Victorian mansion. ‘I was wise to go,’ thought Mrs Bantry. ‘Houses are like everything else. There comes a time when they’ve just had their day. This has had its day. It’s been given a face lift, but I don’t really think it’s done it any good.’
Suddenly a slight rise in the hum of voices reached her. The two women with her started forward.
‘What’s happening?’ said one. ‘It sounds as though something’s happening.’
They stepped back along the corridor towards the stairs. Ella Zielinksy came rapidly along and passed them. She tried a bedroom door and said quickly, ‘Oh, damn. Of course they’ve locked them all.’
‘Is anything the matter?’ asked Mrs Bantry.
‘Someone’s taken ill,’ said Miss Zielinsky shortly.
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry. Can I do anything?’
‘I suppose there’s a doctor here somewhere?’
‘I haven’t seen any of our local doctors,’ said Mrs Bantry, ‘but there’s almost sure to be one here.’
‘Jason’s telephoning,’ said Ella Zielinsky, ‘but she seems pretty bad.’
‘Who is it?’ asked Mrs Bantry.
‘A Mrs Badcock, I think.’
‘Heather Badcock? But she looked so well just now.’
Ella Zielinksy said impatiently, ‘She’s had a seizure, or a fit, or something. Do you know if there’s anything wrong with her heart or anything like that?’
‘I don’t really know anything about her,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘She’s new since my day. She comes from the Development.’
‘The Development? Oh, you mean that housing estate. I don’t even know where her husband is or what he looks like.’
‘Middle-aged, fair, unobtrusive,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘He came with her so he must be about somewhere.’
Ella Zielinsky went into a bathroom. ‘I don’t know really what to give her,’ she said. ‘Sal volatile, do you think, something like that?’
‘Is she faint?’ said Mrs Bantry.
‘It’s more than that,’ said Ella Zielinsky.
‘I’ll see if there’s anything I can do,’ said Mrs Bantry. She turned away and walked rapidly back towards the head of the stairs. Turning a corner she cannoned into Jason Rudd.
‘Have you seen Ella?’ he said. ‘Ella Zielinsky?’
‘She went along there into one of the bathrooms. She was looking for something. Sal volatile—something like that.’
‘She needn’t bother,’ said Jason Rudd.
Something in his tone struck Mrs Bantry. She looked up sharply. ‘Is it bad?’ she said, ‘really bad?’
‘You could call it that,’ said Jason Rudd. ‘The poor woman’s dead.’
‘Dead!’ Mrs Bantry was really shocked. She said, as she had said before, ‘But she looked so well just now.’
‘I know. I know,’ said Jason. He stood there, scowling. ‘What a thing to happen!’
CHAPTER 6
‘Here we are,’ said Miss Knight, settling a breakfast tray on the bed-table beside Miss Marple. ‘And how are we this morning? I see we’ve got our curtains pulled back,’ she added with a slight note of disapproval in her voice.
‘I wake early,’ said Miss Marple. ‘You probably will, when you’re my age,’ she added.
‘Mrs Bantry rang up,’ said Miss Knight, ‘about half an hour ago. She wanted to talk to you but I said she’d better ring up again after you’d had your breakfast. I wasn’t going to disturb you at that hour, before you’d even had a cup of tea or anything to eat.’
‘When my friends ring up,’ said Miss Marple, ‘I prefer to be told.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sure,’ said Miss Knight, ‘but it seemed to me very inconsiderate. When you’ve had your nice tea and your boiled egg and your toast and butter, we’ll see.’
‘Half an hour ago,’ said Miss Marple, thoughtfully, ‘that would have been—let me see—eight o’clock.’
‘Much too early,’ reiterated Miss Knight.
‘I don’t believe Mrs Bantry would have rung me up then unless it was for some particular reason,’ said Miss Marple thoughtfully. ‘She doesn’t usually ring up in the early morning.’
‘Oh well, dear, don’t fuss your head about it,’ said Miss Knight soothingly. ‘I expect she’ll be ringing up again very shortly. Or would you like me to get her for you?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I prefer to eat my breakfast while it’s hot.’
‘Hope I haven’t forgotten anything,’ said Miss Knight, cheerfully.
But nothing had been forgotten. The tea had been properly made with boiling water, the egg had been boiled exactly three and three-quarter minutes, the toast was evenly browned, the butter was arranged in a nice little pat and the small jar of honey stood beside it. In many ways undeniably Miss Knight was a treasure. Miss Marple ate her breakfast and enjoyed it. Presently the whirr of a vacuum cleaner began below. Cherry had arrived.
Competing with the whirr of the vacuum cleaner was a fresh tuneful voice singing one of the latest popular tunes of the day. Miss Knight, coming in for the breakfast tray, shook her head.
‘I really wish that young woman wouldn’t go singing all over the house,’ she said. ‘It’s not what I call respectful.’
Miss Marple smiled a little. ‘It would never enter Cherry’s head that she would have to be respectful,’ she remarked. ‘Why should she?’
Miss Knight sniffed and said, ‘Very different to what things used to be.’
‘Naturally,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Times change. That is a thing which has to be accepted.’ She added, ‘Perhaps you’ll ring up Mrs Bantry now and find out what it was she wanted.’
Miss Knight bustled away. A minute or two later there was a rap on the door and Cherry entered. She was looking bright and excited and extremely pretty. A plastic overall rakishly patterned with sailors and naval emblems was tied round her dark blue dress.
‘Your hair looks nice,’ said Miss Marple.
‘Went for a perm yesterday,’ said Cherry. ‘A bit stiff still, but it’s going to be all right. I came up to see if you’d heard the news.’
‘What news?’ said Miss Marple.
‘About what happened at Gossington Hall yesterday. You know there was a big do there for the St John Ambulance?’
Miss Marple nodded. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Somebody died in the middle of it. A Mrs Badcock. Lives round the corner from us. I don’t suppose you’d know her.’
‘Mrs Badcock?’ Miss Marple sounded alert. ‘But I do know her. I think—yes, that was the name—she came out and picked me up when I fell down the other day. She was very kind.’
‘Oh, Heather Badcock’s kind all right,’ said Cherry. ‘Over-kind, some people say. They call it interfering. Well, anyway, she up and died. Just like that.’
‘Died! But what of?’
‘Search me,’ said Cherry. ‘She’d been taken into the house because of her being the secretary of the St John Ambulance, I suppose. She and the mayor and a lot of others. As far as I heard, she had a glass of something and about five minutes later she was took bad and died before you could snap your fingers.’
‘What a shocking occurrence,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Did she suffer from heart trouble?’
‘Sound as a bell, so they say,’ Cherry said. ‘Of course, you never know, do you? I suppose you can have something wrong with your heart and nobody knowing about it. Anyway, I can tell you this. They’ve not sent her home.’
Miss Marple looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean, not sent her home?’
‘The body,’ said Cherry, her cheerfulness unimpaired. ‘The doctor said there’d have to be an autopsy. Post-mortem—whatever you call it. He said he hadn’t attended her for anything and there was nothing to show the cause of death. Looks funny to me,’ she added.
‘Now what do you mean by funny?’ said Miss Marple.
‘Well.’ Cherry considered. ‘Funny. As though there was something behind it.’
‘Is her husband terribly upset?’
‘Looks as white as a sheet. Never saw a man as badly hit, to look at—that is to say.’
Miss Marple’s ears, long attuned to delicate nuances, led her to cock her head slightly on one side like an inquisitive bird.
‘Was he so very devoted to her?’
‘He did what she told him and gave her her own way,’ said Cherry, ‘but that doesn’t always mean you’re devoted, does it? It may mean you haven’t got the courage to stick up for yourself.’
‘You didn’t like her?’ asked Miss Marple.
‘I hardly know her really,’ said Cherry. ‘Knew her, I mean. I don’t—didn’t—dislike her. But she’s just not my type. Too interfering.’
‘You mean inquisitive, nosy?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Cherry. ‘I don’t mean that at all. She was a very kind woman and she was always doing things for people. And she was always quite sure she knew the best thing to do. What they thought about it wouldn’t have mattered. I had an aunt like that. Very fond of seed cake herself and she used to bake seed cakes for people and take them to them, and she never troubled to find out whether they liked seed cake or not. There are people can’t bear it, just can’t stand the flavour of caraway. Well, Heather Badcock was a bit like that.’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Marple thoughtfully, ‘yes, she would have been. I knew someone a little like that. Such people,’ she added, ‘live dangerously—though they don’t know it themselves.’
Cherry stared at her. ‘That’s a funny thing to say. I don’t quite get what you mean.’
Miss Knight bustled in. ‘Mrs Bantry seems to have gone out,’ she said. ‘She didn’t say where she was going.’
‘I can guess where she’s going,’ said Miss Marple. ‘She’s coming here. I shall get up now,’ she added.
Miss Marple had just ensconced herself in her favourite chair by the window when Mrs Bantry arrived. She was slightly out of breath.
‘I’ve got plenty to tell you, Jane,’ she said.
‘About the fête?’ asked Miss Knight. ‘You went to the fête yesterday, didn’t you? I was there myself for a short time early in the afternoon. The tea tent was very crowded. An astonishing lot of people seemed to be there. I didn’t catch a glimpse of Marina Gregg, though, which was rather disappointing.’
She flicked a little dust off a table and said brightly, ‘Now I’m sure you two want to have a nice little chat together,’ and went out of the room.
‘She doesn’t seem to know anything about it,’ said Mrs Bantry. She fixed her friend with a keen glance. ‘Jane, I believe you do know.’
‘You mean about the death yesterday?’
‘You always know everything,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘I cannot think how.’
‘Well, really dear,’ said Miss Marple, ‘in the same way one always has known everything. My daily helper, Cherry Baker, brought the news. I expect the butcher will be telling Miss Knight presently.’
‘And what do you think of it?’ said Mrs Bantry.
‘What do I think of what?’ said Miss Marple.
‘Now don’t be aggravating, Jane, you know perfectly what I mean. There’s this woman—whatever her name is—’
‘Heather Badcock,’ said Miss Marple.
‘She arrives full of life and spirit. I was there when she came. And about a quarter of an hour later she sits down in a chair, says she doesn’t feel well, gasps a bit and dies. What do you think of that?’
‘One mustn’t jump to conclusions,’ said Miss Marple. ‘The point is, of course, what did a medical man think of it?’
Mrs Bantry nodded. ‘There’s to be an inquest and a post-mortem,’ she said. ‘That shows what they think of it, doesn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Anyone may be taken ill and die suddenly and they have to have a post-mortem to find out the cause.’
‘It’s more than that,’ said Mrs Bantry.
‘How do you know?’ said Miss Marple.
‘Dr Sandford went home and rang up the police.’
‘Who told you that?’ said Miss Marple, with great interest.
‘Old Briggs,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘At least, he didn’t tell me. You know he goes down after hours in the evening to see to Dr Sandford’s garden, and he was clipping something quite close to the study and he heard the doctor ringing up the police station in Much Benham. Briggs told his daughter and his daughter mentioned it to the postwoman and she told me,’ said Mrs Bantry.
Miss Marple smiled. ‘I see,’ she said, ‘that St Mary Mead has not changed very much from what it used to be.’
‘The grape-vine is much the same,’ agreed Mrs Bantry. ‘Well, now, Jane, tell me what you think.’
‘One thinks, of course, of the husband,’ said Miss Marple reflectively. ‘Was he there?’
‘Yes, he was there. You don’t think it would be suicide,’ said Mrs Bantry.
‘Certainly not suicide,’ said Miss Marple decisively. ‘She wasn’t the type.’
‘How did you come across her, Jane?’
‘It was the day I went for a walk to the Development, and fell down near her house. She was kindness itself. She was a very kind woman.’
‘Did you see the husband? Did he look as though he’d like to poison her?
‘You know what I mean,’ Mrs Bantry went on as Miss Marple showed some slight signs of protesting. ‘Did he remind you of Major Smith or Bertie Jones or someone you’ve known years ago who did poison a wife, or tried to?’
‘No,’ said Miss Marple, ‘he didn’t remind me of anyone I know.’ She added, ‘But she did.’
‘Who—Mrs Badcock?’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Marple, ‘she reminded me of someone called Alison Wilde.’
‘And what was Alison Wilde like?’
‘She didn’t know at all,’ said Miss Marple slowly, ‘what the world was like. She didn’t know what people were like. She’d never thought about them. And so, you see, she couldn’t guard against things happening to her.’
‘I don’t really think I understand a word of what you’re saying,’ said Mrs Bantry.
‘It’s very difficult to explain exactly,’ said Miss Marple, apologetically. ‘It comes really from being self-centred, and I don’t mean selfish by that,’ she added. ‘You can be kind and unselfish and even thoughtful. But if you’re like Alison Wilde, you never really know what you may be doing. And so you never know what may happen to you.’
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