“If only it had been some other kind of girl. Jeff had two godchildren, you know. If it had been one of them—well, one would have understood it.” She added, with a shade of resentment: “And Jeff ’s always seemed so fond of Peter.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I always have known Peter was your first husband’s child—but I’d quite forgotten it. I’ve always thought of him as Mr. Jefferson’s grandson.”
“So have I,” said Adelaide. Her voice held a note that made Miss Marple turn in her chair and look at her.
“It was Josie’s fault,” said Mark. “Josie brought her here.”
Adelaide said:
“Oh, but surely you don’t think it was deliberate, do you? Why, you’ve always liked Josie so much.”
“Yes, I did like her. I thought she was a good sport.”
“It was sheer accident her bringing the girl down.”
“Josie’s got a good head on her shoulders, my girl.”
“Yes, but she couldn’t foresee—”
Mark said:
“No, she couldn’t. I admit it. I’m not really accusing her of planning the whole thing. But I’ve no doubt she saw which way the wind was blowing long before we did and kept very quiet about it.”
Adelaide said with a sigh:
“I suppose one can’t blame her for that.”
Mark said:
“Oh, we can’t blame anyone for anything!”
Mrs. Bantry asked:
“Was Ruby Keene very pretty?”
Mark stared at her. “I thought you’d seen—”
Mrs. Bantry said hastily:
“Oh yes, I saw her—her body. But she’d been strangled, you know, and one couldn’t tell—” She shivered.
Mark said, thoughtfully:
“I don’t think she was really pretty at all. She certainly wouldn’t have been without any makeup. A thin ferrety little face, not much chin, teeth running down her throat, nondescript sort of nose—”
“It sounds revolting,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Oh no, she wasn’t. As I say, with makeup she managed to give quite an effect of good looks, don’t you think so, Addie?”
“Yes, rather chocolate-box, pink and white business. She had nice blue eyes.”
“Yes, innocent baby stare, and the heavily-blacked lashes brought out the blueness. Her hair was bleached, of course. It’s true, when I come to think of it, that in colouring—artificial colouring, anyway—she had a kind of spurious resemblance to Rosamund—my wife, you know. I dare say that’s what attracted the old man’s attention to her.”
He sighed.
“Well, it’s a bad business. The awful thing is that Addie and I can’t help being glad, really, that she’s dead—”
He quelled a protest from his sister-in-law.
“It’s no good, Addie; I know what you feel. I feel the same. And I’m not going to pretend! But, at the same time, if you know what I mean, I really am most awfully concerned for Jeff about the whole business. It’s hit him very hard. I—”
He stopped, and stared towards the doors leading out of the lounge on to the terrace.
“Well, well—see who’s here. What an unscrupulous woman you are, Addie.”
Mrs. Jefferson looked over her shoulder, uttered an exclamation and got up, a slight colour rising in her face. She walked quickly along the terrace and went up to a tall middle-aged man with a thin brown face, who was looking uncertainly about him.
Mrs. Bantry said: “Isn’t that Hugo McLean?”
Mark Gaskell said:
“Hugo McLean it is. Alias William Dobbin.”
Mrs. Bantry murmured:
“He’s very faithful, isn’t he?”
“Dog-like devotion,” said Mark. “Addie’s only got to whistle and Hugo comes trotting from any odd corner of the globe. Always hopes that some day she’ll marry him. I dare say she will.”
Miss Marple looked beamingly after them. She said:
“I see. A romance?”
“One of the good old-fashioned kind,” Mark assured her. “It’s been going on for years. Addie’s that kind of woman.”
He added meditatively: “I suppose Addie telephoned him this morning. She didn’t tell me she had.”
Edwards came discreetly along the terrace and paused at Mark’s elbow.
“Excuse me, sir. Mr. Jefferson would like you to come up.”
“I’ll come at once.” Mark sprang up.
He nodded to them, said: “See you later,” and went off.
Sir Henry leant forward to Miss Marple. He said:
“Well, what do you think of the principal beneficiaries of the crime?”
Miss Marple said thoughtfully, looking at Adelaide Jefferson as she stood talking to her old friend:
“I should think, you know, that she was a very devoted mother.”
“Oh, she is,” said Mrs. Bantry. “She’s simply devoted to Peter.”
“She’s the kind of woman,” said Miss Marple, “that everyone likes. The kind of woman that could go on getting married again and again. I don’t mean a man’s woman—that’s quite different.”
“I know what you mean,” said Sir Henry.
“What you both mean,” said Mrs. Bantry, “is that she’s a good listener.”
Sir Henry laughed. He said:
“And Mark Gaskell?”
“Ah,” said Miss Marple, “he’s a downy fellow.”
“Village parallel, please?”
“Mr. Cargill, the builder. He bluffed a lot of people into having things done to their houses they never meant to do. And how he charged them for it! But he could always explain his bills away plausibly. A downy fellow. He married money. So did Mr. Gaskell, I understand.”
“You don’t like him.”
“Yes, I do. Most women would. But he can’t take me in. He’s a very attractive person, I think. But a little unwise, perhaps, to talk as much as he does.”
“Unwise is the word,” said Sir Henry. “Mark will get himself into trouble if he doesn’t look out.”
A tall dark young man in white flannels came up the steps to the terrace and paused just for a minute, watching Adelaid
e Jefferson and Hugo McLean.
“And that,” said Sir Henry obligingly, “is X, whom we might describe as an interested party. He is the tennis and dancing pro—Raymond Starr, Ruby Keene’s partner.”
Miss Marple looked at him with interest. She said:
“He’s very nice-looking, isn’t he?”
“I suppose so.”
“Don’t be absurd, Sir Henry,” said Mrs. Bantry; “there’s no supposing about it. He is good-looking.”
Miss Marple murmured:
“Mrs. Jefferson has been taking tennis lessons, I think she said.”
“Do you mean anything by that, Jane, or don’t you?”
Miss Marple had no chance of replying to this downright question. Young Peter Carmody came across the terrace and joined them. He addressed himself to Sir Henry:
“I say, are you a detective, too? I saw you talking to the Superintendent—the fat one is a superintendent, isn’t he?”
“Quite right, my son.”
“And somebody told me you were a frightfully important detective from London. The head of Scotland Yard or something like that.”
“The head of Scotland Yard is usually a complete dud in books, isn’t he?”
“Oh no, not nowadays. Making fun of the police is very old-fashioned. Do you know who did the murder yet?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid.”
“Are you enjoying this very much, Peter?” asked Mrs. Bantry.
“Well, I am, rather. It makes a change, doesn’t it? I’ve been hunting round to see if I could find any clues, but I haven’t been lucky. I’ve got a souvenir, though. Would you like to see it? Fancy, Mother wanted me to throw it away. I do think one’s parents are rather trying sometimes.”
He produced from his pocket a small matchbox. Pushing it open, he disclosed the precious contents.
“See, it’s a fingernail. Her fingernail! I’m going to label it Fingernail of the Murdered Woman and take it back to school. It’s a good souvenir, don’t you think?”