Sad Cypress (Hercule Poirot 22)

A stately figure of ample proportions, handsomely dressed in black, bore down upon them. Her eyes gave them a sharp glance. Ted moved aside a step or two. He said:

“Afternoon, Mrs. Bishop.”

Mrs. Bishop inclined her head graciously.

“Good afternoon, Ted Bigland. Good afternoon, Mary.”

She passed on, a ship in full sail.

Ted looked respectfully after her.

Mary murmured.

“Now, she really is like a duchess!”

“Yes—she’s got a manner. Always makes me feel hot inside my collar.”

Mary said slowly:

“She doesn’t like me.”

“Nonsense, my girl.”

“It’s true. She doesn’t. She’s always saying sharp things to me.”

“Jealous,” said Ted, nodding his head sapiently. “That’s all it is.”

Mary said doubtfully:

“I suppose it might be that….”

“That’s it, depend upon it. She’s been housekeeper at Hunterbury for years, ruling the roost and ordering everyone about and now old Mrs. Welman takes a fancy to you, and it puts her out! That’s all it is.”

Mary said, a shade of trouble on her forehead:

“It’s silly of me, but I can’t bear it when anyone doesn’t like me. I want people to like me.”

“Sure to be women who don’t like you, Mary! Jealous cats who think you’re too good-looking!”

Mary said:

“I think jealousy’s horrible.”

Ted said slowly:

“Maybe—but it exists all right. Say, I saw a lovely film over at Alledore last week. Clark Gable. All about one of these millionaire blokes who neglected his wife; and then she pretended she’d done the dirty on him. And there was another fellow….”

Mary moved away. She said:

“Sorry, Ted, I must go. I’m late.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to have tea with Nurse Hopkins.”

Ted made a face.

“Funny taste. That woman’s the biggest gossip in the village! Pokes that long nose of hers into everything.”