The Moving Finger (Miss Marple 4)

II

Two days later we went to a bridge party at the Symmingtons.

It was a Saturday afternoon—the Symmingtons always had their bridge parties on a Saturday, because the office was shut then.

There were two tables. The players were the Symmingtons, ourselves, Miss Griffith, Mr. Pye, Miss Barton and a Colonel Appleton whom we had not yet met and who lived at Combeacre, a village some seven miles distant. He was a perfect specimen of the Blimp type, about sixty years of age, liked playing what he called a “plucky game” (which usually resulted in immense sums above the line being scored by his opponents) and was so intrigued by Joanna that he practically never took his eyes off her the whole afternoon.

I was forced to admit that my sister was probably the most attractive thing that had been seen in Lymstock for many a long day.

When we arrived, Elsie Holland, the children’s governess, was hunting for some extra bridge scorers in an ornate writing desk. She glided across the floor with them in the same celestial way I had first noticed, but the spell could not be cast a second time. Exasperating that it should be so—a waste of a perfectly lovely form and face. But I noticed now only too clearly the exceptionally large white teeth like tombstones, and the way she showed her gums when she laughed. She was, unfortunately, one of your prattling girls.

“Are these the ones, Mrs. Symmington? It’s ever so stupid of me not to remember where we put them away last time. It’s my fault, too, I’m afraid. I had them in my hand and then Brian called out his engine had got caught, and I ran out and what with one thing and another I must have just stuffed them in somewhere stupid. These aren’t the right ones, I see now, they’re a bit yellow at the edges. Shall I tell Agnes tea at five? I’m taking the kiddies to Long Barrow so there won’t be any noise.”

A nice kind bright girl. I caught Joanna’s eye. She was laughing. I stared at her coldly. Joanna always knows what is passing in my mind, curse her.

We settled down to bridge.

I was soon to know to a nicety the bridge status of everyone in Lymstock. Mrs. Symmington was an exceedingly good bridge player and was quite a devotee of the game. Like many definitely unintellectual women, she was not stupid and had a considerable natural shrewdness. Her husband was a good sound player, slightly overcautious. Mr. Pye can best be described as brilliant. He had an uncanny flair for psychic bidding. Joanna and I, since the party was in our honour, played at a table with Mrs. Symmington and Mr. Pye. It was Symmington’s task to pour oil on troubled waters and by the exercise of tact to reconcile the three other players at his table. Colonel Appleton, as I have said, was wont to play “a plucky game.” Little Miss Barton was without exception the worst bridge player I have ever come across and always enjoyed herself enormously. She did manage to follow suit, but had the wildest ideas as to the strength of her hand, never knew the score, repeatedly led out of the wrong hand and was quite unable to count trumps and often forgot what they were. Aimée Griffith’s play can be summed up in her own words. “I like a good game of bridge with no nonsense—and I don’t play any of these rubbishy conventions. I say what I mean. And no postmortems! After all, it’s only a game!” It will be seen, therefore, that their host had not too easy a task.

Play proceeded fairly harmoniously, however, with occasional forgetfulness on the part of Colonel Appleton as he stared across at Joanna.

Tea was laid in the dining room, round a big table. As we were finishing, two hot and excited little boys rushed in and were introduced, Mrs. Symmington beaming with maternal pride, as was their father.

Then, just as we were finishing, a shadow darkened my plate, and I turned my head to see Megan standing in the French window.

“Oh,” said her mother. “Here’s Megan.”

Her voice held a faintly surprised note, as though she had forgotten that Megan existed.

The girl came in and shook hands, awkwardly and without any grace.

“I’m afraid I forgot about your tea, dear,” said Mrs. Symmington. “Miss Holland and the boys took theirs out with them, so there’s no nursery tea today. I forgot you weren’t with them.”

Megan nodded.

“That’s all right. I’ll go to the kitchen.”

She slouched out of the room. She was untidily dressed as usual and there were potatoes in both heels.

Mrs. Symmington said with a little apologetic laugh:

“My poor Megan. She’s just at that awkward age, you know. Girls are always shy and awkward when they’ve just left school before they’re properly grown up.”

I saw Joanna’s fair head jerk backwards in what I knew to be a warlike gesture.

“But Megan’s twenty, isn’t she?” she said.

“Oh, yes, yes. She is. But of course she’s very young for her age. Quite a child still. It’s so nice, I think, when girls don’t grow up too quickly.” She laughed again. “I expect all mothers want their children to remain babies.”

“I can’t think why,” said Joanna. “After all, it would be a bit awkward if one had a child who remained mentally six while his body grew up.”

“Oh, you mustn’t take things so literally, Miss Burton,” said Mrs. Symmington.

It occurred to me at that moment that I did not much care for Mrs. Symmington. That anaemic, slighted, faded prettiness concealed, I thought, a selfish and grasping nature. She said, and I disliked her a little more still:

“My poor Megan. She’s rather a difficult child, I’m afraid. I’ve been trying to find something for her to do—I believe there are several things one can learn by correspondence. Designing and dressmaking—or she might try and learn shorthand and typing.”

The red glint was still in Joanna’s eye. She said as we sat down again at the bridge table:

“I suppose she’ll be going to parties and all that sort of thing. Are you going to give a dance for her?”

“A dance?” Mrs. Symmington seemed surprised and amused. “Oh, no, we don’t do things like that down here.”

“I see. Just tennis parties and things like that.”

“Our tennis court has not been played on for years. Neither Richard nor I play. I suppose, later, when the boys grow up—Oh, Megan will find plenty to do. She’s quite happy just pottering about, you know. Let me see, did I deal? Two No Trumps.”

As we drove home, Joanna said with a vicious pressure on the accelerator pedal that made the car leap forward:

“I feel awfully sorry for that girl.”

“Megan?”

“Yes. Her mother doesn’t like her.”

“Oh, come now, Joanna, it’s not as bad as that.”

“Yes, it is. Lots of mothers don’t like their children. Megan, I should imagine, is an awkward sort of creature to have about the house. She disturbs the pattern—the Symmington pattern. It’s a complete unit without her—and that’s a most unhappy feeling for a sensitive creature to have—and she is sensitive.”

“Yes,” I said, “I think she is.”

I was silent a moment.

Joanna suddenly laughed mischievously.

“Bad luck for you about the governess.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said with dignity.

“Nonsense. Masculine chagrin was written on your face every time you looked at her. I agree with you. It is a waste.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But I’m delighted, all the same. It’s the first sign of reviving life. I was quite worried about you at the nursing home. You never even looked at that remarkably pretty nurse you had. An attractive minx, too—absolutely God’s gift to a sick man.”

“Your conversation, Joanna, I find definitely low.”

My sister continued without paying the least attention to my remarks.

“So I was much relieved to see you’d still got an eye for a nice bit of skirt. She is a good looker. Funny that the S.A. should have been left out completely. It is odd, you know, Jerry. What is the thing that some women have and other

s haven’t? What is it makes one woman, even if she only says ‘Foul weather’ so attractive that every man within range wants to come over and talk about the weather with her? I suppose Providence makes a mistake every now and then when sending out the parcel. One Aphrodite face and form, one temperament ditto. And something goes astray and the Aphrodite temperament goes to some little plain-faced creature, and then all the other women go simply mad and say, ‘I can’t think what the men see in her. She isn’t even good-looking!’”

“Have you quite finished, Joanna?”

“Well, you do agree, don’t you?”

I grinned. “I’ll admit to disappointment.”

“And I don’t see who else there is here for you. You’ll have to fall back upon Aimée Griffith.”

“God forbid,” I said.

“She’s quite good-looking, you know.”

“Too much of an Amazon for me.”

“She seems to enjoy her life, all right,” said Joanna. “Absolutely disgustingly hearty, isn’t she? I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she had a cold bath every morning.”

“And what are you going to do for yourself?” I asked.

“Me?”

“Yes. You’ll need a little distraction down here if I know you.”

“Who’s being low now? Besides, you forget Paul.” Joanna heaved up a not very convincing sigh.

“I shan’t forget him nearly as quickly as you will. In about ten days you’ll be saying, ‘Paul? Paul Who? I never knew a Paul.’”

“You think I’m completely fickle,” said Joanna.

“When people like Paul are in question, I’m only too glad that you should be.”

“You never did like him. But he really was a bit of a genius.”

“Possibly, though I doubt it. Anyway, from all I’ve heard, geniuses are people to be heartily disliked. One thing, you won’t find any geniuses down here.”