4_50 From Paddington - Agatha Christie [45]
“We are very pleased that you could come,” said Emma politely.
There was no hint of the scene which had taken place after lunch that day when Emma had exclaimed: “Dear me, I quite forgot. I told Miss Eyelesbarrow that she could bring her old aunt to tea today.”
“Put her off,” said Harold brusquely. “We’ve still got a lot to talk about. We don’t want strangers here.”
“Let her have tea in the kitchen or somewhere with the girl,” said Alfred.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” said Emma firmly. “That would be very rude.”
“Oh, let her come,” said Cedric. “We can draw her out a little about the wonderful Lucy. I should like to know more about that girl, I must say. I’m not sure that I trust her. Too smart by half.”
“She’s very well connected and quite genuine,” said Harold. “I’ve made it my business to find out. One wanted to be sure. Poking about and finding the body the way she did.”
“If we only knew who this damned woman was,” said Alfred.
Harold added angrily:
“I must say, Emma, that I think you were out of your senses, going and suggesting to the police that the dead woman might be Edmund’s French girl friend. It will make them convinced that she came here, and that probably one or other of us killed her.”
“Oh, no, Harold. Don’t exaggerate.”
“Harold’s quite right,” said Alfred. “Whatever possessed you, I don’t know. I’ve a feeling I’m being followed everywhere I go by plainclothesmen.”
“I told her not to do it,” said Cedric. “Then Quimper backed her up.”
“It’s no business of his,” said Harold angrily. “Let him stick to pills and powders and National Health.”
“Oh, do stop quarrelling,” said Emma wearily. “I’m really glad this old Miss Whatshername is coming to tea. It will do us all good to have a stranger here and be prevented from going over and over the same things again and again. I must go and tidy myself up a little.”
She left the room.
“This Lucy Eyelesbarrow,” said Harold, and stopped. “As Cedric says, it is odd that she should nose about in the barn and go opening up a sarcophagus—really a Herculean task. Perhaps we ought to take steps. Her attitude, I thought, was rather antagonistic at lunch—”
“Leave her to me,” said Alfred. “I’ll soon find out if she’s up to anything.”
“I mean, why open up that sarcophagus?”
“Perhaps she isn’t really Lucy Eyelesbarrow at all,” suggested Cedric.
“But what would be the point—?” Harold looked thoroughly upset. “Oh, damn!”
They looked at each other with worried faces.
“And here’s this pestilential old woman coming to tea. Just when we want to think.”
“We’ll talk things over this evening,” said Alfred. “In the meantime, we’ll pump the old aunt about Lucy.”
So Miss Marple had duly been fetched by Lucy and installed by the fire and she was now smiling up at Alfred as he handed her sandwiches with the approval she always showed towards a good-looking man.
“Thank you so much…may I ask…? Oh, egg and sardine, yes, that will be very nice. I’m afraid I’m always rather greedy over my tea. As one gets on, you know… And, of course, at night only a very light meal… I have to be careful.” She turned to her hostess once more. “What a beautiful house you have. And so many beautiful things in it. Those bronzes, now, they remind me of some my father bought—at the Paris Exhibition. Really, your grandfather did? In the classical style, aren’t they? Very handsome. How delightful for you having your brothers with you? So often families are scattered—India, though I suppose that is all done with now—and Africa—the west coast, such a bad climate.”
“Two of my brothers live in London.”
“That is very nice for you.”
“But my brother Cedric is a painter and lives in Ibiza, one of the Balearic Islands.”
“Painters are so fond of islands, are they not?” said Miss Marple. “Chopin—that was Majorca, was it not? But he was a musician. It is Gauguin I am thinking of. A sad life—misspent, one feels. I myself never really care for paintings of native