A Murder Is Announced_ A Miss Marple Mystery - Agatha Christie [61]
“I’ll go and lie down, I think,” said Miss Bunner. “I’ll take a couple of aspirins and try and have a nice sleep.”
“That would be a very good plan,” said Miss Blacklock.
Miss Bunner departed upstairs.
“Shall I shut up the ducks for you, Aunt Letty?”
Miss Blacklock looked at Patrick severely.
“If you’ll be sure to latch that door properly.”
“I will. I swear I will.”
“Have a glass of sherry, Aunt Letty,” said Julia. “As my old nurse used to say, ‘It will settle your stomach.’ A revolting phrase, but curiously apposite at this moment.”
“Well, I dare say it might be a good thing. The truth is one isn’t used to rich things. Oh, Bunny, how you made me jump. What is it?”
“I can’t find my aspirin,” said Miss Bunner disconsolately.
“Well, take some of mine, dear, they’re by my bed.”
“There’s a bottle on my dressing table,” said Phillipa.
“Thank you—thank you very much. If I can’t find mine—but I know I’ve got it somewhere. A new bottle. Now where could I have put it?”
“There’s heaps in the bathroom,” said Julia impatiently. “This house is chock full of aspirin.”
“It vexes me to be so careless and mislay things,” replied Miss Bunner, retreating up the stairs again.
“Poor old Bunny,” said Julia, holding up her glass. “Do you think we ought to have given her some sherry?”
“Better not, I think,” said Miss Blacklock. “She’s had a lot of excitement today, and it isn’t really good for her. I’m afraid she’ll be the worse for it tomorrow. Still, I really do think she has enjoyed herself!”
“She’s loved it,” said Phillipa.
“Let’s give Mitzi a glass of sherry,” suggested Julia. “Hi, Pat,” she called as she heard him entering the side door. “Fetch Mitzi.”
So Mitzi was brought in and Julia poured her out a glass of sherry.
“Here’s to the best cook in the world,” said Patrick.
Mitzi was gratified—but felt nevertheless that a protest was due.
“That is not so. I am not really a cook. In my country I do intellectual work.”
“Then you’re wasted,” said Patrick. “What’s intellectual work compared to a chef d’oeuvre like Delicious Death?”
“Oo—I say to you I do not like—”
“Never mind what you like, my girl,” said Patrick. “That’s my name for it and here’s to it. Let’s all drink to Delicious Death and to hell with the aftereffects.”
III
“Phillipa, my dear, I want to talk to you.”
“Yes, Miss Blacklock?”
Phillipa Haymes looked up in slight surprise.
“You’re not worrying about anything, are you?”
“Worrying?”
“I’ve noticed that you’ve looked worried lately. There isn’t anything wrong, is there?”
“Oh no, Miss Blacklock. Why should there be?”
“Well—I wondered. I thought, perhaps, that you and Patrick—?”
“Patrick?” Phillipa looked really surprised.
“It’s not so, then. Please forgive me if I’ve been impertinent. But you’ve been thrown together a lot—and although Patrick is my cousin, I don’t think he’s the type to make a satisfactory husband. Not for some time to come, at all events.”
Phillipa’s face had frozen into a hard immobility.
“I shan’t marry again,” she said.
“Oh, yes, you will some day, my child. You’re young. But we needn’t discuss that. There’s no other trouble. You’re not worried about—money, for instance?”
“No, I’m quite all right.”
“I know you get anxious sometimes about your boy’s education. That’s why I want to tell you something. I drove into Milchester this afternoon to see Mr. Beddingfeld, my lawyer. Things haven’t been very settled lately and I thought I would like to make a new will—in view of certain eventualities. Apart from Bunny’s legacy, everything goes to you, Phillipa.”
“What?” Phillipa spun round. Her eyes stared. She looked dismayed, almost frightened.
“But I don’t want it—really I don’t … Oh, I’d rather not … And anyway, why? Why to me?”
“Perhaps,” said Miss Blacklock in a peculiar voice, “because there’s no one else.”
“But there’s Patrick and Julia.”
“Yes, there’s Patrick and Julia.” The odd note in Miss Blacklock’s voice was still there.
“They are your relations.”
“Very distant ones. They have no claim on me.”
“But I—I haven’t either—I don’t know what you think … Oh, I don’t want