Body in the Library - Agatha Christie [3]
“Yes, I’m sending the car down for you.”
Miss Marple said doubtfully:
“Of course, dear, if you think I can be of any comfort to you—”
“Oh, I don’t want comfort. But you’re so good at bodies.”
“Oh no, indeed. My little successes have been mostly theoretical.”
“But you’re very good at murders. She’s been murdered, you see, strangled. What I feel is that if one has got to have a murder actually happening in one’s house, one might as well enjoy it, if you know what I mean. That’s why I want you to come and help me find out who did it and unravel the mystery and all that. It really is rather thrilling, isn’t it?”
“Well, of course, my dear, if I can be of any help to you.”
“Splendid! Arthur’s being rather difficult. He seems to think I shouldn’t enjoy myself about it at all. Of course, I do know it’s very sad and all that, but then I don’t know the girl—and when you’ve seen her you’ll understand what I mean when I say she doesn’t look real at all.”
V
A little breathless, Miss Marple alighted from the Bantry’s car, the door of which was held open for her by the chauffeur.
Colonel Bantry came out on the steps, and looked a little surprised.
“Miss Marple?—er—very pleased to see you.”
“Your wife telephoned to me,” explained Miss Marple.
“Capital, capital. She ought to have someone with her. She’ll crack up otherwise. She’s putting a good face on things at the moment, but you know what it is—”
At this moment Mrs. Bantry appeared, and exclaimed:
“Do go back into the dining room and eat your breakfast, Arthur. Your bacon will get cold.”
“I thought it might be the Inspector arriving,” explained Colonel Bantry.
“He’ll be here soon enough,” said Mrs. Bantry. “That’s why it’s important to get your breakfast first. You need it.”
“So do you. Much better come and eat something. Dolly—”
“I’ll come in a minute,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Go on, Arthur.”
Colonel Bantry was shooed back into the dining room like a recalcitrant hen.
“Now!” said Mrs. Bantry with an intonation of triumph. “Come on.”
She led the way rapidly along the long corridor to the east of the house. Outside the library door Constable Palk stood on guard. He intercepted Mrs. Bantry with a show of authority.
“I’m afraid nobody is allowed in, madam. Inspector’s orders.”
“Nonsense, Palk,” said Mrs. Bantry. “You know Miss Marple perfectly well.”
Constable Palk admitted to knowing Miss Marple.
“It’s very important that she should see the body,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Don’t be stupid, Palk. After all, it’s my library, isn’t it?”
Constable Palk gave way. His habit of giving in to the gentry was lifelong. The Inspector, he reflected, need never know about it.
“Nothing must be touched or handled in any way,” he warned the ladies.
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Bantry impatiently. “We know that. You can come in and watch, if you like.”
Constable Palk availed himself of this permission. It had been his intention, anyway.
Mrs. Bantry bore her friend triumphantly across the library to the big old-fashioned fireplace. She said, with a dramatic sense of climax: “There!”
Miss Marple understood then just what her friend had meant when she said the dead girl wasn’t real. The library was a room very typical of its owners. It was large and shabby and untidy. It had big sagging armchairs, and pipes and books and estate papers laid out on the big table. There were one or two good old family portraits on the walls, and some bad Victorian watercolours, and some would-be-funny hunting scenes. There was a big vase of Michaelmas daisies in the corner. The whole room was dim and mellow and casual. It spoke of long occupation and familiar use and of links with tradition.
And across the old bearskin hearthrug there was sprawled something new and crude and melodramatic.
The flamboyant figure of a girl. A girl with unnaturally fair hair dressed up off her face in elaborate curls and rings. Her thin body was dressed in a backless evening dress of white spangled satin. The face was heavily made-up, the powder standing out grotesquely on its blue swollen surface, the mascara