Body in the Library - Agatha Christie [37]
“Quite right, my son.”
“And somebody told me you were a frightfully important detective from London. The head of Scotland Yard or something like that.”
“The head of Scotland Yard is usually a complete dud in books, isn’t he?”
“Oh no, not nowadays. Making fun of the police is very old-fashioned. Do you know who did the murder yet?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid.”
“Are you enjoying this very much, Peter?” asked Mrs. Bantry.
“Well, I am, rather. It makes a change, doesn’t it? I’ve been hunting round to see if I could find any clues, but I haven’t been lucky. I’ve got a souvenir, though. Would you like to see it? Fancy, Mother wanted me to throw it away. I do think one’s parents are rather trying sometimes.”
He produced from his pocket a small matchbox. Pushing it open, he disclosed the precious contents.
“See, it’s a fingernail. Her fingernail! I’m going to label it Fingernail of the Murdered Woman and take it back to school. It’s a good souvenir, don’t you think?”
“Where did you get it?” asked Miss Marple.
“Well, it was a bit of luck, really. Because, of course, I didn’t know she was going to be murdered then. It was before dinner last night. Ruby caught her nail in Josie’s shawl and it tore it. Mums cut it off for her and gave it to me and said put it in the wastepaper basket, and I meant to, but I put it in my pocket instead, and this morning I remembered and looked to see if it was still there and it was, so now I’ve got it as a souvenir.”
“Disgusting,” said Mrs. Bantry.
Peter said politely: “Oh, do you think so?”
“Got any other souvenirs?” asked Sir Henry.
“Well, I don’t know. I’ve got something that might be.”
“Explain yourself, young man.”
Peter looked at him thoughtfully. Then he pulled out an envelope. From the inside of it he extracted a piece of browny tapey substance.
“It’s a bit of that chap George Bartlett’s shoe-lace,” he explained. “I saw his shoes outside the door this morning and I bagged a bit just in case.”
“In case what?”
“In case he should be the murderer, of course. He was the last person to see her and that’s always frightfully suspicious, you know. Is it nearly dinner time, do you think? I’m frightfully hungry. It always seems such a long time between tea and dinner. Hallo, there’s Uncle Hugo. I didn’t know Mums had asked him to come down. I suppose she sent for him. She always does if she’s in a jam. Here’s Josie coming. Hi, Josie!”
Josephine Turner, coming along the terrace, stopped and looked rather startled to see Mrs. Bantry and Miss Marple.
Mrs. Bantry said pleasantly:
“How d’you do, Miss Turner. We’ve come to do a bit of sleuthing!”
Josie cast a guilty glance round. She said, lowering her voice:
“It’s awful. Nobody knows yet. I mean, it isn’t in the papers yet. I suppose everyone will be asking me questions and it’s so awkward. I don’t know what I ought to say.”
Her glance went rather wistfully towards Miss Marple, who said: “Yes, it will be a very difficult situation for you, I’m afraid.”
Josie warmed to this sympathy.
“You see, Mr. Prestcott said to me: ‘Don’t talk about it.’ And that’s all very well, but everyone is sure to ask me, and you can’t offend people, can you? Mr. Prestcott said he hoped I’d feel able to carry on as usual—and he wasn’t very nice about it, so of course I want to do my best. And I really don’t see why it should all be blamed on me.”
Sir Henry said:
“Do you mind me asking you a frank question, Miss Turner?”
“Oh, do ask me anything you like,” said Josie, a little insincerely.
“Has there been any unpleasantness between you and Mrs. Jefferson and Mr. Gaskell over all this?”
“Over the murder, do you mean?”
“No, I don’t mean the murder.”
Josie stood twisting her fingers together. She said rather sullenly:
“Well, there has and there hasn’t, if you know what I mean. Neither of them have said anything. But I think they blamed it on me—Mr. Jefferson taking such a fancy to Ruby, I mean. It wasn’t my fault, though, was it? These things happen, and I never dreamt of such a thing happening beforehand, not for a moment.