Body in the Library - Agatha Christie [5]
“No,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully, “I can’t say that it does—not at the moment. I was reminded a little of Mrs. Chetty’s youngest—Edie, you know—but I think that was just because this poor girl bit her nails and her front teeth stuck out a little. Nothing more than that. And, of course,” went on Miss Marple, pursuing the parallel further, “Edie was fond of what I call cheap finery, too.”
“You mean her dress?” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Yes, a very tawdry satin—poor quality.”
Mrs. Bantry said:
“I know. One of those nasty little shops where everything is a guinea.” She went on hopefully:
“Let me see, what happened to Mrs. Chetty’s Edie?”
“She’s just gone into her second place—and doing very well, I believe.”
Mrs. Bantry felt slightly disappointed. The village parallel didn’t seem to be exactly hopeful.
“What I can’t make out,” said Mrs. Bantry, “is what she could possibly be doing in Arthur’s study. The window was forced, Palk tells me. She might have come down here with a burglar and then they quarrelled—but that seems such nonsense, doesn’t it?”
“She was hardly dressed for burglary,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.
“No, she was dressed for dancing—or a party of some kind. But there’s nothing of that kind down here—or anywhere near.”
“N-n-o,” said Miss Marple doubtfully.
Mrs. Bantry pounced.
“Something’s in your mind, Jane.”
“Well, I was just wondering—”
“Yes?”
“Basil Blake.”
Mrs. Bantry cried impulsively: “Oh, no!” and added as though in explanation, “I know his mother.”
The two women looked at each other.
Miss Marple sighed and shook her head.
“I quite understand how you feel about it.”
“Selina Blake is the nicest woman imaginable. Her herbaceous borders are simply marvellous—they make me green with envy. And she’s frightfully generous with cuttings.”
Miss Marple, passing over these claims to consideration on the part of Mrs. Blake, said:
“All the same, you know, there has been a lot of talk.”
“Oh, I know—I know. And of course Arthur goes simply livid when he hears Basil Blake mentioned. He was really very rude to Arthur, and since then Arthur won’t hear a good word for him. He’s got that silly slighting way of talking that these boys have nowadays—sneering at people sticking up for their school or the Empire or that sort of thing. And then, of course, the clothes he wears!”
“People say,” continued Mrs. Bantry, “that it doesn’t matter what you wear in the country. I never heard such nonsense. It’s just in the country that everyone notices.” She paused, and added wistfully: “He was an adorable baby in his bath.”
“There was a lovely picture of the Cheviot murderer as a baby in the paper last Sunday,” said Miss Marple.
“Oh, but Jane, you don’t think he—”
“No, no, dear. I didn’t mean that at all. That would indeed be jumping to conclusions. I was just trying to account for the young woman’s presence down here. St. Mary Mead is such an unlikely place. And then it seemed to me that the only possible explanation was Basil Blake. He does have parties. People came down from London and from the studios—you remember last July? Shouting and singing—the most terrible noise—everyone very drunk, I’m afraid—and the mess and the broken glass next morning simply unbelievable—so old Mrs. Berry told me—and a young woman asleep in the bath with practically nothing on!”
Mrs. Bantry said indulgently:
“I suppose they were film people.”
“Very likely. And then—what I expect you’ve heard—several weekends lately he’s brought down a young woman with him—a platinum blonde.”
Mrs. Bantry exclaimed:
“You don’t think it’s this one?”
“Well—I wondered. Of course, I’ve never seen her close to—only just getting in and out of the car—and once in the cottage garden when she was sunbathing with just some shorts and a brassière. I never really saw her face. And all these girls with their makeup and their hair and their nails look so alike.”
“Yes. Still, it might be. It’s an idea, Jane.”
Two
I
It was an idea that was being at that moment discussed