Body in the Library - Agatha Christie [51]
“If she were meeting him inside the hotel or somewhere where evening dress was worn, she’d wear her best evening frock, of course—but outside she’d feel she’d look ridiculous in evening dress and she’d wear her most attractive sportswear.”
“Granted, Fashion Queen, but the girl Ruby—”
Miss Marple said:
“Ruby, of course, wasn’t—well, to put it bluntly—Ruby wasn’t a lady. She belonged to the class that wear their best clothes however unsuitable to the occasion. Last year, you know, we had a picnic outing at Scrantor Rocks. You’d be surprised at the unsuitable clothes the girls wore. Foulard dresses and patent shoes and quite elaborate hats, some of them. For climbing about over rocks and in gorse and heather. And the young men in their best suits. Of course, hiking’s different again. That’s practically a uniform—and girls don’t seem to realize that shorts are very unbecoming unless they are very slender.”
The Superintendent said slowly:
“And you think that Ruby Keene—?”
“I think that she’d have kept on the frock she was wearing—her best pink one. She’d only have changed it if she’d had something newer still.”
Superintendent Harper said:
“And what’s your explanation, Miss Marple?”
Miss Marple said:
“I haven’t got one—yet. But I can’t help feeling that it’s important….”
III
Inside the wire cage, the tennis lesson that Raymond Starr was giving had come to an end.
A stout middle-aged woman uttered a few appreciative squeaks, picked up a sky-blue cardigan and went off towards the hotel.
Raymond called out a few gay words after her.
Then he turned towards the bench where the three onlookers were sitting. The balls dangled in a net in his hand, his racquet was under one arm. The gay, laughing expression on his face was wiped off as though by a sponge from a slate. He looked tired and worried.
Coming towards them, he said: “That’s over.”
Then the smile broke out again, that charming, boyish, expressive smile that went so harmoniously with his suntanned face and dark lithe grace.
Sir Henry found himself wondering how old the man was. Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five? It was impossible to say.
Raymond said, shaking his head a little:
“She’ll never be able to play, you know.”
“All this must be very boring for you,” said Miss Marple.
Raymond said simply:
“It is, sometimes. Especially at the end of the summer. For a time the thought of the pay buoys you up, but even that fails to stimulate imagination in the end!”
Superintendent Harper got up. He said abruptly:
“I’ll call for you in half an hour’s time, Miss Marple, if that will be all right?”
“Perfectly, thank you. I shall be ready.”
Harper went off. Raymond stood looking after him. Then he said: “Mind if I sit here for a bit?”
“Do,” said Sir Henry. “Have a cigarette?” He offered his case, wondering as he did so why he had a slight feeling of prejudice against Raymond Starr. Was it simply because he was a professional tennis coach and dancer? If so, it wasn’t the tennis—it was the dancing. The English, Sir Henry decided, had a distrust for any man who danced too well! This fellow moved with too much grace! Ramon—Raymond—which was his name? Abruptly, he asked the question.
The other seemed amused.
“Ramon was my original professional name. Ramon and Josie—Spanish effect, you know. Then there was rather a prejudice against foreigners—so I became Raymond—very British—”
Miss Marple said:
“And is your real name something quite different?”
He smiled at her.
“Actually my real name is Ramon. I had an Argentine grandmother, you see—” (And that accounts for that swing from the hips, thought Sir Henry parenthetically.) “But my first name is Thomas. Painfully prosaic.”
He turned to Sir Henry.
“You come from Devonshire, don’t you, sir? From Stane? My people lived down that way. At Alsmonston.”
Sir Henry’s face lit up.
“Are you one of the Alsmonston Starrs? I didn’t realize that.”
“No—I don’t suppose you would.”
There was a slight bitterness in his voice.
Sir Henry said awkwardly:
“Bad luck—er—all that.”
“The place being