Miss Marple's final cases - Agatha Christie [43]
‘Some old bits of velvet and silk and a lick of paint, that’s all it is,’ said Alicia Coombe. Her voice was strained. ‘I suppose, you know, we could—er—we could dispose of her.’
‘What do you mean, dispose of her?’ asked Sybil. Her voice sounded almost shocked.
‘Well,’ said Alicia Coombe, ‘we could put her in the fire, if there was a fire. Burn her, I mean, like a witch…Or of course,’ she added matter-of-factly, ‘we could just put her in the dustbin.’
‘I don’t think that would do,’ said Sybil. ‘Somebody would probably take her out of the dustbin and bring her back to us.’
‘Or we could send her somewhere,’ said Alicia Coombe. ‘You know, to one of those societies who are always writing and asking for something—for a sale or a bazaar. I think that’s the best idea.’
‘I don’t know…’ said Sybil. ‘I’d be almost afraid to do that.’
‘Afraid?’
‘Well, I think she’d come back,’ said Sybil.
‘You mean, she’d come back here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like a homing pigeon?’
‘Yes, that’s what I mean.’
‘I suppose we’re not going off our heads, are we?’ said Alicia Coombe. ‘Perhaps I’ve really gone gaga and perhaps you’re just humouring me, is that it?’
‘No,’ said Sybil. ‘But I’ve got a nasty frightening feeling—a horrid feeling that she’s too strong for us.’
‘What? That mess of rags?’
‘Yes, that horrible limp mess of rags. Because, you see, she’s so determined.’
‘Determined?’
‘To have her own way! I mean, this is her room now!’
‘Yes,’ said Alicia Coombe, looking round, ‘it is, isn’t it? Of course, it always was, when you come to think of it—the colours and everything…I thought she fitted in here, but it’s the room that fits her. I must say,’ added the dressmaker, with a touch of briskness in her voice, ‘it’s rather absurd when a doll comes and takes possession of things like this. You know, Mrs Groves won’t come in here any longer and clean.’
‘Does she say she’s frightened of the doll?’
‘No. She just makes excuses of some kind or other.’ Then Alicia added with a hint of panic, ‘What are we going to do, Sybil? It’s getting me down, you know. I haven’t been able to design anything for weeks.’
‘I can’t keep my mind on cutting out properly,’ Sybil confessed. ‘I make all sorts of silly mistakes. Perhaps,’ she said uncertainly, ‘your idea of writing to the psychical research people might do some good.’
‘Just make us look like a couple of fools,’ said Alicia Coombe. ‘I didn’t seriously mean it. No, I suppose we’ll just have to go on until—’
‘Until what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Alicia, and she laughed uncertainly.
On the following day Sybil, when she arrived, found the door of the fitting-room locked.
‘Miss Coombe, have you got the key? Did you lock this last night?’
‘Yes,’ said Alicia Coombe, ‘I locked it and it’s going to stay locked.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I just mean I’ve given up the room. The doll can have it. We don’t need two rooms. We can fit in here.’
‘But it’s your own private sitting-room.’
‘Well, I don’t want it any more. I’ve got a very nice bedroom. I can make a bed-sitting room out of that, can’t I?’
‘Do you mean you’re really not going into that fitting-room ever again?’ said Sybil incredulously.
‘That’s exactly what I mean.’
‘But—what about cleaning? It’ll get in a terrible state.’
‘Let it!’ said Alicia Coombe. ‘If this place is suffering from some kind of possession by a doll, all right—let her keep possession. And clean the room herself.’ And she added, ‘She hates us, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Sybil. ‘The doll hates us?’
‘Yes,’ said Alicia. ‘Didn’t you know? You must have known. You must have seen it when you looked at her.’
‘Yes,’ said Sybil thoughtfully, ‘I suppose I did. I suppose I felt that all along—that she hated us and wanted to get us out of there.’
‘She’s a malicious little thing,’ said Alicia Coombe. ‘Anyway, she ought to be satisfied now.’
Things went on rather more peacefully after that. Alicia Coombe announced to her staff that she was giving up the use of the fitting-room for the present—it made too many rooms to dust and clean, she explained.
But it