Nemesis - Agatha Christie [1]
Having turned the paper over as usual to the births, marriages and deaths, Miss Marple thought to herself, as so often before,
‘It’s sad really, but nowadays one is only interested in the deaths!’
People had babies, but the people who had babies were not likely to be even known by name to Miss Marple. If there had been a column dealing with babies labelled as grandchildren, there might have been some chance of a pleasurable recognition. She might have thought to herself,
‘Really, Mary Prendergast has had a third granddaughter!’, though even that perhaps might have been a bit remote.
She skimmed down Marriages, also with not a very close survey, because most of her old friends’ daughters or sons had married some years ago already. She came to the Deaths column, and gave that her more serious attention. Gave it enough, in fact, so as to be sure she would not miss a name. Alloway, Angopastro, Arden, Barton, Bedshaw, Burgoweisser — (dear me, what a German name, but he seemed to be late of Leeds). Carpenter, Camperdown, Clegg. Clegg? Now was that one of the Cleggs she knew? No, it didn’t seem to be. Janet Clegg. Somewhere in Yorkshire. McDonald, McKenzie, Nicholson. Nicholson? No. Again not a Nicholson she knew. Ogg, Ormerod — that must be one of the aunts, she thought. Yes, probably so. Linda Ormerod. No, she hadn’t known her. Quantril? Dear me, that must be Elizabeth Quantril. Eighty-five. Well, really! She had thought Elizabeth Quantril had died some years ago. Fancy her having lived so long! So delicate she’d always been, too. Nobody had expected her to make old bones. Race, Radley, Rafiel. Rafiel? Something stirred. That name was familiar. Rafiel. Belford Park, Maidstone. Belford Park, Maidstone. No, she couldn’t recall that address. No flowers. Jason Rafiel. Oh well, an unusual name. She supposed she’d just heard it somewhere. Ross-Perkins. Now that might be — no, it wasn’t. Ryland? Emily Ryland. No. No, she’d never known an Emily Ryland. Deeply loved by her husband and children. Well, very nice or very sad. Whichever way you liked to look at it.
Miss Marple laid down her paper, glancing idly through the crossword while she puzzled to remember why the name Rafiel was familiar to her.
‘It will come to me,’ said Miss Marple, knowing from long experience the way old people’s memories worked.
‘It’ll come to me, I have no doubt.’
She glanced out of the window towards the garden, withdrew her gaze and tried to put the garden out of her mind. Her garden had been the source of great pleasure and also a great deal of hard work to Miss Marple for many, many years. And now, owing to the fussiness of doctors, working in the garden was forbidden to her. She’d once tried to fight this ban, but had come to the conclusion that she had, after all, better do as she was told. She had arranged her chair at such an angle as not to be easy to look out in the garden unless she definitely and clearly wished to see something in particular. She sighed, picked up her knitting bag and took out a small child’s woolly jacket in process of coming to a conclusion. The back was done and the front. Now she would have to get on with the sleeves. Sleeves were always boring. Two sleeves, both alike. Yes, very boring. Pretty coloured pink wool, however. Pink wool. Now wait a minute, where did that fit in? Yes — yes — it fitted in with that name she’d just read in the paper. Pink wool. A blue sea. A Caribbean sea. A sandy beach. Sunshine. Herself knitting and — why, of course, Mr Rafiel. That trip she had made to the Caribbean. The island of St Honoré. A treat from her nephew Raymond. And she remembered Joan, her niece-in-law, Raymond’s wife, saying:
‘Don’t get mixed up in any more murders, Aunt Jane. It isn’t good