Nemesis - Agatha Christie [25]
‘In this room, ladies and gentlemen, the White Parlour, folks call it, is where they found a body. A young man it was, stabbed with a dagger, lying on the hearthrug. Way back in seventeen hundred and something it was. It was said that the Lady Moffat of that day had a lover. He came through a small side door and up a steep staircase to this room through a loose panel there was to the left of the fireplace. Sir Richard Moffat, her husband, you see, was said to be across the seas in the Low Countries. But he come home, and in he came unexpectedly and caught ’em there together.’
He paused proudly. He was pleased at the response from his audience, glad of a respite from the architectural details which they had been having forced down their throats.
‘Why, isn’t that just too romantic, Henry?’ said Mrs Butler in her resonant trans-Atlantic tones. ‘Why, you know, there’s quite an atmosphere in this room. I feel it. I certainly can feel it.’
‘Mamie is very sensitive to atmospheres,’ said her husband proudly to those around him. ‘Why, once when we were in an old house down in Louisiana…’
The narrative of Mamie’s special sensitivity got into its swing and Miss Marple and one or two others seized their opportunity to edge gently out of the room and down the exquisitely moulded staircase to the ground floor.
‘A friend of mine,’ said Miss Marple to Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow who were next to her, ‘had a most nerve-racking experience only a few years ago. A dead body on their library floor one morning.’
‘One of the family?’ asked Miss Barrow. ‘An epileptic fit?’
‘Oh no, it was a murder. A strange girl in evening dress. A blonde. But her hair was dyed. She was really a brunette; and — oh…’ Miss Marple broke off, her eyes fixed on Miss Cooke’s yellow hair where it escaped from her headscarf.
It had come to her suddenly. She knew why Miss Cooke’s face was familiar and she knew where she had seen her before. But when she had seen her then, Miss Cooke’s hair had been dark — almost black. And now it was bright yellow.
Mrs Riseley-Porter, coming down the stairs, spoke decisively as she pushed past them and completed the staircase and turned into the hall.
‘I really cannot go up and down any more of those stairs,’ she declared, ‘and standing around in these rooms is very tiring. I believe the gardens here, although not extensive, are quite celebrated in horticultural circles. I suggest we go there without loss of time. It looks as though it might cloud over before long. I think we shall get rain before morning is out.’
The authority with which Mrs Riseley-Porter could enforce her remarks had its usual result. All those near at hand or within hearing followed her obediently out through french doors in the dining-room into the garden. The gardens had indeed all that Mrs Riseley-Porter had claimed for them. She herself took possession firmly of Colonel Walker and set off briskly. Some of the others followed them, others took paths in the opposite direction.
Miss Marple herself made a determined bee-line for a garden seat which appeared to be of comfortable proportions as well as of artistic merit. She sank down on it with relief, and a sigh matching her own was emitted by Miss Elizabeth Temple as she followed Miss Marple and came to sit beside her on the seat.
‘Going over houses is always tiring,’ said Miss Temple. ‘The most tiring thing in the world. Especially if you have to listen to an exhaustive