Nemesis - Agatha Christie [75]
‘I think it must have been,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘We had been talking,’ said Miss Marple, ‘about a young girl. A girl called Verity.’
‘Ah yes. Verity Hunt.’
‘I did not know her surname. Miss Temple, I think, mentioned her only as Verity.’
‘Verity Hunt is dead,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘She died quite a number of years ago. Did you know that?’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I knew it. Miss Temple and I were talking about her. Miss Temple told me something that I did not know. She said she had been engaged to be married to the son of a Mr Rafiel. Mr Rafiel is, or again I must say was, a friend of mine. Mr Rafiel has paid the expenses of this tour out of his kindness. I think, though, that possibly he wanted — indeed, intended — me to meet Miss Temple on this tour. I think he thought she could give me certain information.’
‘Certain information about Verity?’
‘Yes.’
‘That is why she was coming to me. She wanted to know certain facts.’
‘She wanted to know,’ said Miss Marple, ‘why Verity broke off her engagement to marry Mr Rafiel’s son.’
‘Verity,’ said Archdeacon Brabazon, ‘did not break off her engagement. I am certain of that. As certain as one can be of anything.’
‘Miss Temple did not know that, did she?’
‘No. I think she was puzzled and unhappy about what happened and was coming to me to ask me why the marriage did not take place.’
‘And why did it not take place?’ asked Miss Marple. ‘Please do not think that I am unduly curious. It’s not idle curiosity that is driving me. I too am on — not a pilgrimage — but what I should call a mission. I too want to know why Michael Rafiel and Verity Hunt did not marry.’
The Archdeacon studied her for a moment or two.
‘You are involved in some way,’ he said. ‘I see that.’
‘I am involved,’ said Miss Marple, ‘by the dying wishes of Michael Rafiel’s father. He asked me to do this for him.’
‘I have no reason not to tell you all I know,’ said the Archdeacon slowly. ‘You are asking me what Elizabeth Temple would have been asking me, you are asking me something I do not know myself. Those two young people, Miss Marple, intended to marry. They had made arrangements to marry. I was going to marry them. It was a marriage, I gather, which was being kept a secret. I knew both these young people, I knew that dear child Verity from a long way back. I prepared her for confirmation, I used to hold services in Lent, for Easter, on other occasions, in Elizabeth Temple’s school. A very fine school it was, too. A very fine woman she was. A wonderful teacher with a great sense of each girl’s capabilities — for what she was best fitted for in studies. She urged careers on girls she thought would relish careers, and did not force girls that she felt were not really suited to them. She was a great woman and a very dear friend. Verity was one of the most beautiful children — girls, rather — that I have come across. Beautiful in mind, in heart, as well as in appearance. She had the great misfortune to lose her parents before she was truly adult. They were both killed in a charter plane going on a holiday to Italy. Verity went to live when she left school with a Miss Clotilde Bradbury-Scott whom you know, probably, as living here. She had been a close friend of Verity’s mother. There are three sisters, though the second one was married and living abroad, so there were only two of them living here. Clotilde, the eldest one, became extremely attached to Verity. She did everything possible to give her a happy life. She took her abroad once or twice, gave her art lessons in Italy and loved and cared for her dearly in every way. Verity, too, came to love her probably as much as she could have loved her own mother. She depended on Clotilde. Clotilde herself was an intellectual and well educated woman. She did not urge a university career on Verity, but this I gather was really because Verity did not really yearn after one. She preferred to study art and music and such subjects. She lived here at The Old Manor House and had, I think, a very happy life. She always seemed to be happy. Naturally,