Pocket Full of Rye - Agatha Christie [59]
The necessity to talk grew upon Mrs. Emmett, and on that particular day it had burst its bounds, and Miss Marple had received the full flood of the torrent. She had been sorry for Mrs. Emmett then, and today she was rather sorry for Mrs. Percival Fortescue.
Mrs. Percival had had a lot of grievances to bear and the relief of airing them to a more or less total stranger was enormous.
“Of course I never want to complain,” said Mrs. Percival. “I’ve never been of the complaining kind. What I always say is that one must put up with things. What can’t be cured must be endured and I’m sure I’ve never said a word to anyone. It’s really difficult to know who I could have spoken to. In someways one is very isolated here—very isolated. It’s very convenient, of course, and a great saving of expense to have our own set of rooms in this house. But of course it’s not at all like having a place of your own. I’m sure you agree.”
Miss Marple said she agreed.
“Fortunately our new house is almost ready to move into. It is a question really of getting the painters and decorators out. These men are so slow. My husband, of course, has been quite satisfied living here. But then it’s different for a man. Don’t you agree?”
Miss Marple agreed that it was very different for a man. She could say this without a qualm as it was what she really believed. “The gentlemen” were, in Miss Marple’s mind, in a totally different category to her own sex. They required two eggs plus bacon for breakfast, three good nourishing meals a day and were never to be contradicted or argued with before dinner. Mrs. Percival went on.
“My husband, you see, is away all day in the city. When he comes home he’s just tired and wants to sit down and read. But I, on the contrary, am alone here all day with no congenial company at all. I’ve been perfectly comfortable and all that. Excellent food. But what I do feel one needs is a really pleasant social circle. The people round here are really not my kind. Part of them are what I call a flashy, bridge-playing lot. Not nice bridge. I like a hand at bridge myself as well as anyone, but of course, they’re all very rich down here. They play for enormously high stakes, and there’s a great deal of drinking. In fact, the sort of life that I call really fast society. Then, of course, there’s a sprinkling of—well, you can only call them old pussies who love to potter round with a trowel and do gardening.”
Miss Marple looked slightly guilty since she was herself an inveterate gardener.
“I don’t want to say anything against the dead,” resumed Mrs. Percy rapidly, “but there’s no doubt about it, Mr. Fortescue, my father-in-law, I mean, made a very foolish second marriage. My—well I can’t call her my mother-in-law, she was the same age as I am. The real truth of it is she was man-mad. Absolutely man-mad. And the way she spent money! My father-in-law was an absolute fool about her. Didn’t care what bills she ran up. It vexed Percy very much, very much indeed. Percy is always so careful about money matters. He hates waste. And then what with Mr. Fortescue being so peculiar and so bad tempered, flashing out in these terrible rages, spending money like water backing wildcat schemes. Well—it wasn’t at all nice.”
Miss Marple ventured upon making a remark.
“That must have worried your husband, too?”
“Oh, yes, it did. For the last year Percy’s been very worried indeed. It’s really made him quite different. His manner, you know, changed even towards