Sleeping Murder - Agatha Christie [43]
“I wish,” said Gwenda, “that we could get in touch with the other servant—with Lily—the one who put the bow on Thomas—”
“Funny your suddenly remembering that, Gwenda.”
“Yes, wasn’t it? I remember Tommy, too. He was black with white patches and he had three lovely kittens.”
“What? Thomas?”
“Well, he was called Thomas—but actually he turned out to be Thomasina. You know what cats are. But about Lily—I wonder what’s become of her? Edith Pagett seems to have lost sight of her entirely. She didn’t come from round here—and after the breakup at St. Catherine’s she took a place in Torquay. She wrote once or twice but that was all. Edith said she’d heard she’d got married but she didn’t know who to. If we could get hold of her we might learn a lot more.”
“And from Léonie, the Swiss girl.”
“Perhaps—but she was a foreigner and wouldn’t catch on to much of what went on. You know, I don’t remember her at all. No, it’s Lily I feel would be useful. Lily was the sharp one … I know, Giles, let’s put in another advertisement—an advertisement for her—Lily Abbott, her name was.”
“Yes,” said Giles. “We might try that. And we’ll definitely go north tomorrow and see what we can find out about the Erskines.”
Sixteen
MOTHER’S SON
“Down, Henry,” said Mrs. Fane to an asthmatic spaniel whose liquid eyes burned with greed. “Another scone, Miss Marple, while they’re hot?”
“Thank you. Such delicious scones. You have an excellent cook.”
“Louisa is not bad, really. Forgetful, like all of them. And no variety in her puddings. Tell me, how is Dorothy Yarde’s sciatica nowadays? She used to be a martyr to it. Largely nerves, I suspect.”
Miss Marple hastened to oblige with details of their mutual acquaintance’s ailments. It was fortunate, she thought, that amongst her many friends and relations scattered over England, she had managed to find a woman who knew Mrs. Fane and who had written explaining that a Miss Marple was at present in Dillmouth, and would dear Eleanor be very kind and ask her to something.
Eleanor Fane was a tall, commanding woman with a steely grey eye, crisp white hair, and a baby pink and white complexion which masked the fact that there was no baby-like softness whatever about her.
They discussed Dorothy’s ailments or imagined ailments and went on to Miss Marple’s health, the air of Dillmouth, and the general poor condition of most of the younger generation.
“Not made to eat their crusts as children,” Mrs. Fane pronounced. “None of that allowed in my nursery.”
“You have more than one son?” asked Miss Marple.
“Three. The eldest, Gerald, is in Singapore in the Far East Bank. Robert is in the Army.” Mrs. Fane sniffed. “Married a Roman Catholic,” she said with significance. “You know what that means! All the children brought up as Catholics. What Robert’s father would have said, I don’t know. My husband was very low church. I hardly ever hear from Robert nowadays. He takes exception to some of the things I have said to him purely for his own good. I believe in being sincere and saying exactly what one thinks. His marriage was, in my opinion, a great misfortune. He may pretend to be happy, poor boy—but I can’t feel that it is at all satisfactory.”
“Your youngest son is not married, I believe?”
Mrs. Fane beamed.
“No, Walter lives at home. He is slightly delicate—always was from a child—and I have always had to look after his health very carefully. (He will be in presently.) I can’t tell you what a thoughtful and devoted son he is. I am really a very lucky woman to have such a son.”
“And he has never thought of marrying?” enquired Miss Marple.
“Walter always says he really cannot be bothered with the modern young woman. They don’t appeal to him. He and I have so much in common that I’m afraid he doesn’t go out as much as he should. He reads Thackeray to me in the evenings, and we usually have a game of picquet. Walter is a real home bird.”
“How very nice,” said Miss Marple. “Has he always been in the firm? Somebody told me that you had a son who was out in Ceylon, as a tea-planter,