The Mirror Crack'd - Agatha Christie [7]
Miss Marple stared at her.
‘I hope there were no — unfortunate after-effects?’ she said anxiously.
Heather Badcock laughed.
‘None at all. Never felt better. What I say is, if you want a thing you’ve got to take risks. I always do.’
She laughed again, a happy strident laugh.
Arthur Badcock said admiringly. ‘There’s never any holding Heather. She always gets away with things.’
‘Alison Wilde,’ murmured Miss Marple, with a nod of satisfaction.
‘Pardon?’ said Mr Badcock.
‘Nothing. Just someone I used to know.’
Heather looked at her inquiringly.
‘You reminded me of her, that is all.’
‘Did I? I hope she was nice.’
‘She was very nice indeed,’ said Miss Marple slowly. ‘Kind, healthy, full of life.’
‘But she had her faults, I suppose?’ laughed Heather. ‘I have.’
‘Well, Alison always saw her own point of view so clearly that she didn’t always see how things might appear to, or affect, other people.’
‘Like the time you took in that evacuated family from a condemned cottage and they went off with all our teaspoons,’ Arthur said.
‘But Arthur! — I couldn’t have turned them away. It wouldn’t have been kind.’
‘They were family spoons,’ said Mr Badcock sadly. ‘Georgian. Belonged to my mother’s grandmother.’
‘Oh, do forget those old spoons, Arthur. You do harp so.’
‘I’m not very good at forgetting, I’m afraid.’
Miss Marple looked at him thoughtfully.
‘What’s your friend doing now?’ asked Heather of Miss Marple with kindly interest.
Miss Marple paused a moment before answering.
‘Alison Wilde? Oh — she died.’
Chapter 3
I
‘I’m glad to be back,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘Although, of course, I’ve had a wonderful time.’
Miss Marple nodded appreciatively, and accepted a cup of tea from her friend’s hand.
When her husband, Colonel Bantry, had died some years ago, Mrs Bantry had sold Gossington Hall and the considerable amount of land attached to it, retaining for herself what had been the East Lodge, a charming porticoed little building replete with inconvenience, where even a gardener had refused to live. Mrs Bantry had added to it the essentials of modern life, a built-on kitchen of the latest type, a new water supply from the main, electricity, and a bathroom. This had all cost her a great deal, but not nearly so much as an attempt to live at Gossington Hall would have done. She had also retained the essentials of privacy, about three quarters of an acre of garden nicely ringed with trees, so that, as she explained. ‘Whatever they do with Gossington I shan’t really see it or worry.’
For the last few years she had spent a good deal of the year travelling about, visiting children and grandchildren in various parts of the globe, and coming back from time to time to enjoy the privacies of her own home. Gossington Hall itself had changed hands once or twice. It had been run as a guest house, failed, and been bought by four people who had shared it as four roughly divided flats and subsequently quarrelled. Finally the Ministry of Health had bought it for some obscure purpose for which they eventually did not want it. The Ministry had now resold it — and it was this sale which the two friends were discussing.
‘I have heard rumours, of course,’ said Miss Marple.
‘Naturally,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘It was even said that Charlie Chaplin and all his children were coming to live here. That would have been wonderful fun; unfortunately there isn’t a word of truth in it. No, it’s definitely Marina Gregg.’
‘How very lovely she was,’ said Miss Marple with a sigh. ‘I always remember those early films of hers. Bird of Passage with that handsome Joel Roberts. And the Mary, Queen of Scots film. And of course it was very sentimental, but I did enjoy Comin’ thru the Rye. Oh dear, that was a long time ago.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘She must be