Three Act Tragedy - Agatha Christie [67]
Miss Milray’s mother lived in a tiny house on the other side of the green to the church.
As the car drew up Egg asked:
‘Does Miss Milray know you are going to see her mother?’
‘Oh, yes. She wrote to prepare the old lady.’
‘Do you think that was a good thing?’
‘My dear child, why not?’
‘Oh, I don’t know…You didn’t bring her down with you, though.’
‘As a matter of fact, I thought she might cramp my style. She’s so much more efficient than I am—she’d probably try to prompt me.’
Egg laughed.
Mrs Milray turned out to be almost ludicrously unlike her daughter. Where Miss Milray was hard, she was soft, where Miss Milray was angular, she was round. Mrs Milray was an immense dumpling of awoman immovably fixed in an armchair conveniently placed so that she could, from the window, observe all that went on in the world outside.
She seemed pleasurably excited by the arrival of her visitors.
‘This is very nice of you, I’m sure, Sir Charles. I’ve heard so much about you from my Violet.’ (Violet! Singularly incongruous name for Miss Milray.) ‘You don’t know how much she admires you. It’s been most interesting for her working with you all these years. Won’t you sit down, Miss Lytton Gore? You’ll excuse my not getting up. I’ve lost the use of my limbs for many years now. The Lord’s will, and I don’t complain, and what I say is one can get used to anything. Perhaps you’d like a little refreshment after your drive down?’
Both Sir Charles and Egg disclaimed the need of refreshment, but Mrs Milray paid no attention. She clapped her hands in an Oriental manner, and tea and biscuits made their appearance. As they nibbled and sipped, Sir Charles came to the object of their visit.
‘I expect you’ve heard, Mrs Milray, all about the tragic death of Mr Babbington who used to be vicar here?’
The dumpling nodded its head in vigorous assent.
‘Yes, indeed. I’ve read all about the exhumation in the paper. And whoever can have poisoned him I can’t imagine. A very nice man, he was, everyone liked him here—and her, too. And their little children and all.’
‘It is indeed a great mystery,’ said Sir Charles. ‘We’re all in despair about it. In fact, we wondered if you could possibly throw any light upon the matter.’
‘Me? But I haven’t seen the Babbingtons—let me see—it must be over fifteen years.’
‘I know, but some of us have the idea that there might be something in the past to account for his death.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what there could be. They led very quiet lives—very badly off, poor things, with all those children.’
Mrs Milray was willing enough to reminisce, but her reminiscences seemed to shed little light on the problem they had set out to solve.
Sir Charles showed her the enlargement of a snapshot which included the Dacres, also an early portrait of Angela Sutcliffe and a somewhat blurred reproduction of Miss Wills cut from a newspaper. Mrs Milray surveyed them all with great interest, but with no signs of recognition.
‘I can’t say I remember any of them—of course it’s a long time ago. But this is a small place. There’s not much coming and going. The Agnew girls, the doctor’s daughters—they’re all married and out in the world, and our present doctor’s a bachelor—he’s got a new young partner. Then there were the old Miss Cayleys—sat in the big pew—they’re all dead many years back. And the Richardsons—he died and she went to Wales. And the village people, of course. But there’s not much change there. Violet, I expect, could tell you as much as I could. She was a young girl then and often over at the Vicarage.’
Sir Charles tried to envisage Miss Milray as a young girl and failed.
He asked Mrs Milray if she remembered anyone of the name of Rushbridger, but the name failed to evoke any response.
Finally they took their leave.
Their next move was a scratch lunch in the baker’s shop. Sir Charles had hankerings for fleshpots elsewhere, but Egg pointed out that they might get hold of some local gossip.