Thirteen
I
“It’s so very kind of you to have asked me to take tea with you,” said Miss
Marple to Emma Crackenthorpe.
Miss Marple was looking particularly woolly and fluffy—a picture of a
sweet old lady. She beamed as she looked round her—at Harold Cracken-
thorpe in his well-cut dark suit, at Alfred handing her sandwiches with a
“We are very pleased that you could come,” said Emma politely.
There was no hint of the scene which had taken place after lunch that
day when Emma had exclaimed: “Dear me, I quite forgot. I told Miss Eye-
lesbarrow that she could bring her old aunt to tea today.”
“Put her off,” said Harold brusquely. “We’ve still got a lot to talk about.
We don’t want strangers here.”
“Let her have tea in the kitchen or somewhere with the girl,” said Al-
fred.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” said Emma firmly. “That would be very
rude.”
“Oh, let her come,” said Cedric. “We can draw her out a little about the
wonderful Lucy. I should like to know more about that girl, I must say. I’m
not sure that I trust her. Too smart by half.”
“She’s very well connected and quite genuine,” said Harold. “I’ve made
it my business to find out. One wanted to be sure.
Poking4 about and find-
ing the body the way she did.”
“If we only knew who this damned woman was,” said Alfred.
Harold added angrily:
“I must say, Emma, that I think you were out of your senses, going and
suggesting to the police that the dead woman might be Edmund’s French
girl friend. It will make them convinced that she came here, and that prob-
ably one or other of us killed her.”
“Oh, no, Harold. Don’t exaggerate.”
“Harold’s quite right,” said Alfred. “Whatever
possessed5 you, I don’t
know. I’ve a feeling I’m being followed everywhere I go by plainclothes-
men.”
“I told her not to do it,” said Cedric. “Then Quimper backed her up.”
“It’s no business of his,” said Harold angrily. “Let him stick to pills and
powders and National Health.”
“Oh, do stop quarrelling,” said Emma wearily. “I’m really glad this old
Miss Whatshername is coming to tea. It will do us all good to have a
stranger here and be prevented from going over and over the same things
again and again. I must go and tidy myself up a little.”
She left the room.
“This Lucy Eyelesbarrow,” said Harold, and stopped. “As Cedric says, it
is odd that she should nose about in the barn and go opening up a sarco-
phagus—really a Herculean task. Perhaps we ought to take steps. Her atti-
“Leave her to me,” said Alfred. “I’ll soon find out if she’s up to anything.”
“I mean, why open up that sarcophagus?”
“Perhaps she isn’t really Lucy Eyelesbarrow at all,” suggested Cedric.
“But what would be the point—?” Harold looked
thoroughly7 upset. “Oh,
damn!”
They looked at each other with worried faces.
“And here’s this pestilential old woman coming to tea. Just when we
want to think.”
“We’ll talk things over this evening,” said Alfred. “In the meantime, we’ll
pump the old aunt about Lucy.”
So Miss Marple had duly been fetched by Lucy and installed by the fire
and she was now smiling up at Alfred as he handed her sandwiches with
the approval she always showed towards a good-looking man.
“Thank you so much…may I ask…? Oh, egg and
sardine8, yes, that will be
very nice. I’m afraid I’m always rather greedy over my tea. As one gets on,
you know… And, of course, at night only a very light meal… I have to be
careful.” She turned to her hostess once more. “What a beautiful house
you have. And so many beautiful things in it. Those bronzes, now, they re-
mind me of some my father bought—at the Paris Exhibition. Really, your
grandfather did? In the classical style, aren’t they? Very handsome. How
delightful9 for you having your brothers with you? So often families are
scattered—India, though I suppose that is all done with now—and Africa—
the west coast, such a bad climate.”
“Two of my brothers live in London.”
“That is very nice for you.”
“But my brother Cedric is a painter and lives in Ibiza, one of the Balearic
Islands.”
“Painters are so fond of islands, are they not?” said Miss Marple.
“Chopin — that was Majorca, was it not? But he was a musician. It is
Gauguin I am thinking of. A sad life—misspent, one feels. I myself never
really care for paintings of native women—and although I know he is very
much admired—I have never cared for that
lurid10 mustard colour. One
really feels quite
bilious11 looking at his pictures.”
“Tell us about Lucy as a child, Miss Marple,” said Cedric.
She smiled up at him delightedly.
“Lucy was always so clever,” she said. “Yes, you were, dear—now don’t
interrupt. Quite
remarkable13 at arithmetic. Why, I remember when the
butcher overcharged me for top side of beef….”
Miss Marple launched full steam ahead into reminiscences of Lucy’s
childhood and from there to experiences of her own in village life.
The stream of reminiscence was interrupted by the entry of Bryan and
the boys rather wet and dirty as a result of an enthusiastic search for
clues. Tea was brought in and with it came Dr. Quimper who raised his
eyebrows14 slightly as he looked round after acknowledging his introduc-
tion to the old lady.
“Hope your father’s not under the weather, Emma?”
“Oh, no—that is, he was just a little tired this afternoon—”
“Avoiding visitors, I expect,” said Miss Marple with a roguish smile.
“How well I remember my own dear father. ‘Got a lot of old
pussies15 com-
ing?’ he would say to my mother. ‘Send my tea into the study.’ Very
naughty about it, he was.”
“Please don’t think—” began Emma, but Cedric cut in.
“It’s always tea in the study when his dear sons come down. Psycholo-
gically to be expected, eh, Doctor?”
Dr. Quimper, who was
devouring16 sandwiches and coffee cake with the
frank
appreciation17 of a man who has usually too little time to spend on his
meals, said:
“Psychology’s all right if it’s left to the psychologists. Trouble is, every-
one is an amateur psychologist nowadays. My patients tell me exactly
what complexes and neuroses they’re suffering from, without giving me a
chance to tell them. Thanks, Emma, I will have another cup. No time for
lunch today.”
“A doctor’s life, I always think, is so noble and self-sacrificing,” said Miss
Marple.
“You can’t know many doctors,” said Dr. Quimper. “
Leeches18 they used to
be called, and leeches they often are! At any rate, we do get paid
nowadays, the State sees to that. No sending in of bills that you know
won’t ever be met. Trouble is that all one’s patients are
determined19 to get
everything they can ‘out of the Government,’ and as a result, if little Jenny
coughs twice in the night, or little Tommy eats a couple of green apples,
out the poor doctor has to come in the middle of the night. Oh, well! Glori-
ous cake, Emma. What a cook you are!”
“Not mine. Miss Eyelesbarrow’s.”
“You make ’em just as good,” said Quimper loyally.
“Will you come and see Father?”
She rose and the doctor followed her. Miss Marple watched them leave
the room.
“Miss Crackenthorpe is a very
devoted20 daughter, I see,” she said.
“Can’t imagine how she sticks the old man myself,” said the
outspoken21
Cedric.
“She has a very comfortable home here, and father is very much at-
tached to her,” said Harold quickly.
“Em’s all right,” said Cedric. “Born to be an old maid.”
There was a faint twinkle in Miss Marple’s eye as she said:
“Oh, do you think so?”
Harold said quickly:
“My brother didn’t use the term old maid in any derogatory sense, Miss
Marple.”
“Oh, I wasn’t offended,” said Miss Marple. “I just wondered if he was
right. I shouldn’t say myself that Miss Crackenthorpe would be an old
maid. She’s the type, I think, that’s quite likely to marry late in life—and
make a success of it.”
“Not very likely living here,” said Cedric. “Never sees anybody she could
marry.”
Miss Marple’s twinkle became more pronounced than ever.
“There are always clergymen—and doctors.”
It was clear that she had suggested to them something that they had
never thought of and which they did not find overpleasing.
Miss Marple rose to her feet, dropping as she did so, several little woolly
scarves and her bag.
The three brothers were most
attentive23 picking things up.
“So kind of you,”
fluted24 Miss Marple. “Oh, yes, and my little blue muffler.
Yes—as I say—so kind to ask me here. I’ve been picturing, you know, just
what your home was like — so that I can
visualize25 dear Lucy working
here.”
“Perfect home conditions—with murder thrown in,” said Cedric.
“Cedric!” Harold’s voice was angry.
Miss Marple smiled up at Cedric.
“Do you know who you remind me of? Young Thomas Eade, our bank
manager’s son. Always out to shock people. It didn’t do in
banking26 circles,
of course, so he went to the West Indies… He came home when his father
died and inherited quite a lot of money. So nice for him. He was always
better at spending money than making it.”
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