VII

In the dining room Mrs. Bantry and Miss Marple, in their turn, were par-taking of breakfast.

After waiting on her guest, Mrs. Bantry said urgently:

“Well, Jane?”

Miss Marple looked up at her, slightly bewildered.

Mrs. Bantry said hopefully:

“Doesn’t it remind you of anything?”

For Miss Marple had attained fame by her ability to link up trivial vil-lage happenings with graver problems in such a way as to throw lightupon the latter.

“No,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully, “I can’t say that it does—not at themoment. I was reminded a little of Mrs. Chetty’s youngest — Edie, youknow—but I think that was just because this poor girl bit her nails and herfront teeth stuck out a little. Nothing more than that. And, of course,” wenton Miss Marple, pursuing the parallel further, “Edie was fond of what Icall cheap finery, too.”

“You mean her dress?” said Mrs. Bantry.

“Yes, a very tawdry satin—poor quality.”

Mrs. Bantry said:

“I know. One of those nasty little shops where everything is a guinea.”

She went on hopefully:

“Let me see, what happened to Mrs. Chetty’s Edie?”

“She’s just gone into her second place—and doing very well, I believe.”

Mrs. Bantry felt slightly disappointed. The village parallel didn’t seem tobe exactly hopeful.

“What I can’t make out,” said Mrs. Bantry, “is what she could possibly bedoing in Arthur’s study. The window was forced, Palk tells me. She mighthave come down here with a burglar and then they quarrelled—but thatseems such nonsense, doesn’t it?”

“She was hardly dressed for burglary,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.

“No, she was dressed for dancing—or a party of some kind. But there’snothing of that kind down here—or anywhere near.”

“N-n-o,” said Miss Marple doubtfully.

Mrs. Bantry pounced.

“Something’s in your mind, Jane.”

“Well, I was just wondering—”

“Yes?”

“Basil Blake.”

Mrs. Bantry cried impulsively: “Oh, no!” and added as though in explan-ation, “I know his mother.”

The two women looked at each other.

Miss Marple sighed and shook her head.

“I quite understand how you feel about it.”

“Selina Blake is the nicest woman imaginable. Her herbaceous bordersare simply marvellous—they make me green with envy. And she’s fright-fully generous with cuttings.”

Miss Marple, passing over these claims to consideration on the part ofMrs. Blake, said:

“All the same, you know, there has been a lot of talk.”

“Oh, I know—I know. And of course Arthur goes simply livid when hehears Basil Blake mentioned. He was really very rude to Arthur, and sincethen Arthur won’t hear a good word for him. He’s got that silly slightingway of talking that these boys have nowadays—sneering at people stickingup for their school or the Empire or that sort of thing. And then, of course,the clothes he wears!”

“People say,” continued Mrs. Bantry, “that it doesn’t matter what youwear in the country. I never heard such nonsense. It’s just in the countrythat everyone notices.” She paused, and added wistfully: “He was an ador-able baby in his bath.”

“There was a lovely picture of the Cheviot murderer as a baby in the pa-per last Sunday,” said Miss Marple.

“Oh, but Jane, you don’t think he—”

“No, no, dear. I didn’t mean that at all. That would indeed be jumping toconclusions. I was just trying to account for the young woman’s presencedown here. St. Mary Mead is such an unlikely place. And then it seemed tome that the only possible explanation was Basil Blake. He does haveparties. People came down from London and from the studios—you re-member last July? Shouting and singing—the most terrible noise—every-one very drunk, I’m afraid—and the mess and the broken glass next morn-ing simply unbelievable—so old Mrs. Berry told me—and a young womanasleep in the bath with practically nothing on!”

Mrs. Bantry said indulgently:

“I suppose they were film people.”

“Very likely. And then—what I expect you’ve heard—several weekendslately he’s brought down a young woman with him—a platinum blonde.”

Mrs. Bantry exclaimed:

“You don’t think it’s this one?”

“Well—I wondered. Of course, I’ve never seen her close to—only justgetting in and out of the car—and once in the cottage garden when shewas sunbathing with just some shorts and a brassière. I never really sawher face. And all these girls with their makeup and their hair and theirnails look so alike.”

“Yes. Still, it might be. It’s an idea, Jane.”