II
With her head a little on one side looking like an
amiable1 cockatoo, Miss
Marple sat in the large drawing room listening to Mrs. Percival Fortescue.
Miss Marple looked particularly incongruous in the drawing room. Her
light spare figure was alien to the vast brocaded sofa in which she sat with
its many-hued cushions strewn around her. Miss Marple sat very upright
because she had been taught to use a backboard as a girl, and not to loll.
In a large armchair beside her, dressed in elaborate black, was Mrs. Per-
cival, talking away volubly at nineteen to the dozen. “Exactly,” thought
Miss Marple, “like poor Mrs. Emmett, the bank manager’s wife.” She re-
membered how one day Mrs. Emmett had come to call and talk about the
selling arrangements for Poppy Day, and how after the preliminary busi-
ness had been settled, Mrs. Emmett had suddenly begun to talk and talk
and talk. Mrs. Emmett occupied rather a difficult position in St. Mary
Mead2. She did not belong to the old guard of ladies in reduced circum-
stances who lived in neat houses around the church, and who knew intim-
ately all the
ramifications3 of the county families even though they might
not be
strictly4 county themselves. Mr. Emmett, the bank manager, had un-
deniably married beneath him and the result was that his wife was in a
position of great loneliness since she could not, of course, associate with
marooned7 Mrs. Emmett on a permanent island of loneliness.
The necessity to talk grew upon Mrs. Emmett, and on that particular day
it had burst its bounds, and Miss Marple had received the full flood of the
torrent8. She had been sorry for Mrs. Emmett then, and today she was
rather sorry for Mrs. Percival Fortescue.
Mrs. Percival had had a lot of
grievances9 to bear and the relief of airing
them to a more or less total stranger was enormous.
“Of course I never want to complain,” said Mrs. Percival. “I’ve never
been of the complaining kind. What I always say is that one must put up
with things. What can’t be cured must be endured and I’m sure I’ve never
said a word to anyone. It’s really difficult to know who I could have spoken
to. In someways one is very
isolated10 here—very isolated. It’s very conveni-
ent, of course, and a great saving of expense to have our own set of rooms
in this house. But of course it’s not at all like having a place of your own.
I’m sure you agree.”
Miss Marple said she agreed.
“Fortunately our new house is almost ready to move into. It is a ques-
tion really of getting the painters and decorators out. These men are so
slow. My husband, of course, has been quite satisfied living here. But then
it’s different for a man. Don’t you agree?”
Miss Marple agreed that it was very different for a man. She could say
this without a qualm as it was what she really believed. “The gentlemen”
were, in Miss Marple’s mind, in a totally different category to her own sex.
They required two eggs plus bacon for breakfast, three good nourishing
meals a day and were never to be contradicted or argued with before din-
ner. Mrs. Percival went on.
“My husband, you see, is away all day in the city. When he comes home
he’s just tired and wants to sit down and read. But I, on the contrary, am
alone here all day with no congenial company at all. I’ve been
perfectly11
comfortable and all that. Excellent food. But what I do feel one needs is a
really pleasant social circle. The people round here are really not my kind.
Part of them are what I call a flashy, bridge-playing lot. Not nice bridge. I
like a hand at bridge myself as well as anyone, but of course, they’re all
very rich down here. They play for enormously high stakes, and there’s a
great deal of drinking. In fact, the sort of life that I call really fast society.
Then, of course, there’s a sprinkling of—well, you can only call them old
pussies12 who love to potter round with a trowel and do gardening.”
Miss Marple looked slightly guilty since she was herself an
inveterate13
gardener.
“I don’t want to say anything against the dead,” resumed Mrs. Percy rap-
idly, “but there’s no doubt about it, Mr. Fortescue, my father- in- law, I
mean, made a very foolish second marriage. My—well I can’t call her my
mother-in-law, she was the same age as I am. The real truth of it is she was
man-mad. Absolutely man-mad. And the way she spent money! My father-
in-law was an absolute fool about her. Didn’t care what bills she ran up. It
vexed14 Percy very much, very much indeed. Percy is always so careful
about money matters. He hates waste. And then what with Mr. Fortescue
being so
peculiar15 and so bad tempered, flashing out in these terrible rages,
spending money like water backing wildcat schemes. Well—it wasn’t at all
nice.”
Miss Marple ventured upon making a remark.
“That must have worried your husband, too?”
“Oh, yes, it did. For the last year Percy’s been very worried indeed. It’s
really made him quite different. His manner, you know, changed even to-
wards16 me. Sometimes when I talked to him he used not to answer.” Mrs.
Percy sighed, then went on: “Then Elaine, my sister- in- law, you know,
she’s a very odd sort of girl. Very out of doors and all that. Not exactly un-
friendly, but not sympathetic, you know. She never wanted to go to Lon-
don and shop, or go to a matinée or anything of that kind. She wasn’t even
interested in clothes.” Mrs. Percival sighed again and murmured: “But of
course I don’t want to complain in any way.” A qualm of compunction
came over her. She said, hurriedly: “You must think it most odd, talking to
you like this when you are a comparative stranger. But really, what with
all the strain and shock—I think really it’s the shock that matters most.
Delayed shock. I feel so nervous, you know, that I really—well, I really
must speak to someone. You remind me so much of a dear old lady, Miss
Trefusis James. She fractured her femur when she was seventy-five. It was
a very long business nursing her and we became great friends. She gave
me a fox fur
cape17 when I left and I did think it was kind of her.”
“I know just how you feel,” said Miss Marple.
And this again was true. Mrs. Percival’s husband was obviously bored
by her and paid very little attention to her, and the poor woman had man-
aged18 to make no local friends. Running up to London and shopping, mat-
inées and a
luxurious19 house to live in did not make up for the lack of hu-
manity in her relations with her husband’s family.
“I hope it’s not rude of me to say so,” said Miss Marple in a gentle old
lady’s voice, “but I really feel that the late Mr. Fortescue cannot have been
a very nice man.”
“He wasn’t,” said his daughter-in-law. “Quite
frankly20 my dear, between
you and me, he was a detestable old man. I don’t wonder—I really don’t—
that someone put him out of the way.”
“You’ve no idea at all who—” began Miss Marple and broke off. “Oh
dear, perhaps this is a question I should not ask—not even an idea who—
who—well, who it might have been?”
“Oh, I think it was that horrible man Crump,” said Mrs. Percival. “I’ve al-
ways disliked him very much. He’s got a manner, not really rude, you
know, but yet it is rude. Impertinent, that’s more it.”
“Still, there would have to be a
motive21, I suppose.”
“I really don’t know that that sort of person requires much motive. I
dare say Mr. Fortescue ticked him off about something, and I rather sus-
pect that sometimes he drinks too much. But what I really think is that
he’s a bit unbalanced, you know. Like that footman, or butler, whoever it
was, who went round the house shooting everybody. Of course, to be quite
honest with you, I did suspect that it was Adele who poisoned Mr. Fortes-
cue. But now, of course, one can’t suspect that since she’s been poisoned
herself. She may have accused Crump, you know. And then he lost his
head and perhaps managed to put something in the sandwiches and
Gladys saw him do it and so he killed her too—I think it’s really dangerous
having him in the house at all. Oh dear, I wish I could get away, but I sup-
pose these horrible policemen won’t let one do anything of the kind.” She
leant forward
impulsively22 and put a plump hand on Miss Marple’s arm.
“Sometimes I feel I must get away—that if it doesn’t all stop soon I shall—I
shall actually run away.”
She leant back studying Miss Marple’s face.
“But perhaps—that wouldn’t be wise?”
“No—I don’t think it would be very wise—the police could soon find
you, you know.”
“Could they? Could they really? You think they’re clever enough for
that?”
“It is very foolish to underestimate the police.
Inspector23 Neele strikes me
as a particularly intelligent man.”
“Oh! I thought he was rather stupid.”
Miss Marple shook her head.
“I can’t help feeling”—Jennifer Fortescue hesitated—“that it’s dangerous
to stay here.”
“Dangerous for you, you mean?”
“Ye-es—well, yes—”
“Because of something you—know?”
Mrs. Percival seemed to take breath.
“Oh no—of course I don’t know anything. What should I know? It’s just
—just that I’m nervous. That man Crump—”
But it was not, Miss Marple thought, of Crump that Mrs. Percival Fortes-
cue was thinking—watching the
clenching24 and unclenching of Jennifer’s
hands. Miss Marple thought that for some reason Jennifer Fortescue was
very badly frightened indeed.
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