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“But it’s such a lovely table, Letty.”
Miss Bunner loved her friend’s possessions with as much fervour as though they had been her own. Bunch Harmon had always thought it was a very endearing trait in her. She showed no sign of envy.
“It is a lovely table,” said Miss Marple politely. “And what a very pretty china lamp on it.”
Again it was Miss Bunner who accepted the compliment as though she and not Miss Blacklock was the owner of the lamp.
“Isn’t it delightful? Dresden. There is a pair of them. The other’s in the spare room, I think.”
“You know where everything in this house is, Dora—or you think you do,” said Miss Blacklock, good-humouredly. “You care far more about my things than I do.”
Miss Bunner flushed.
“I do like nice things,” she said. Her voice was half defiant—half wistful.
“I must confess,” said Miss Marple, “that my own few possessions are very dear to me, too—so many memories, you know. It’s the same with photographs. People nowadays have so few photographs about. Now I like to keep all the pictures of my nephews and nieces as babies—and then as children—and so on.”
“You’ve got a horrible one of me, aged three,” said Bunch. “Holding a fox terrier and squinting.”
“I expect your aunt has many photographs of you,” said Miss Marple, turning to Patrick.
“Oh, we’re only distant cousins,” said Patrick.
“I believe Elinor did send me one of you as a baby, Pat,” said Miss Blacklock. “But I’m afraid I didn’t keep it. I’d really forgotten how many children she’d had or what their names were until she wrote me about you two being over here.”
“Another sign of the times,” said Miss Marple. “Nowadays one so often doesn’t know one’s younger relations at all. In the old days, with all the big family reunions, that would have been impossible.”
“I last saw Pat and Julia’s mother at a wedding thirty years ago,” said Miss Blacklock. “She was a very pretty girl.”
“That’s why she has such handsome children,” said Patrick with a grin.
“You’ve got a marvellous old album,” said Julia. “Do you remember, Aunt Letty, we looked through it the other day. The hats!”
“And how smart we thought ourselves,” said Miss Blacklock with a sigh.
“Never mind, Aunt Letty,” said Patrick, “Julia will come across a snapshot of herself in about thirty years’ time—and won’t she think she looks a guy!”
II
“Did you do that on purpose?” said Bunch, as she and Miss Marple were walking home. “Talk about photographs, I mean?”
“Well, my dear, it is interesting to know that Miss Blacklock didn’t know either of her two young relatives by sight … Yes—I think Inspector Craddock will be interested to hear that.”
Twelve
MORNING ACTIVITIES IN CHIPPING CLEGHORN
I
Edmund Swettenham sat down rather precariously on a garden roller.
“Good morning, Phillipa,” he said.
“Hallo.”
“Are you very busy?”
“Moderately.”
“What are you doing?”
“Can’t you see?”
“No. I’m not a gardener. You seem to be playing with earth in some fashion.”
“I’m pricking out winter lettuce.”
“Pricking out? What a curious term! Like pinking. Do you know what pinking is? I only learnt the other day. I always thought it was a term for professional duelling.”
“Do you want anything particular?” asked Phillipa coldly.
“Yes. I want to see you.”
Phillipa gave him a quick glance.
“I wish you wouldn’t come here like this. Mrs. Lucas won’t like it.”
“Doesn’t she allow you to have followers?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Followers. That’s another nice word. It describes my attitude perfectly. Respectful—at a distance—but firmly pursuing.”
“Please go away, Edmund. You’ve no business to come here.”
“You’re wrong,” said Edmund triumphantly. “I have business here. Mrs. Lucas rang up my mamma this morning and said she had a good many vegetable marrows.”
“Masses of them.”
“And would we like to exchange a pot of honey for a vegetable marrow or so.”
“That’s not a fair exchange at all! Vegetable marrows are quite unsaleable at the moment—everybody has such a lot.”
“Naturally. That’s why Mrs. Lucas rang up. Last time, if I remember rightly, the exchange suggested was some skim milk—skim milk, mark you—in exchange for some lettuces. It was then very early in the season for lettuces. They were about a shilling each.”
Phillipa did not speak.
Edmund tugged at his pocket and
extracted a pot of honey.
“So here,” he said, “is my alibi. Used in a loose and quite indefensible meaning of the term. If Mrs. Lucas pops her bust round the door of the potting shed, I’m here in quest of vegetable marrows. There is absolutely no question of dalliance.”
“I see.”
“Do you ever read Tennyson?” inquired Edmund conversationally. “Not very often.”
“You should. Tennyson is shortly to make a comeback in a big way. When you turn on your wireless in the evening it will be the Idylls of the King you will hear and not interminable Trollope. I always thought the Trollope pose was the most unbearable affectation. Perhaps a little of Trollope, but not to drown in him. But speaking of Tennyson, have you read Maud?”
“Once, long ago.”
“It’s got some points about it.” He quoted softly:
“‘Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null.’ That’s you, Phillipa.”
“Hardly a compliment!”
“No, it wasn’t meant to be. I gather Maud got under the poor fellow’s skin just like you’ve got under mine.”
“Don’t be absurd, Edmund.”
“Oh, hell, Phillipa, why are you like you are? What goes on behind your splendidly regular features? What do you think? What do you feel? Are you happy, or miserable, or frightened, or what? There must be something.”
Phillipa said quietly:
