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Giles responded in suitable fashion with interest and respect and in due course the sacred volume for the year in question was brought out and exhibited to him.
Having first had various illustrious names pointed out to him, he turned the pages to the month of August.
Yes, here surely was the entry he was seeking.
Major and Mrs. Setoun Erskine, Anstell Manor, Daith, Northumberland, July 27th—August 17th.
“If I may copy this out?”
“Of course, Mr. Reed. Paper and ink—Oh, you have your pen. Excuse me, I must just go back to the outer office.”
She left him with the open book, and Giles set to work.
On his return to Hillside he found Gwenda in the garden, bending over the herbaceous border.
She straightened herself and gave him a quick glance of interrogation.
“Any luck?”
“Yes, I think this must be it.”
Gwenda said softly, reading the words: “Anstell Manor, Daith, Northumberland. Yes, Edith Pagett said Northumberland. I wonder if they’re still living there—”
“We’ll have to go and see.”
“Yes—yes, it would be better to go—when?”
“As soon as possible. Tomorrow? We’ll take the car and drive up. It will show you a little more of England.”
“Suppose they’re dead—or gone away and somebody else is living there?”
Giles shrugged his shoulders.
“Then we come back and go on with our other leads. I’ve written to Kennedy, by the way, and asked him if he’ll send me those letters Helen wrote after she went away—if he’s still got them—and a specimen of her handwriting.”
“I wish,” said Gwenda, “that we could get in touch with the other servant—with Lily—the one who put the bow on Thomas—”
“Funny your suddenly remembering that, Gwenda.”
“Yes, wasn’t it? I remember Tommy, too. He was black with white patches and he had three lovely kittens.”
“What? Thomas?”
“Well, he was called Thomas—but actually he turned out to be Thomasina. You know what cats are. But about Lily—I wonder what’s become of her? Edith Pagett seems to have lost sight of her entirely. She didn’t come from round here—and after the breakup at St. Catherine’s she took a place in Torquay. She wrote once or twice but that was all. Edith said she’d heard she’d got married but she didn’t know who to. If we could get hold of her we might learn a lot more.”
“And from Léonie, the Swiss girl.”
“Perhaps—but she was a foreigner and wouldn’t catch on to much of what went on. You know, I don’t remember her at all. No, it’s Lily I feel would be useful. Lily was the sharp one … I know, Giles, let’s put in another advertisement—an advertisement for her—Lily Abbott, her name was.”
“Yes,” said Giles. “We might try that. And we’ll definitely go north tomorrow and see what we can find out about the Erskines.”
Sixteen
MOTHER’S SON
“Down, Henry,” said Mrs. Fane to an asthmatic spaniel whose liquid eyes burned with greed. “Another scone, Miss Marple, while they’re hot?”
“Thank you. Such delicious scones. You have an excellent cook.”
“Louisa is not bad, really. Forgetful, like all of them. And no variety in her puddings. Tell me, how is Dorothy Yarde’s sciatica nowadays? She used to be a martyr to it. Largely nerves, I suspect.”
Miss Marple hastened to oblige with details of their mutual acquaintance’s ailments. It was fortunate, she thought, that amongst her many friends and relations scattered over England, she had managed to find a woman who knew Mrs. Fane and who had written explaining that a Miss Marple was at present in Dillmouth, and would dear Eleanor be very kind and ask her to something.
Eleanor Fane was a tall, commanding woman with a steely grey eye, crisp white hair, and a baby pink and white complexion which masked the fact that there was no baby-like softness whatever about her.
They discussed Dorothy’s ailments or imagined ailments and went on to Miss Marple’s health, the air of Dillmouth, and the general poor condition of most of the younger generation.
“Not made to eat their crusts as children,” Mrs. Fane pronounced. “None of that allowed in my nursery.”
“You have more than one son?” asked Miss Marple.
“Three. The eldest, Gerald, is in Singapore in the Far East Bank. Robert is in the Army.” Mrs. Fane sniffed. “Married a Roman Catholic,” she said with significance. “You know what that means! All the children brought up as Catholics. What Robert’s father would have said, I don’t know. My husband was very low church. I hardly ever hear from Robert nowadays. He takes exception to some of the things I have said to him purely for his own good. I believe in being sincere and saying exactly what one thinks. His marriage was, in my opinion, a great misfortune. He may pretend to be happy, poor boy—but I can’t feel that it is at all satisfactory.”
“Your youngest son is not married, I believe?”
Mrs. Fane beamed.
“No, Walter lives at home. He is slightly delicate—always was from a child—and I have always had to look after his health very carefully. (He will be in presently.) I can’t tell you what a thoughtful and devoted son he is. I am really a very lucky woman to have such a son.”
“And he has never thought of marrying?” enquired Miss Marple.
“Walter always says he really cannot be bothered with the modern young woman. They don’t appeal to him. He and I have so much in common that I’m afraid he doesn’t go out as much as he should. He reads Thackeray to me in the evenings, and we usually have a game of picquet. Walter is a real home bird.”
“How very nice,” said Miss Marple. “Has he always been in the firm? Somebody told me that you had a son who was out in Ceylon, as a tea-planter, but perhaps they got it wrong.”
A slight frown came over Mrs. Fane’s face. She urged walnut cake upon her guest and explained.
“That was as a very young man. One of those youthful impulses. A boy always longs to see the world. Actually, there was a girl at the bottom of it. Girls can be so unsettling.”
“Oh yes, indeed. My own nephew, I remember—”
Mrs. Fane swept on, ignoring Miss Marple’s nephew. She held the floor and was enjoying the opportunity to reminisce to this sympathetic friend of dear Dorothy’s.
“A most unsuitable girl—as seems always to be the way. Oh, I don’t mean an actress or anything like that. The local doctor’s sister—more like his daughter, really, years younger—and the poor man with no idea how to bring her up. Men are so helpless, aren’t they? She ran quite wild, entangled herself first with a young man in the office—a mere clerk—and a very unsatisfactory character, too. They had to get rid of him. Repeated confidential information. Anyway, this girl, Helen Kennedy, was, I suppose, very pretty. I didn’t think so. I always thought her hair was touched up. But Walter, poor boy, fell very much in love with her. As I say, quite unsuitable, no money and no prospects, and not the kind of girl one wanted as a daughter-in-law. Still, what can a mother do? Walter proposed to her and she refused him, and then he got this silly idea into his head of going out to India and being a tea-planter. My husband said, “Let him go,” though of course he was very disappointed. He had been looking forward to having Walter with him in the firm and Walter had passed all his law exams and everything. Still, there it was. Really, the havoc these young women cause!”
“Oh, I know. My nephew—”
Once again Mrs. Fane swept over Miss Marple’s nephew.
“So the dear boy went out to Assam or was it Bangalore—really I can’t remember after all these years. And I felt most upset because I knew his health wouldn’t stand it. And he hadn’t been out there a year (doing very well, too. Walter does everything well) than—would you believe it?—this impudent chit of a girl changes her mind and writes out that she’d like to marry him after all.”
“Dear, dear.” Miss Marple shook h
er head.
“Gets together her trousseau, books her passage—and what do you think the next move is?”
“I can’t imagine.” Miss Marple leaned forward in rapt attention.
“Has a love affair with a married man, if you please. On the boat going out. A married man with three children, I believe. Anyway there is Walter on the quay to meet her and the first thing she does is to say she can’t marry him after all. Don’t you call that a wicked thing to do?”
“Oh, I do indeed. It might have completely destroyed your son’s faith in human nature.”
“It should have shown her to him in her true colours. But there, that type of woman gets away with anything.”
“He didn’t—” Miss Marple hesitated—“resent her action? Some men would have been terribly angry.”
“Walter has always had wonderful self-control. However upset and annoyed Walter may be over anything, he never shows it.”
Miss Marple peered at her speculatively. Hesitantly, she put out a feeler.
“That is because it goes really deep, perhaps? One is really astonished sometimes, with children. A sudden outburst from some child that one has thought didn’t care at all. A sensitive nature that can’t express itself until it’s driven absolutely beyond endurance.”
“Ah, it’s very curious you should say that, Miss Marple. I remember so well. Gerald and Robert, you know, both hot-tempered and always apt to fight. Quite natural, of course, for healthy boys—”
