Miss Marple 3-Book Collection 1: The Murder at the Vicarage, The Body in the Library, The Moving Finger

‘There’s been quite a shemozzle about him,’ said Lettice. ‘With father, you know. Father’s dreadful.’

‘What was the she – whatever it was about?’ I inquired.

‘About his painting me. Father found out about it. Why shouldn’t I be painted in my bathing dress? If I go on a beach in it, why shouldn’t I be painted in it?’

Lettice paused and then went on.

‘It’s really absurd – father forbidding a young man the house. Of course, Lawrence and I simply shriek about it. I shall come and be done here in your studio.’

‘No, my dear,’ I said. ‘Not if your father forbids it.’

‘Oh! dear,’ said Lettice, sighing. ‘How tiresome everyone is. I feel shattered. Definitely. If only I had some money I’d go away, but without it I can’t. If only father would be decent and die, I should be all right.’

‘You must not say things like that, Lettice.’

‘Well, if he doesn’t want me to want him to die, he shouldn’t be so horrible over money. I don’t wonder mother left him. Do you know, for years I believed she was dead. What sort of a young man did she run away with? Was he nice?’

‘It was before your father came to live here.’

‘I wonder what’s become of her. I expect Anne will have an affair with someone soon. Annehates me – she’s quite decent to me, but she hates me. She’s getting old and she doesn’t like it. That’s the age you break out, you know.’

I wondered if Lettice was going to spend the entire afternoon in my study.

‘You haven’t seen my gramophone records, have you?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘How tiresome. I know I’ve left them somewhere. And I’ve lost the dog. And my wrist watch is somewhere, only it doesn’t much matter because it won’t go. Oh! dear, I am so sleepy. I can’t think why, because I didn’t get up till eleven. But life’s very shattering, don’t you think? Oh! dear, I must go. I’m going to see Dr Stone’s barrow at three o’clock.’

I glanced at the clock and remarked that it was now five-and-twenty to four.

‘Oh! Is it? How dreadful. I wonder if they’ve waited or if they’ve gone without me. I suppose I’d better go down and do something about it.’

She got up and drifted out again, murmuring over her shoulder:

‘You’ll tell Dennis, won’t you?’

I said ‘Yes’ mechanically, only realizing too late that I had no idea what it was I was to tell Dennis. But I reflected that in all probability it did not matter. I fell to cogitating on the subject of Dr Stone, a well-known archaeologist who had recently come to stay at the Blue Boar, whilst he superintended the excavation of a barrow situated on Colonel Protheroe’s property. There had already been several disputes between him and the Colonel. I was amused at his appointment to take Lettice to see the operations.

It occurred to me that Lettice Protheroe was something of a minx. I wondered how she would get on with the archaeologist’s secretary, Miss Cram. Miss Cram is a healthy young woman of twenty-five, noisy in manner, with a high colour, fine animal spirits and a mouth that always seems to have more than its full share of teeth.

Village opinion is divided as to whether she is no better than she should be, or else a young woman of iron virtue who purposes to become Mrs Stone at an early opportunity. She is in every way a great contrast to Lettice.

I could imagine that the state of things at Old Hall might not be too happy. Colonel Protheroe had married again some five years previously. The second Mrs Protheroe was a remarkably handsome woman in a rather unusual style. I had always guessed that the relations between her and her stepdaughter were not too happy.

I had one more interruption. This time, it was my curate, Hawes. He wanted to know the details of my interview with Protheroe. I told him that the Colonel had deplored his ‘Romish tendencies’ but that the real purpose of his visit had been on quite another matter. At the same time, I entered a protest of my own, and told him plainly that he must conform to my ruling. On the whole, he took my remarks very well.

I felt rather remorseful when he had gone for not liking him better. These irrational likes and dislikes that one takes to people are, I am sure, very unChristian.

With a sigh, I realized that the hands of the clock on my writing-table pointed to a quarter to five, a sign that it was really half-past four, and I made my way to the drawing-room.

Four of my parishioners were assembled there with teacups. Griselda sat behind the tea table trying to look natural in her environment, but only succeeded in looking more out of place than usual.

I shook hands all round and sat down between Miss Marple and Miss Wetherby.

Miss Marple is a white-haired old lady with a gentle, appealing manner – Miss Wetherby is a mixture of vinegar and gush. Of the two Miss Marple is much the more dangerous.

‘We were just talking,’ said Griselda in a honeysweet voice, ‘about Dr Stone and Miss Cram.’

A ribald rhyme concocted by Dennis shot through my head.

‘Miss Cram doesn’t give a damn.’

I had a sudden yearning to say it out loud and observe the effect, but fortunately I refrained. Miss Wetherby said tersely:

‘No nice girl would do it,’ and shut her thin lips disapprovingly.

‘Do what?’ I inquired.

‘Be a secretary to an unmarried man,’ said Miss Wetherby in a horrified tone.

‘Oh! my dear,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I think married ones are the worst. Remember poor Mollie Carter.’

‘Married men living apart from their wives are, of course, notorious,’ said Miss Wetherby.

‘And even some of the ones living with their wives,’ murmured Miss Marple. ‘I remember…’

I interrupted these unsavoury reminiscences.

‘But surely,’ I said, ‘in these days a girl can take a post in just the same way as a man does.’

‘To come away to the country? And stay at the same hotel?’ said Mrs Price Ridley in a severe voice.

Miss Wetherby murmured to Miss Marple in a low voice:

‘And all the bedrooms on the same floor…’

Miss Hartnell, who is weather-beaten and jolly and much dreaded by the poor, observed in a loud, hearty voice:

‘The poor man will be caught before he knows where he is. He’s as innocent as a babe unborn, you can see that.’

Curious what turns of phrase we employ. None of the ladies present would have dreamed of alluding to an actual baby till it was safely in the cradle, visible to all.

‘Disgusting, I call it,’ continued Miss Hartnell, with her usual tactlessness. ‘The man must be at least twenty-five years older than she is.’

Three female voices rose at once making disconnected remarks about the Choir Boys’ Outing, the regrettable incident at the last Mothers’ Meeting, and the draughts in the church. Miss Marple twinkled at Griselda.

‘Don’t you think,’ said my wife, ‘that Miss Cram may just like having an interesting job? And that she considers Dr Stone just as an employer?’