Sleeping Murder. Agatha Christie
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to my health?’
‘More likely to be the end of you,’ said Dr Haydock. ‘But you won’t listen to me!’
On her way to call upon her friends, Colonel and Mrs Bantry, Miss Marple met Colonel Bantry coming along the drive, his gun in his hand and his spaniel at his heels. He welcomed her cordially.
‘Glad to see you back again. How’s London?’
Miss Marple said that London was very well. Her nephew had taken her to several plays.
‘Highbrow ones, I bet. Only care for a musical comedy myself.’
Miss Marple said that she had been to a Russian play that was very interesting, though perhaps a little too long.
‘Russians!’ said Colonel Bantry explosively. He had once been given a novel by Dostoievsky to read in a nursing home.
He added that Miss Marple would find Dolly in the garden.
Mrs Bantry was almost always to be found in the garden. Gardening was her passion. Her favourite literature was bulb catalogues and her conversation dealt with primulas, bulbs, flowering shrubs and alpine novelties. Miss Marple’s first view of her was a substantial posterior clad in faded tweed.
At the sound of approaching steps, Mrs Bantry reassumed an erect position with a few creaks and winces, her hobby had made her rheumaticky, wiped her hot brow with an earth-stained hand and welcomed her friend.
‘Heard you were back, Jane,’ she said. ‘Aren’t my new delphiniums doing well? Have you seen these new little gentians? I’ve had a bit of trouble with them, but I think they’re all set now. What we need is rain. It’s been terribly dry.’ She added, ‘Esther told me you were ill in bed.’ Esther was Mrs Bantry’s cook and liaison officer with the village. ‘I’m glad to see it’s not true.’
‘Just a little overtired,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Dr Haydock thinks I need some sea air. I’m rather run down.’
‘Oh, but you couldn’t go away now,’ said Mrs Bantry. ‘This is absolutely the best time of the year in the garden. Your border must be just coming into flower.’
‘Dr Haydock thinks it would be advisable.’
‘Well, Haydock’s not such a fool as some doctors,’ admitted Mrs Bantry grudgingly.
‘I was wondering, Dolly, about that cook of yours.’
‘Which cook? Do you want a cook? You don’t mean that woman who drank, do you?’
‘No, no, no. I mean the one who made such delicious pastry. With a husband who was the butler.’
‘Oh, you mean the Mock Turtle,’ said Mrs Bantry with immediate recognition. ‘Woman with a deep mournful voice who always sounded as though she was going to burst into tears. She was a good cook. Husband was a fat, rather lazy man. Arthur always said he watered the whisky. I don’t know. Pity there’s always one of a couple that’s unsatisfactory. They got left a legacy by some former employer and they went off and opened a boarding-house on the south coast.’
‘That’s just what I thought. Wasn’t it at Dillmouth?’
‘That’s right. 14 Sea Parade, Dillmouth.’
‘I was thinking that as Dr Haydock has suggested the seaside I might go to—was their name Saunders?’
‘Yes. That’s an excellent idea, Jane. You couldn’t do better. Mrs Saunders will look after you well, and as it’s out of the season they’ll be glad to get you and won’t charge very much. With good cooking and sea air you’ll soon pick up.’
‘Thank you, Dolly,’ said Miss Marple, ‘I expect I shall.’
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