The Body in the Library. Агата Кристи
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his own class—of shielding an ‘old school tie.’
He turned to Josie.
‘Miss Turner, I should like you, if you do not mind, to accompany me to Gossington Hall.’
Coldly, defiantly, almost ignoring Josie’s murmur of assent, Melchett’s eyes met Slack’s.
St Mary Mead was having the most exciting morning it had known for a long time.
Miss Wetherby, a long-nosed, acidulated spinster, was the first to spread the intoxicating information. She dropped in upon her friend and neighbour Miss Hartnell.
‘Forgive me coming so early, dear, but I thought, perhaps, you mightn’t have heard the news.’
‘What news?’ demanded Miss Hartnell. She had a deep bass voice and visited the poor indefatigably, however hard they tried to avoid her ministrations.
‘About the body in Colonel Bantry’s library—a woman’s body—’
‘In Colonel Bantry’s library?’
‘Yes. Isn’t it terrible?’
‘His poor wife.’ Miss Hartnell tried to disguise her deep and ardent pleasure.
‘Yes, indeed. I don’t suppose she had any idea.’
Miss Hartnell observed censoriously:
‘She thought too much about her garden and not enough about her husband. You’ve got to keep an eye on a man—all the time—all the time,’ repeated Miss Hartnell fiercely.
‘I know. I know. It’s really too dreadful.’
‘I wonder what Jane Marple will say. Do you think she knew anything about it? She’s so sharp about these things.’
‘Jane Marple has gone up to Gossington.’
‘What? This morning?’
‘Very early. Before breakfast.’
‘But really! I do think! Well, I mean, I think that is carrying things too far. We all know Jane likes to poke her nose into things—but I call this indecent!’
‘Oh, but Mrs Bantry sent for her.’
‘Mrs Bantry sent for her?’
‘Well, the car came—with Muswell driving it.’
‘Dear me! How very peculiar …’
They were silent a minute or two digesting the news.
‘Whose body?’ demanded Miss Hartnell.
‘You know that dreadful woman who comes down with Basil Blake?’
‘That terrible peroxide blonde?’ Miss Hartnell was slightly behind the times. She had not yet advanced from peroxide to platinum. ‘The one who lies about in the garden with practically nothing on?’
‘Yes, my dear. There she was—on the hearthrug—strangled!’
‘But what do you mean—at Gossington?’
Miss Wetherby nodded with infinite meaning.
‘Then—Colonel Bantry too—?’
Again Miss Wetherby nodded.
‘Oh!’
There was a pause as the ladies savoured this new addition to village scandal.
‘What a wicked woman!’ trumpeted Miss Hartnell with righteous wrath.
‘Quite, quite abandoned, I’m afraid!’
‘And Colonel Bantry—such a nice quiet man—’
Miss Wetherby said zestfully:
‘Those quiet ones are often the worst. Jane Marple always says so.’
Mrs Price Ridley was among the last to hear the news.
A rich and dictatorial widow, she lived in a large house next door to the vicarage. Her informant was her little maid Clara.
‘A woman, you say, Clara? Found dead on Colonel Bantry’s hearthrug?’
‘Yes, mum. And they say, mum, as she hadn’t anything on at all, mum, not a stitch!’
‘That will do, Clara. It is not necessary to go into details.’
‘No, mum, and they say, mum, that at first they thought it was Mr Blake’s young lady—what comes down for the weekends with ’im to Mr Booker’s new ’ouse. But now they say it’s quite a different young lady. And the fishmonger’s young man, he says he’d never have believed it of Colonel Bantry—not with him handing round the plate on Sundays and all.’
‘There is a lot of wickedness in the world, Clara,’ said Mrs Price Ridley. ‘Let this be a warning to you.’
‘Yes, mum. Mother, she never will let me take a place where there’s a gentleman in the ’ouse.’
‘That will do, Clara,’ said Mrs Price Ridley.
It was only a step from Mrs Price Ridley’s house to the vicarage.
Mrs Price Ridley was fortunate enough to find the vicar in his study.
The vicar, a gentle, middle-aged man, was always the last to hear anything.
‘Such a terrible thing,’ said Mrs Price Ridley, panting a little, because she had come rather fast. ‘I felt I must have your advice, your counsel about it, dear vicar.’
Mr Clement looked mildly alarmed. He said:
‘Has anything happened?’
‘Has anything happened?’ Mrs Price Ridley repeated the question dramatically. ‘The most terrible scandal! None of us had any idea of it. An abandoned woman, completely unclothed, strangled on Colonel Bantry’s hearthrug.’
The vicar stared. He said:
‘You—you are feeling quite well?’
‘No wonder you can’t believe it! I couldn’t at first. The hypocrisy of the man! All these years!’
‘Please tell me exactly what all this is about.’
Mrs Price Ridley plunged into a full-swing narrative. When she had finished Mr Clement said mildly:
‘But there is nothing, is there, to point to Colonel Bantry’s being involved in this?’
‘Oh, dear vicar, you are so unworldly! But I must tell you a little story. Last Thursday—or was it the Thursday before? well, it doesn’t matter—I was going up to London by the cheap day train. Colonel Bantry was in the same carriage. He looked, I thought, very abstracted. And nearly the whole way he buried himself behind The Times. As though, you know, he didn’t want to talk.’
The vicar nodded with complete comprehension and possible sympathy.
‘At Paddington I said good-bye. He had offered to get me a taxi, but I was taking the bus down to Oxford Street—but he got into one, and I distinctly heard him tell the driver to go to—where do you think?’
Mr Clement looked inquiring.
‘An address in St John’s Wood!’
Mrs Price Ridley paused triumphantly.
The vicar remained completely unenlightened.
‘That, I consider, proves it,’ said Mrs Price Ridley.
At Gossington, Mrs Bantry and Miss Marple were sitting in the drawing-room.
‘You