At Bertram’s Hotel. Агата Кристи
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awoke early because she always woke early. She was appreciative of her bed. Most comfortable.
She pattered across to the window and pulled the curtains, admitting a little pallid London daylight. As yet, however, she did not try to dispense with the electric light. A very nice bedroom they had given her, again quite in the tradition of Bertram’s. A rose-flowered wallpaper, a large well-polished mahogany chest of drawers—a dressing-table to correspond. Two upright chairs, one easy chair of a reasonable height from the ground. A connecting door led to a bathroom which was modern but which had a tiled wallpaper of roses and so avoided any suggestion of over-frigid hygiene.
Miss Marple got back into bed, plumped her pillows up, glanced at her clock, half-past seven, picked up the small devotional book that always accompanied her, and read as usual the page and a half allotted to the day. Then she picked up her knitting and began to knit, slowly at first, since her fingers were stiff and rheumatic when she first awoke, but very soon her pace grew faster, and her fingers lost their painful stiffness.
‘Another day,’ said Miss Marple to herself, greeting the fact with her usual gentle pleasure. Another day—and who knew what it might bring forth?
She relaxed, and abandoning her knitting, let thoughts pass in an idle stream through her head … Selina Hazy … what a pretty cottage she had had in St Mary Mead—and now someone had put on that ugly green roof … Muffins … very wasteful in butter … but very good … And fancy serving old-fashioned seed cake! She had never expected, not for a moment, that things would be as much like they used to be … because, after all, Time didn’t stand still … And to have made it stand still in this way must really have cost a lot of money … Not a bit of plastic in the place!… It must pay them, she supposed. The out-of-date returns in due course as the picturesque … Look how people wanted old-fashioned roses now, and scorned hybrid teas!… None of this place seemed real at all … Well, why should it?… It was fifty—no, nearer sixty years since she had stayed here. And it didn’t seem real to her because she was now acclimatized in this present year of Our Lord—Really, the whole thing opened up a very interesting set of problems … The atmosphere and the people … Miss Marple’s fingers pushed her knitting farther away from her.
‘Pockets,’ she said aloud … ‘Pockets, I suppose … And quite difficult to find …’
Would that account for that curious feeling of uneasiness she had had last night? That feeling that something was wrong …
All those elderly people—really very much like those she remembered when she had stayed here fifty years ago. They had been natural then—but they weren’t very natural now. Elderly people nowadays weren’t like elderly people then—they had that worried harried look of domestic anxieties with which they are too tired to cope, or they rushed around to committees and tried to appear bustling and competent, or they dyed their hair gentian blue, or wore wigs, and their hands were not the hands she remembered, tapering, delicate hands—they were harsh from washing up and detergents …
And so—well, so these people didn’t look real. But the point was that they were real. Selina Hazy was real. And that rather handsome old military man in the corner was real—she had met him once, although she did not recall his name—and the Bishop (dear Robbie!) was dead.
Miss Marple glanced at her little clock. It was eight-thirty. Time for her breakfast.
She examined the instructions given by the hotel—splendid big print so that it wasn’t necessary to put one’s spectacles on.
Meals could be ordered through the telephone by asking for Room Service, or you could press the bell labelled Chambermaid.
Miss Marple did the latter. Talking to Room Service always flustered her.
The result was excellent. In no time at all there was a tap on the door and a highly satisfactory chambermaid appeared. A real chambermaid looking unreal, wearing a striped lavender print dress and actually a cap, a freshly laundered cap. A smiling, rosy, positively countrified face. (Where did they find these people?)
Miss Marple ordered her breakfast. Tea, poached eggs, fresh rolls. So adept was the chambermaid that she did not even mention cereals or orange juice.
Five minutes later breakfast came. A comfortable tray with a big pot-bellied teapot, creamy-looking milk, a silver hot water jug. Two beautifully poached eggs on toast, poached the proper way, not little round hard bullets shaped in tin cups, a good-sized round of butter stamped with a thistle. Marmalade, honey and strawberry jam. Delicious-looking rolls, not the hard kind with papery interiors—they smelt of fresh bread (the most delicious smell in the world!). There was also an apple, a pear and a banana.
Miss Marple inserted a knife gingerly but with confidence. She was not disappointed. Rich deep yellow yolk oozed out, thick and creamy. Proper eggs!
Everything piping hot. A real breakfast. She could have cooked it herself but she hadn’t had to! It was brought to her as if—no, not as though she were a queen—as though she were a middle-aged lady staying in a good but not unduly expensive hotel. In fact—back to 1909. Miss Marple expressed appreciation to the chambermaid who replied smiling,
‘Oh, yes, Madam, the Chef is very particular about his breakfasts.’
Miss Marple studied her appraisingly. Bertram’s Hotel could certainly produce marvels. A real housemaid. She pinched her left arm surreptitiously.
‘Have you been here long?’ she asked.
‘Just over three years, Madam.’
‘And before that?’
‘I was in a hotel at Eastbourne. Very modern and up-to-date—but I prefer an old-fashioned place like this.’
Miss Marple took a sip of tea. She found herself humming in a vague way—words fitting themselves to a long-forgotten song.
‘Oh where have you been all my life …’
The chambermaid was looking slightly startled.
‘I was just remembering an old song,’ twittered Miss Marple apologetically. ‘Very popular at one time.’
Again she sang softly. ‘Oh where have you been all my life …’
‘Perhaps you know it?’ she asked.
‘Well—’ The chambermaid looked rather apologetic.
‘Too long ago for you,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Ah well, one gets to remembering things—in a place like this.’
‘Yes, Madam, a lot of the ladies who stay here feel like that, I think.’
‘It’s partly why they come, I expect,’ said Miss Marple.
The chambermaid went out. She was obviously used to old ladies who twittered and reminisced.
Miss Marple finished her breakfast, and got up in a pleasant leisurely fashion. She had a plan ready made for a delightful morning of shopping. Not too much—to over-tire herself. Oxford Street today, perhaps. And tomorrow Knightsbridge. She planned ahead happily.
It was about ten o’clock when she emerged from her room fully equipped: hat, gloves, umbrella—just in case, though it looked fine—handbag—her smartest shopping bag—
The door next but one on the corridor opened sharply and someone looked out. It was Bess Sedgwick. She withdrew back into the room and closed the door sharply.
Miss Marple wondered as she went down the stairs. She preferred the stairs to the lift first thing in the morning. It limbered her up. Her steps grew slower and slower … she stopped.
As Colonel Luscombe strode along the passage from his room, a door at the top of the stairs opened sharply and Lady Sedgwick spoke to him.
‘There you are at last! I’ve been on the look-out for you—waiting to pounce. Where can we go and talk? That is to say without falling over some old pussy every second.’
‘Well,