Nemesis. Агата Кристи
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and takes in some really very attractive scenery and gardens. He has arranged for you to have the best accommodation and all the luxury available that we can provide.
Perhaps you will let us know which day would suit you to visit our office in Berkeley Street?’
Miss Marple folded up the letter, put it in her bag, noted the telephone number, thought of a few friends whom she knew, rang up two of them, one of whom had been for tours with the Famous Houses and Gardens, and spoke highly of them, the other one had not been personally on a tour but had friends who had travelled with this particular firm and who said everything was very well done, though rather expensive, and not too exhausting for the elderly. She then rang up the Berkeley Street number and said she would call upon them on the following Tuesday.
The next day she spoke to Cherry on the subject.
‘I may be going away, Cherry,’ she said. ‘On a Tour.’
‘A Tour?’ said Cherry. ‘One of these travel tours? You mean a package tour abroad?’
‘Not abroad. In this country,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Mainly visiting historic buildings and gardens.’
‘Do you think it’s all right to do that at your age? These things can be very tiring, you know. You have to walk miles sometimes.’
‘My health is really very good,’ said Miss Marple, ‘and I have always heard that in these tours they are careful to provide restful intervals for such people who are not particularly strong.’
‘Well, be careful of yourself, that’s all,’ said Cherry. ‘We don’t want you falling down with a heart attack, even if you are looking at a particularly sumptuous fountain or something. You’re a bit old, you know, to do this sort of thing. Excuse me saying it, it sounds rude, but I don’t like to think of you passing out because you’ve done too much or anything like that.’
‘I can take care of myself,’ said Miss Marple, with some dignity.
‘All right, but you just be careful,’ said Cherry.
Miss Marple packed a suitcase bag, went to London, booked a room at a modest hotel—(‘Ah, Bertram’s Hotel,’ she thought in her mind, ‘what a wonderful hotel that was! Oh dear, I must forget all those things, the St George is quite a pleasant place.’) At the appointed time she was at Berkeley Street and was shown in to the office where a pleasant woman of about thirty-five rose to meet her, explained that her name was Mrs Sandbourne and that she would be in personal charge of this particular tour.
‘Am I to understand,’ said Miss Marple, ‘that this trip is in my case—’ she hesitated.
Mrs Sandbourne, sensing slight embarrassment, said:
‘Oh yes, I ought to have explained perhaps better in the letter we sent you. Mr Rafiel has paid all expenses.’
‘You do know that he is dead?’ said Miss Marple.
‘Oh yes, but this was arranged before his death. He mentioned that he was in ill health but wanted to provide a treat for a very old friend of his who had not had the opportunity of travelling as much as she could have wished.’
Two days later, Miss Marple, carrying her small overnight bag, her new and smart suitcase surrendered to the driver, had boarded a most comfortable and luxurious coach which was taking a north-westerly route out of London; she was studying the passenger list which was attached to the inside of a handsome brochure giving details of the daily itinerary of the coach, and various information as to hotels and meals, places to be seen, and occasional alternatives on some days which, although the fact was not stressed, actually intimated that one choice of itinerary was for the young and active and that the other choice would be peculiarly suitable for the elderly, those whose feet hurt them, who suffered from arthritis or rheumatism and who would prefer to sit about and not walk long distances or up too many hills. It was all very tactful and well arranged.
Miss Marple read the passenger list and surveyed her fellow passengers. There was no difficulty about doing this because the other fellow passengers were doing much the same themselves. They were surveying her, amongst others, but nobody as far as Miss Marple could notice was taking any particular interest in her.
Mrs Riseley-Porter
Miss Joanna Crawford
Colonel and Mrs Walker
Mr and Mrs H. T. Butler
Miss Elizabeth Temple
Professor Wanstead
Mr Richard Jameson
Miss Lumley
Miss Bentham
Mr Caspar
Miss Cooke
Miss Barrow
Mr Emlyn Price
Miss Jane Marple
There were four elderly ladies. Miss Marple took note of them first so, as it were, to clear them out of the way. Two were travelling together. Miss Marple put them down as about seventy. They could roughly be considered as contemporaries of her own. One of them was very definitely the complaining type, one who would want to have seats at the front of the coach or else would make a point of having them at the back of the coach. Would wish to sit on the sunny side or could only bear to sit on the shady side. Who would want more fresh air, or less fresh air. They had with them travelling rugs and knitted scarves and quite an assortment of guide books. They were slightly crippled and often in pain from feet or backs or knees but were nevertheless of those whom age and ailments could not prevent from enjoying life while they still had it. Old pussies, but definitely not stay-at-home old pussies. Miss Marple made an entry in the little book she carried.
Fifteen passengers not including herself, or Mrs Sandbourne. And since she had been sent on this coach tour, one at least of those fifteen passengers must be of importance in some way. Either as a source of information or someone concerned with the law or a law case, or it might even be a murderer. A murderer who might have already killed or one who might be preparing to kill. Anything was possible, Miss Marple thought, with Mr Rafiel! Anyway, she must make notes of these people.
On the right-hand page of her notebook, she would note down who might be worthy of attention from Mr Rafiel’s point of view and on the left she would note down or cross off those who could only be of any interest if they could produce some useful information for her. Information, it might be, that they did not even know they possessed. Or rather that even if they possessed it, they did not know it could possibly be useful to her or to Mr Rafiel or to the law or to Justice with a capital ‘J’. At the back of her little book, she might this evening make a note or two as to whether anyone had reminded her of characters she had known in the past at St Mary Mead and other places. Any similarities might make a useful pointer. It had done so on other occasions.
The other two elderly ladies were apparently separate travellers. Both of them were about sixty. One was a well preserved, well-dressed woman of obvious social importance in her own mind, but probably in other people’s minds as well. Her voice was loud and dictatorial. She appeared to have in tow a niece, a girl of about eighteen or nineteen who addressed her as Aunt Geraldine. The niece, Miss Marple noted, was obviously well accustomed to coping with Aunt Geraldine’s bossiness. She was a competent girl as well as being an attractive one.
Across the aisle from Miss Marple was a big man with square shoulders and a clumsy-looking body, looking as though he had been carelessly assembled by an ambitious child out of chunky bricks. His face looked as though nature had planned it to be round but the face had rebelled at this and decided to achieve a square effect by developing a powerful jaw. He had a thick head of greyish hair and enormous bushy eyebrows which moved up and down to give point to what he was saying. His remarks seemed mainly to come out in a series of barks as though he