Читать книгу At Bertram’s Hotel - Агата Кристи, Agatha Christie, Detection Club The - Страница 10

Miss Marple 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 The out-of-date returns in due course as the picturesque … Look how people wanted old-fashioned roses now, and scorned hybrid teas!… None of this place seemed real at all …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, really, Bess, I’m not quite sure—I think on the mezzanine floor there’s a sort of writing-room.’

‘You’d better come in here. Quick now, before the chambermaid gets peculiar ideas about us.’

Rather unwillingly, Colonel Luscombe stepped across the threshold and had the door shut firmly behind him.

‘I’d no idea you would be staying here, Bess, I hadn’t the faintest idea of it.’

‘I don’t suppose you had.’

‘I mean—I would never have brought Elvira here. I have got Elvira here, you know?’

‘Yes, I saw her with you last night.’

‘But I really didn’t know that you were here. It seemed such an unlikely place for you.’

‘I don’t see why,’ said Bess Sedgwick, coldly. ‘It’s far and away the most comfortable hotel in London. Why shouldn’t I stay here?’

‘You must understand that I hadn’t any idea of … I mean—’

She looked at him and laughed. She was dressed ready to go out in a well cut dark suit and a shirt of bright emerald green. She looked gay and very much alive. Beside her, Colonel Luscombe looked rather old and faded.

‘Darling Derek, don’t look so worried. I’m not accusing you of trying to stage a mother and daughter sentimental meeting. It’s just one of those things that happen; where people meet each other in unsuspected places. But you must get Elvira out of here, Derek. You must get her out of it at once—today.’

‘Oh, she’s going. I mean, I only brought her here just for a couple of nights. Do a show—that sort of thing. She’s going down to the Melfords tomorrow.’

‘Poor girl, that’ll be boring for her.’

Luscombe looked at her with concern. ‘Do you think she will be very bored?’

Bess took pity on him.

‘Probably not after duress in Italy. She might even think it wildly thrilling.’

Luscombe took his courage in both hands.

‘Look here, Bess, I was startled to find you here, but don’t you think it—well, you know, it might be meant in a way. I mean that it might be an opportunity—I don’t think you really know how—well, how the girl might feel.’

‘What are you trying to say, Derek?’

‘Well, you are her mother, you know.’

‘Of course I’m her mother. She’s my daughter. And what good has that fact ever been to either of us, or ever will be?’

‘You can’t be sure. I think—I think she feels it.’

‘What gives you that idea?’ said Bess Sedgwick sharply.

‘Something she said yesterday. She asked where you were, what you were doing.’

Bess Sedgwick walked across the room to the window. She stood there a moment tapping on the pane.

‘You’re so nice, Derek,’ she said. ‘You have such nice ideas. But they don’t work, my poor angel. That’s what you’ve got to say to yourself. They don’t work and they might be dangerous.’

‘Oh come now, Bess. Dangerous?’

‘Yes, yes, yes. Dangerous. I’m dangerous. I’ve always been dangerous.’

‘When I think of some of the things you’ve done,’ said Colonel Luscombe.

‘That’s my own business,’ said Bess Sedgwick. ‘Running into danger has become a kind of habit with me. No, I wouldn’t say habit. More an addiction. Like a drug. Like that nice little dollop of heroin addicts have to have every so often to make life seem bright coloured and worth living. Well, that’s all right. That’s my funeral—or not—as the case may be. I’ve never taken drugs—never needed them—Danger has been my drug. But people who live as I do can be a source of harm to others. Now don’t be an obstinate old fool, Derek. You keep that girl well away from me. I can do her no good. Only harm. If possible, don’t even let her know I was staying in the same hotel. Ring up the Melfords and take her down there today. Make some excuse about a sudden emergency—’

Colonel Luscombe hesitated, pulling his moustache.

‘I think you’re making a mistake, Bess.’ He sighed. ‘She asked where you were. I told her you were abroad.’

‘Well, I shall be in another twelve hours, so that all fits very nicely.’

She came up to him, kissed him on the point of his chin, turned him smartly around as though they were about to play Blind Man’s Buff, opened the door, gave him a gentle little propelling shove out of it. As the door shut behind him, Colonel Luscombe noticed an old lady turning the corner from the stairs. She was muttering to herself as she looked into her handbag. ‘Dear, dear me. I suppose I must have left it in my room. Oh dear.’

She passed Colonel Luscombe without paying much attention to him apparently, but as he went on down the stairs Miss Marple paused by her room door and directed a piercing glance after him. Then she looked towards Bess Sedgwick’s door. ‘So that’s who she was waiting for,’ said Miss Marple to herself. ‘I wonder why.’

Canon Pennyfather, fortified by breakfast, wandered across the lounge, remembered to leave his key at the desk, pushed his way through the swinging doors, and was neatly inserted into a taxi by the Irish commissionaire who existed for this purpose.

‘Where to, sir?’

‘Oh dear,’ said Canon Pennyfather in sudden dismay. ‘Now let me see—where was I going?’

The traffic in Pond Street was held up for some minutes whilst Canon Pennyfather and the commissionaire debated this knotty point.

Finally Canon Pennyfather had a brainwave and the taxi was directed to go to the British Museum.

The commissionaire was left on the pavement with a broad grin on his face, and since no other exits seemed to be taking place, he strolled a little way along the façade of the hotel whistling an old tune in a muted manner.

One of the windows on the ground floor of Bertram’s was flung up—but the commissionaire did not even turn his head until a voice spoke unexpectedly through the open window.

‘So this is where you’ve landed up, Micky. What on earth brought you to this place?’

He swung round, startled—and stared.

Lady Sedgwick thrust her head through the open window.

‘Don’t you know me?’ she demanded.

A sudden gleam of recognition came across the man’s face.

‘Why, if it isn’t little Bessie now! Fancy that! After all these years. Little Bessie.’

‘Nobody but you ever called me Bessie. It’s a revolting name. What have you been doing all these years?’

‘This and that,’ said Micky with some reserve. ‘I’ve not been in the news like you have. I’ve read of your doings in the paper time and again.’

Bess Sedgwick laughed. ‘Anyway, I’ve worn better than you have,’ she said. ‘You drink too much. You always did.’

‘You’ve worn well because you’ve always been in the money.’

‘Money wouldn’t have done you any good. You’d have drunk even more and gone to the dogs completely. Oh yes, you would! What brought you here? That’s what I want to know. How did you ever get taken on at this place?’

‘I wanted a job. I had these—’ his hand flicked over the row of medals.

‘Yes, I see.’ She was thoughtful. ‘All genuine too, aren’t they?’

‘Sure they’re genuine. Why shouldn’t they be?’

‘Oh I believe you. You always had courage. You’ve always been a good fighter. Yes, the army suited you. I’m sure of that.’

‘The army’s all right in time of war, but it’s no good in peace time.’

‘So you took to this stuff. I hadn’t the least idea—’ she stopped.

‘You hadn’t the least idea what, Bessie?’

‘Nothing. It’s queer seeing you again after all these years.’

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ said the man. ‘I’ve never forgotten you, little Bessie. Ah! A lovely girl you were! A lovely slip of a girl.’

‘A damn’ fool of a girl, that’s what I was,’ said Lady Sedgwick.

‘That’s true now. You hadn’t much sense. If you had, you wouldn’t have taken up with me. What hands you had for a horse. Do you remember that mare—what was her name now?—Molly O’Flynn. Ah, she was a wicked devil, that one was.’

‘You were the only one that could ride her,’ said Lady Sedgwick.

‘She’d have had me off if she could! When she found she couldn’t, she gave in. Ah, she was a beauty, now. But talking of sitting a horse, there wasn’t one lady in those parts better than you. A lovely seat you had, lovely hands. Never any fear in you, not for a minute! And it’s been the same ever since, so I judge. Aeroplanes, racing cars.’

Bess Sedgwick laughed.

‘I must get on with my letters.’

She drew back from the window.

Micky leaned over the railing. ‘I’ve not forgotten Ballygowlan,’ he said with meaning. ‘Sometimes I’ve thought of writing to you—’

Bess Sedgwick’s voice came out harshly.

‘And what do you mean by that, Mick Gorman?’

‘I was just saying as I haven’t forgotten—anything. I was just—reminding you like.’

Bess Sedgwick’s voice still held its harsh note.

‘If you mean what I think you mean, I’ll give you a piece of advice. Any trouble from you, and I’d shoot you as easily as I’d shoot a rat. I’ve shot men before—’

‘In foreign parts, maybe—’

‘Foreign parts or here—it’s all the same to me.’

‘Ah, good Lord, now, and I believe you would do just that!’ His voice held admiration. ‘In Ballygowlan—’

‘In Ballygowlan,’ she cut in, ‘they paid you to keep your mouth shut and paid you well. You took the money. You’ll get no more from me so don’t think it.’

‘It would be a nice romantic story for the Sunday papers …’

‘You heard what I said.’

‘Ah,’ he laughed, ‘I’m not serious, I was just joking. I’d never do anything to hurt my little Bessie. I’ll keep my mouth shut.’

‘Mind you do,’ said Lady Sedgwick.

She shut down the window. Staring down at the desk in front of her she looked at her unfinished letter on the blotting paper. She picked it up, looked at it, crumpled it into a ball and slung it into the waste-paper basket. Then abruptly she got up from her seat and walked out of the room. She did not even cast a glance around her before she went.

The smaller writing-rooms at Bertram’s often had an appearance of being empty even when they were not. Two well-appointed desks stood in the windows, there was a table on the right that held a few magazines, on the left were two very high-backed arm-chairs turned towards the fire. These were favourite spots in the afternoon for elderly military or naval gentlemen to ensconce themselves and fall happily asleep until tea-time. Anyone coming in to write a letter did not usually even notice them. The chairs were not so much in demand during the morning.

As it happened, however, they were on this particular morning both occupied. An old lady was in one and a young girl in the other. The young girl rose to her feet. She stood a moment looking uncertainly towards the door through which Lady Sedgwick had passed out, then she moved slowly towards it. Elvira Blake’s face was deadly pale.

It was another five minutes before the old lady moved. Then Miss Marple decided that the little rest which she always took after dressing and coming downstairs had lasted quite long enough. It was time to go out and enjoy the pleasures of London. She might walk as far as Piccadilly, and take a No. 9 bus to High Street, Kensington, or she might walk along to Bond Street and take a 25 bus to Marshall & Snelgrove’s, or she might take a 25 the other way which as far as she remembered would land her up at the Army & Navy Stores. Passing through the swing doors she was still savouring these delights in her mind. The Irish commissionaire, back on duty, made up her mind for her.

‘You’ll be wanting a taxi, Ma’am,’ he said with firmness.

‘I don’t think I do,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I think there’s a 25 bus I could take quite near here—or a 2 from Park Lane.’

‘You’ll not be wanting a bus,’ said the commissionaire firmly. ‘It’s very dangerous springing on a bus when you’re getting on in life. The way they start and stop and go on again. Jerk you off your feet, they do. No heart at all, these fellows, nowadays. I’ll whistle you along a taxi and you’ll go to wherever you want to like a queen.’

Miss Marple considered and fell.

‘Very well then,’ she said, ‘perhaps I had better have a taxi.’

The commissionaire had no need even to whistle. He merely clicked his thumb and a taxi appeared like magic. Miss Marple was helped into it with every possible care and decided on the spur of the moment to go to Robinson & Cleaver’s and look at their splendid offer of real linen sheets. She sat happily in her taxi feeling indeed as the commissionaire had promised her, just like a queen. Her mind was filled with pleasurable anticipation of linen sheets, linen pillow cases and proper glass- and kitchen-cloths without pictures of bananas, figs or performing dogs and other pictorial distractions to annoy you when you were washing up.

Lady Sedgwick came up to the Reception desk.

‘Mr Humfries in his office?’

‘Yes, Lady Sedgwick.’ Miss Gorringe looked startled.

Lady Sedgwick passed behind the desk, tapped on the door and went in without waiting for any response.

Mr Humfries looked up startled.

‘What—’

‘Who engaged that man Michael Gorman?’

Mr Humfries spluttered a little.

‘Parfitt left—he had a car accident a month ago. We had to replace him quickly. This man seemed all right. References OK—ex-Army—quite good record—not very bright perhaps—but that’s all the better sometimes—you don’t know anything against him, do you?’

‘Enough not to want him here.’

‘If you insist,’ Humfries said slowly, ‘we’ll give him his notice—’

‘No,’ said Lady Sedgwick slowly. ‘No—it’s too late for that—Never mind.’