The Body in the Library - Christie Agatha - Страница 2
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She subsided again onto Mrs. Eccles, who said, "There, there, my dear," with some relish.
"Mary is naturally somewhat upset, sir, having been the one to make the gruesome discovery," exclaimed the butler. "She went into the library, as usual, to draw the curtains, and - and almost stumbled over the body."
"Do you mean to tell me," demanded Colonel Bantry, "that there's a dead body in my library - my library?"
The butler coughed. "Perhaps, sir, you would like to see for yourself."
"Hullo, 'ullo, 'ullo. Police station here. Yes, who's speaking?" Police Constable Palk was buttoning up his tunic with one hand while the other held the telephone receiver. "Yes, yes, Gossington Hall. Yes?… Oh, good morning, sir." Police Constable Palk's tone underwent a slight modification. It became less impatiently official, recognizing the generous patron of the police sports and the principal magistrate of the district. "Yes, sir? What can I do for you?… I'm sorry, sir, I didn't quite catch… A body, did you say?… Yes?… Yes, if you please, sir… That's right, sir… Young woman not known to you, you say?… Quite, sir… Yes, you can leave it all to me."
Police Constable Palk replaced the receiver, uttered a long-drawn whistle and proceeded to dial his superior officer's number. Mrs. Palk looked in from the kitchen, whence proceeded an appetizing smell of frying bacon. "What is it?"
"Rummiest thing you ever heard of," replied her husband. "Body of a young woman found up at the Hall. In the colonel's library." "Murdered?" "Strangled, so he says." "Who was she?" "The colonel says he doesn't know her from Adam." "Then what was she doing in 'is library?" Police Constable Palk silenced her with a reproachful glance and spoke officially into the telephone "Inspector Slack? Police Constable Palk here. A report has just come in that the body of a young woman was discovered this morning at seven-fifteen "
Miss Marple's telephone rang when she was dressing. The sound of it flurried her a little. It was an unusual hour for her telephone to ring. So well ordered was her prim spinster's life that unforeseen telephone calls were a source of vivid conjecture. "Dear me," said Miss Marple, surveying the ringing instrument with perplexity. "I wonder who that can be?"
Nine o'clock to nine-thirty was the recognized time for the village to make friendly calls to neighbors. Plans for the day, invitations, and so on, were always issued then. The butcher had been known to ring up just before nine if some crisis in the meat trade had occurred. At intervals during the day spasmodic calls might occur, though it was considered bad form to ring up after nine-thirty at night.
It was true that Miss Marple's nephew, a writer, and therefore erratic, had been known to ring up at the most peculiar times; once as late as ten minutes to midnight. But whatever Raymond West's eccentricities, early rising was not one of them. Neither he nor anyone of Miss Marple's acquaintance would be likely to ring up before eight in the morning. Actually a quarter to eight. Too early even for a telegram, since the post office did not open until eight. "It must be," Miss Marple decided, "a wrong number." Having decided this, she advanced to the impatient instrument and quelled its clamor by picking up the receiver. "Yes?" she said.
"Is that you, Jane?"
Miss Marple was much surprised. "Yes, it's Jane. You're up very early. Dolly."
Mrs. Bantry's voice came, breathless and agitated, over the wire. "The most awful thing has happened."
"Oh, my dear!"
"We've just found a body in the library."
For a moment Miss Marple thought her friend had gone mad. "You've found a what?"
"I know. One doesn't believe it, does one? I mean I thought they only happened in books. I had to argue for hours with Arthur this morning before he'd even go down and see."
Miss Marple tried to collect herself. She demanded breathlessly, "But whose body is it?"
"It's a blonde."
"A what?"
"A blonde. A beautiful blonde like books again. None of us have ever seen her before. She's just lying there in the library, dead. That's why you've got to come up at once."
"You want me to come up?"
"Yes, I'm sending the car down for you."
Miss Marple said doubtfully, "Of course, dear, if you think I can be of any comfort to you."
"Oh, I don't want comfort. But you're so good at bodies."
"Oh, no, indeed. My little successes have been mostly theoretical."
"But you're very good at murders. She's been murdered you see; strangled. What I feel is that if one has got to have a murder actually happening in one's house, one might as well enjoy it, if you know what I mean. That's why I want you to come and help me find out who did it and unravel the mystery and all that. It really is rather thrilling, isn't it?" "Well, of course, my dear, if I can be of any help." "Splendid! Arthur's being rather difficult. He seems to think I shouldn't enjoy myself about it at all. Of course, I do know it's very sad and all that, but then I don't know the girl and when you've seen her you'll understand what I mean when I say she doesn't look real at all."
A little breathless Miss Marple alighted from the Bantrys' car, the door of which was held open for her by the chauffeur. Colonel Bantry came out on the steps and looked a little surprised. "Miss Marple? Er very pleased to see you."
"Your wife telephoned to me," explained Miss Marple.
"Capital, capital. She ought to have someone with her. She'll crack up otherwise. She's putting a good face on things at the moment, but you know what it is."
At this moment Mrs. Bantry appeared and exclaimed, "Do go back and eat your breakfast, Arthur. Your bacon will get cold."
"I thought it might be the inspector arriving," explained Colonel Bantry.
"He'll be here soon enough," said Mrs. Bantry. "That's why it's important to get your breakfast first. You need it."
"So do you. Much better come and eat something, Dolly."
"I'll come in a minute," said Mrs. Bantry. "Go on, Arthur." Colonel Bantry was shooed back into the dining room rather like a recalcitrant hen. "Now!" said Mrs. Bantry with an intonation of triumph. "Come on."
She led the way rapidly along the long corridor to the east of the house. Outside the library door Constable Palk stood on guard. He intercepted Mrs. Bantry with a show of authority. "I'm afraid nobody is allowed in, madam. Inspector's orders."
"Nonsense, Palk," said Mrs. Bantry. "You know Miss Marple perfectly well." Constable Palk admitted to knowing Miss Marple. "It's very important that she should see the body," said Mrs. Bantry. "Don't be stupid, Palk. After all, it's my library, isn't it?"
Constable Palk gave way. His habit of giving in to the gentry was lifelong. The inspector, he reflected, need never know about it. "Nothing must be touched or handled in any way," he warned the ladies.
"Of course not," said Mrs. Bantry impatiently. "We know that. You can come in and watch, if you like." Constable Palk availed himself of this permission. It had been his intention anyway. Mrs. Bantry bore her friend triumphantly across the library to the big old-fashioned fireplace. She said, with a dramatic sense of climax, "There!"
Miss Marple understood then just what her friend had meant when she said the dead girl wasn't real. The library was a room very typical of its owners. It was large and shabby and untidy. It had big, sagging armchairs, and pipes and books and estate papers laid out on the big table. There were one or two good old family portraits on the walls, and some bad Victorian water colors, and some would-be-funny hunting scenes. There was a big vase of flowers in the corner. The whole room was dim and mellow and casual. It spoke of long occupation and familiar use and of links with tradition.
And across the old bearskin hearth rug there was sprawled something new and crude and melodramatic. The flamboyant figure of a girl. A girl with unnaturally fair hair dressed up off her face in elaborate curls and rings. Her thin body was dressed in a backless evening dress of white spangled satin; the face was heavily made up, the powder standing out grotesquely on its blue, swollen surface, the mascara of the lashes lying thickly on the distorted cheeks, the scarlet of the lips looking like a gash. The fingernails were enameled a deep blood red, and so were the toenails in their cheap silver sandal shoes. It was a cheap, tawdry, flamboyant figure, most incongruous in the solid, old-fashioned comfort of Colonel Bantry's library. Mrs. Bantry said in a low voice, "You see what I mean? It just isn't true?"
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