The Complete Miss Marple Collection

by Agatha Christie

  At this moment he was sitting behind a large mahogany desk in his handsome room on the first floor, speaking kindly but firmly to a dejected looking client. Richard Egerton was a handsome man, tall, dark with a touch of grey at the temples and very shrewd grey eyes. His advice was always good advice, but he seldom minced his words.

  “Quite frankly you haven’t got a leg to stand upon, Freddie,” he was saying. “Not with those letters you’ve written.”

  “You don’t think—” Freddie murmured dejectedly.

  “No, I don’t,” said Egerton. “The only hope is to settle out of court. It might even be held that you’ve rendered yourself liable to criminal prosecution.”

  “Oh, look here, Richard, that’s carrying things a bit far.”

  There was a small discreet buzz on Egerton’s desk. He picked up the telephone receiver with a frown.

  “I thought I said I wasn’t to be disturbed.”

  There was a murmur at the other end. Egerton said, “Oh. Yes—Yes, I see. Ask her to wait, will you.”

  He replaced the receiver and turned once more to his unhappy looking client.

  “Look here, Freddie,” he said, “I know the law and you don’t. You’re in a nasty jam. I’ll do my best to get you out of it, but it’s going to cost you a bit. I doubt if they’d settle for less than twelve thousand.”

  “Twelve thousand!” The unfortunate Freddie was aghast. “Oh, I say! I haven’t got it, Richard.”

  “Well, you’ll have to raise it then. There are always ways and means. If she’ll settle for twelve thousand, you’ll be lucky, and if you fight the case it’ll cost you a lot more.”

  “You lawyers!” said Freddie. “Sharks, all of you!”

  He rose to his feet. “Well,” he said, “do your bloody best for me, Richard old boy.”

  He took his departure, shaking his head sadly. Richard Egerton put Freddie and his affairs out of his mind, and thought about his next client. He said softly to himself, “The Honourable Elvira Blake. I wonder what she’s like…” He lifted his receiver. “Lord Frederick’s gone. Send up Miss Blake, will you.”

  As he waited he made little calculations on his desk pad. How many years since—? She must be fifteen—seventeen—perhaps even more than that. Time went so fast. “Coniston’s daughter,” he thought, “and Bess’s daughter. I wonder which of them she takes after?”

  The door opened, the clerk announced Miss Elvira Blake and the girl walked into the room. Egerton rose from his chair and came towards her. In appearance, he thought, she did not resemble either of her parents. Tall, slim, very fair, Bess’s colouring but none of Bess’s vitality, with an old-fashioned air about her; though that was difficult to be sure of, since the fashion in dress happened at the moment to be ruffles and baby bodices.

  “Well, well,” he said, as he shook hands with her. “This is a surprise. Last time I saw you, you were eleven years old. Come and sit here.” He pulled forward a chair and she sat down.

  “I suppose,” said Elvira, a little uncertainly, “that I ought to have written first. Written and made an appointment. Something like that, but I really made up my mind very suddenly and it seemed an opportunity, since I was in London.”

  “And what are you doing in London?”

  “Having my teeth seen to.”

  “Beastly things, teeth,” said Egerton. “Give us trouble from the cradle to the grave. But I am grateful for the teeth, if it gives me an opportunity of seeing you. Let me see now; you’ve been in Italy, haven’t you, finishing your education there at one of these places all girls go to nowadays?”

  “Yes,” said Elvira, “the Contessa Martinelli. But I’ve left there now for good. I’m living with the Melfords in Kent until I make up my mind if there’s anything I’d like to do.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll find something satisfactory. You’re not thinking of a university or anything like that?”

  “No,” said Elvira, “I don’t think I’d be clever enough for that.” She paused before saying, “I suppose you’d have to agree to anything if I did want to do it?”

  Egerton’s keen eyes focused sharply.

  “I am one of your guardians, and a trustee under your father’s will, yes,” he said. “Therefore, you have a perfect right to approach me at anytime.”

  Elvira said, “Thank you,” politely. Egerton asked:

  “Is there anything worrying you?”

  “No. Not really. But you see, I don’t know anything. Nobody’s ever told me things. One doesn’t always like to ask.”

  He looked at her attentively.

  “You mean things about yourself?”

  “Yes,” said Elvira. “It’s kind of you to understand. Uncle Derek—” she hesitated.

  “Derek Luscombe, you mean?”

  “Yes. I’ve always called him uncle.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s very kind,” said Elvira, “but he’s not the sort of person who ever tells you anything. He just arranges things, and looks a little worried in case they mightn’t be what I’d like. Of course he listens to a lot of people—women, I mean—who tell him things. Like Contessa Martinelli. He arranges for me to go to schools or to finishing places.”

  “And they haven’t been where you wanted to go?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. They’ve been quite all right. I mean they’ve been more or less where everyone else goes.”

  “I see.”

  “But I don’t know anything about myself, I mean what money I’ve got, and how much, and what I could do with it if I wanted.”

  “In fact,” said Egerton, with his attractive smile, “you want to talk business. Is that it? Well, I think you’re quite right. Let’s see. How old are you? Sixteen—seventeen?”

  “I’m nearly twenty.”

  “Oh dear. I’d no idea.”

  “You see,” explained Elvira, “I feel all the time that I’m being shielded and sheltered. It’s nice in a way, but it can get very irritating.”

  “It’s an attitude that’s gone out of date,” agreed Egerton, “but I can quite see that it would appeal to Derek Luscombe.”

  “He’s a dear,” said Elvira, “but very difficult, somehow, to talk to seriously.”

  “Yes, I can see that that might be so. Well, how much do you know about yourself, Elvira? About your family circumstances?”

  “I know that my father died when I was five and that my mother had run away from him with someone when I was about two, I don’t remember her at all. I barely remember my father. He was very old and had his leg up on a chair. He used to swear. I was rather scared of him. After he died I lived first with an aunt or a cousin or something of my father’s, until she died, and then I lived with Uncle Derek and his sister. But then she died and I went to Italy. Uncle Derek has arranged for me, now, to live with the Melfords who are his cousins and very kind and nice and have two daughters about my age.”

  “You’re happy there?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve barely got there. They’re all very dull. I really wanted to know how much money I’ve got.”

  “So it’s financial information you really want?”

  “Yes,” said Elvira. “I’ve got some money. Is it a lot?”

  Egerton was serious now.

  “Yes,” he said. “You’ve got a lot of money. Your father was a very rich man. You were his only child. When he died, the title and the estate went to a cousin. He didn’t like the cousin, so he left all his personal property, which was considerable, to his daughter—to you, Elvira. You’re a very rich woman, or will be, when you are twenty-one.”

  “You mean I am not rich now?”

  “Yes,” said Egerton, “you’re rich now, but the money is not yours to dispose of until you are twenty-one or marry. Until that time it is in the hands of your Trustees. Luscombe, myself and another.” He smiled at her. “We haven’t embezzled it or anything like that. It’s still there. In fact, we’ve increased your capital considerably by investments.”

&
nbsp; “How much will I have?”

  “At the age of twenty-one or upon your marriage, you will come into a sum which at a rough estimate would amount to six or seven hundred thousand pounds.”

  “That is a lot,” said Elvira, impressed.

  “Yes, it is a lot. Probably it is because it is such a lot that nobody has ever talked to you about it much.”

  He watched her as she reflected upon this. Quite an interesting girl, he thought. Looked an unbelievably milk-and-water Miss, but she was more than that. A good deal more. He said, with a faintly ironic smile:

  “Does that satisfy you?”

  She gave him a sudden smile.

  “It ought to, oughtn’t it?”

  “Rather better than winning the pools,” he suggested.

  She nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. Then she came out abruptly with a question.

  “Who gets it if I die?”

  “As things stand now, it would go to your next of kin.”

  “I mean—I couldn’t make a will now, could I? Not until I was twenty-one. That’s what someone told me.”

  “They were quite right.”

  “That’s really rather annoying. If I was married and died I suppose my husband would get the money?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if I wasn’t married my mother would be my next of kin and get it. I really seem to have very few relations—I don’t even know my mother. What is she like?”

  “She’s a very remarkable woman,” said Egerton shortly. “Everybody would agree to that.”

  “Didn’t she ever want to see me?”

  “She may have done…I think it’s very possible that she did. But having made in—certain ways—rather a mess of her own life, she may have thought that it was better for you that you should be brought up quite apart from her.”

  “Do you actually know that she thinks that?”

  “No. I don’t really know anything about it.”

  Elvira got up.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It’s very kind of you to tell me all this.”

  “I think perhaps you ought to have been told more about things before,” said Egerton.

  “It’s humiliating not to know things,” said Elvira. “Uncle Derek, of course, thinks I’m just a child.”

  “Well, he’s not a very young man himself. He and I, you know, are well advanced in years. You must make allowances for us when we look at things from the point of view of our advanced age.”

  Elvira stood looking at him for a moment or two.

  “But you don’t think I’m really a child, do you?” she said shrewdly, and added, “I expect you know rather more about girls than Uncle Derek does. He just lived with his sister.” Then she stretched out her hand and said, very prettily, “Thank you so much. I hope I haven’t interrupted some important work you had to do,” and went out.

  Egerton stood looking at the door that had closed behind her. He pursed up his lips, whistled a moment, shook his head and sat down again, picked up a pen and tapped thoughtfully on his desk. He drew some papers towards him, then thrust them back and picked up his telephone.

  “Miss Cordell, get me Colonel Luscombe, will you? Try his club first. And then the Shropshire address.”

  He put back the receiver. Again he drew his papers towards him and started reading them but his mind was not on what he was doing. Presently his buzzer went.

  “Colonel Luscombe is on the wire now, Mr. Egerton.”

  “Right. Put him through. Hallo, Derek. Richard Egerton here. How are you? I’ve just been having a visit from someone you know. A visit from your ward.”

  “From Elvira?” Derek Luscombe sounded very surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “But why—what on earth—what did she come to you for? Not in any trouble?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say so. On the contrary, she seemed rather—well, pleased with herself. She wanted to know all about her financial position.”

  “You didn’t tell her, I hope?” said Colonel Luscombe, in alarm.

  “Why not? What’s the point of secrecy?”

  “Well, I can’t help feeling it’s a little unwise for a girl to know that she is going to come into such a large amount of money.”

  “Somebody else will tell her that, if we don’t. She’s got to be prepared, you know. Money is a responsibility.”

  “Yes, but she’s so much of a child still.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “What do you mean? Of course she’s a child.”

  “I wouldn’t describe her as such. Who’s the boyfriend?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I said who’s the boyfriend? There is a boyfriend in the offing, isn’t there?”

  “No, indeed. Nothing of the sort. What on earth makes you think that?”

  “Nothing that she actually said. But I’ve got some experience, you know. I think you’ll find there is a boyfriend.”

  “Well, I can assure you you’re quite wrong. I mean, she’s been most carefully brought up, she’s been at very strict schools, she’s been in a very select finishing establishment in Italy. I should know if there was anything of that kind going on. I dare say she’s met one or two pleasant young fellows and all that, but I’m sure there’s been nothing of the kind you suggest.”

  “Well, my diagnosis is a boyfriend—and probably an undesirable one.”

  “But why, Richard, why? What do you know about young girls?”

  “Quite a lot,” said Egerton dryly. “I’ve had three clients in the last year, two of whom were made wards of court and the third one managed to bully her parents into agreeing to an almost certainly disastrous marriage. Girls don’t get looked after the way they used to be. Conditions are such that it’s very difficult to look after them at all—”

  “But I assure you Elvira has been most carefully looked after.”

  “The ingenuity of the young female of the species is beyond anything you could conjecture! You keep an eye on her, Derek. Make a few inquiries as to what she’s been up to.”

  “Nonsense. She’s just a sweet simple girl.”

  “What you don’t know about sweet simple girls would fill an album! Her mother ran away and caused a scandal—remember?—when she was younger than Elvira is today. As for old Coniston, he was one of the worst rips in England.”

  “You upset me, Richard. You upset me very much.”

  “You might as well be warned. What I didn’t quite like was one of her other questions. Why is she so anxious to know who’d inherit her money if she dies?”

  “It’s queer your saying that, because she asked me that same question.”

  “Did she now? Why should her mind run on early death? She asked me about her mother, by the way.”

  Colonel Luscombe’s voice sounded worried as he said: “I wish Bess would get in touch with the girl.”

  “Have you been talking to her on the subject—to Bess, I mean?”

  “Well, yes…Yes I did. I ran across her by chance. We were staying in the same hotel, as a matter of fact. I urged Bess to make some arrangements to see the girl.”

  “What did she say?” asked Egerton curiously.

  “Refused point-blank. She more or less said that she wasn’t a safe person for the girl to know.”

  “Looked at from one point of view I don’t suppose she is,” said Egerton. “She’s mixed-up with that racing fellow, isn’t she?”

  “I’ve heard rumours.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard them too. I don’t know if there’s much in it really. There might be, I suppose. That could be why she feels as she does. Bess’s friends are strong meat from time to time! But what a woman she is, eh Derek? What a woman.”

  “Always been her own worst enemy,” said Derek Luscombe, gruffly.

  “A really nice conventional remark,” said Egerton. “Well, sorry I bothered you, Derek, but keep a look out for undesirables in the background. Don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

  He replaced the rec
eiver and drew the pages on his desk towards him once more. This time he was able to put his whole attention on what he was doing.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mrs. McCrae, Canon Pennyfather’s housekeeper, had ordered a Dover sole for the evening of his return. The advantages attached to a good Dover sole were manifold. It need not be introduced to the grill or frying pan until the Canon was safely in the house. It could be kept until the next day if necessary. Canon Pennyfather was fond of Dover sole; and, if a telephone call or telegram arrived saying that the Canon would after all be elsewhere on this particular evening, Mrs. McCrae was fond of a good Dover sole herself. All therefore was in good trim for the Canon’s return. The Dover sole would be followed by pancakes. The sole sat on the kitchen table, the batter for the pancakes was ready in a bowl. All was in readiness. The brass shone, the silver sparkled, not a minuscule of dust showed anywhere. There was only one thing lacking. The Canon himself.

  The Canon was scheduled to return on the train arriving at 6:30 from London.

  At 7 o’clock he had not returned. No doubt the train was late. At 7:30 he still had not returned. Mrs. McCrae gave a sigh of vexation. She suspected that this was going to be another of these things. Eight o’clock came and no Canon. Mrs. McCrae gave a long, exasperated sigh. Soon, no doubt, she would get a telephone call, though it was quite within the bounds of possibility that there would not be even a telephone call. He might have written to her. No doubt he had written, but he had probably omitted to post the letter.

  “Dear, dear!” said Mrs. McCrae.

  At 9 o’clock she made herself three pancakes with the pancake batter. The sole she put carefully away in the Frigidaire. “I wonder where the good man’s got to now,” she said to herself. She knew by experience that he might be anywhere. The odds were that he would discover his mistake in time to telegraph her or telephone her before she retired to bed. “I shall sit up until 11 o’clock but no longer,” said Mrs. McCrae. Ten thirty was her bedtime, an extension to eleven she considered her duty, but if at eleven there was nothing, no word from the Canon, then Mrs. McCrae would duly lock up the house and betake herself to bed.