Agatha Christie: Murder in the Making: More Stories and Secrets From Her Notebooks (24 page)

Miss Hartnell, weather beaten hearty spinster, threw out her question as she squeezed her way through the crowded drawing room door. Miss Wetherby, a thin acidulated spinster, fluttered out information.

‘Oh my dear,
quite
charming. Such pretty manners. And quite young. Really, you know, it makes one feel quite
envious
to see someone who has
everything
like that. Good looks and money, and breeding – (
most
distinguished, nothing in the least
common
about her) and dear Harry
so
devoted.’

‘Ah,’ said Miss Hartnell, ‘It’s early days yet.’

Miss Wetherby’s thin nose quivered appreciatively.

‘Oh my dear, do you really think—?’

‘We all know what Harry is,’ said Miss Hartnell.

‘We know what he
was
. But I expect
now
—’

‘Ah,’ said Miss Hartnell. ‘Men are always the same. Once a gay deceiver, always a gay deceiver.
I
know them.’

‘Dear, dear. Poor young things!’ Miss Wetherby looked much happier. ‘Yes, I expect she’ll have trouble with him. Someone ought really to
warn
her. I wonder if she’s heard anything of the old story?’

The eyes of the two ladies met significantly.

‘It seems so very unfair,’ said Miss Wetherby, ‘that she should know
nothing
. So awkward. Especially with only the one chemist’s shop in the village.’

For the erstwhile tobacconist’s daughter was now married to Mr Edge, the chemist.

‘It would be so much nicer,’ said Miss Wetherby, ‘if Mrs Laxton were to deal with Boots in Much Benham.’

‘I daresay,’ said Miss Hartnell, ‘that Harry Laxton will suggest that
himself
.’

Again a significant look passed between them.

‘But I certainly think,’ said Miss Hartnell, ‘that she ought to
know
.’

ii

‘Beasts!’ said Clarice Vane to old Miss Marple. ‘Absolute beasts some people are!’

Miss Marple looked at her curiously.

Clarice Vane had recently come to live with her Uncle, Dr Haydock. She was a tall dark girl, handsome, warm hearted and impulsive. Her big brown eyes were alight now with indignation.

She said:

‘All these
cats
–
saying
things –
hinting
things!’

Miss Marple asked:

‘About Harry Laxton?’

‘Yes, about his old affair with the tobacconist’s daughter.’

‘Oh
that
!’ Miss Marple was indulgent. ‘A great many young men have affairs of that kind, I imagine.’

‘Of course they do. And it’s all over. So why harp on and bring it up years after? It’s like ghouls feasting on dead bodies.’

‘I daresay, my dear, it does seem like that to you. You are young, of course, and intolerant, but you see we have very little to talk about down here and so, I’m afraid, we do tend to dwell on the past. But I’m curious to know why it upsets you so much?’

Clarice Vane bit her lip and flushed. She said in a curious muffled voice: ‘They look so
happy
. The Laxtons, I mean. They’re young, and in love, and it’s all lovely for them – I hate to think of it being spoilt – by whispers and hints and innuendoes and general beastliness!’

Miss Marple looked at her and said: ‘I see.’

Clarice went on:

‘He was talking to me just now – he’s so happy and eager and excited and – yes,
thrilled
– at having got his heart’s desire and rebuilt Kingsdean. He’s like a child about it all. And she – well, I don’t suppose anything has ever gone wrong in her whole life – she’s always had everything. You’ve seen her, don’t you think—’

Miss Marple interrupted. She said:

‘As a matter of fact I haven’t seen her yet. I’ve only just arrived. So
tiresome
. I was delayed by the District Nurse. Her feelings, you know, have been hurt by what—’

But Clarice was unable to take an interest in the village drama which Miss Marple was embarking upon with so much zest. With a muttered apology she left.

Miss Marple pressed onwards, full of the same curiosity that had animated everyone in St Mary Mead, to see what the bride was like.

She hardly knew what she expected, but it was not what she saw. For other people Louise Laxton might be an object of envy, a spoilt darling of fortune, but to the shrewd old lady who had seen so much of human nature in her village there came the refrain of a popular song heard many years ago.

‘
Poor little rich girl
. . .’

A small delicate figure, with flaxen hair curled rather stiffly round her face and big wistful blue eyes, Louise was drooping a little. The long stream of congratulations had tired her. She was hoping it might soon be time to go . . . Perhaps, even now, Harry might say—? She looked at him sideways. So tall and broad shouldered with his eager pleasure in this horrible dull party.

Oh dear, here was another of them! A tall grey haired fussily dressed old lady bleating like all the rest.

‘This is Miss Marple, Louise.’

She didn’t understand the look in the old lady’s eyes. She would have been quite astonished if she had known what it was:

‘
Poor little rich girl
. . .’

iii

‘Ooph!’ It was a sigh of relief.

Harry turned to look at his wife amusedly. They were driving away from the party. She said:

‘Darling, what a frightful party!’

Harry laughed.

‘Yes, pretty terrible. Never mind, my sweet. It had to be done, you know. All these old pussies knew me when I lived here as a boy. They’d have been terribly disappointed not to have got a good look at you close up.’

Louise made a grimace. She said:

‘Shall we have to see a lot of them?’

‘What? Oh no – they’ll come and make ceremonious calls with cardcases and you’ll return the calls and then you needn’t bother any more. You can have your own friends down or whatever you like.’

Louise said after a minute or two:

‘Isn’t there anyone
amusing
living down here?’

‘Oh yes. There’s the country set, you know. Though you may find them a bit dull too. Mostly interested in bulbs and dogs and horses. You’ll ride, of course. You’ll enjoy that. There’s a horse over at Eglinton I’d like you to see. A beautiful animal perfectly trained, no vice in him, but plenty of spirit.’

The car slowed down to take the turn into the gates of Kingsmead. Harry wrenched the wheel and swore as a grotesque figure sprang up in the middle of the road and he only just managed to avoid it. It stood there, shaking a fist and shouting after them.

Louise clutched his arm.

‘Who’s that – that horrible old woman?’

Harry’s brow was black.

‘That’s old Murgatroyd – she and her husband were caretakers in the old house – they were there for thirty years.’

‘Why did she shake her fist at you?’

Harry’s face got red.

‘She – well, she resented the house being pulled down. And she got the sack, of course. Her husband’s been dead two years. They say she got a bit queer after he died.’

‘Is she – she isn’t – starving?’

Louise’s ideas were vague and somewhat melodramatic. Riches prevented you coming into contact with reality.

Harry was outraged.

‘Good Lord, Louise, what an idea! I pensioned her off, of course – and handsomely, too. Found her a new cottage and everything.’

Louise asked bewildered:

‘Then
why
does she mind?’

Harry was frowning, his brows drawn together.

‘Oh how should I know? Craziness! She loved the house.’

‘But it was a ruin, wasn’t it?’

‘Of course it was – crumbling to pieces, roof leaking, more or less unsafe. All the same I suppose it –
meant
something to her. She’d been there a long time. Oh! I don’t know! The old devil’s cracked I think.’

Louise said uneasily:

‘She – I think she cursed us . . . Oh Harry, I wish she hadn’t.’

iv

It seemed to Louise that her new home was tainted and poisoned by the malevolent figure of one old crazy woman. When she went out in the car, when she rode, when she walked out with the dogs there was always the same figure waiting. Crouched down on herself, a battered hat over wisps of iron grey hair, and the slow muttering of imprecations.

Louise came to believe that Harry was right, the old woman
was
mad. Nevertheless that did not make things easier. Mrs Murgatroyd never actually came to the house, nor did she use definite threats, nor offer violence.

Her squatting figure remained always just outside the gates. To appeal to the police would have been useless and in any case Harry Laxton was averse to that course of action. It would, he said, arouse local sympathy for the old brute. He took the matter more easily than Louise did.

‘Don’t worry yourself about it, darling. She’ll get tired of this silly cursing business. Probably she’s only trying it on.’

‘She isn’t, Harry. She – she
hates
us! I can
feel
it. She – she’s ill wishing us.’

‘She’s not a witch, darling, although she may look like one! Don’t be morbid about it all.’

Louise was silent. Now that the first excitement of settling in was over, she felt curiously lonely and at a loose end. She had been used to life in London and the Riviera. She had no knowledge of, or taste for, English country life. She was ignorant of gardening, except for the final act of ‘doing the flowers.’ She did not really care for dogs. She was bored by such neighbours as she met. She enjoyed riding best. Sometimes with Harry, sometimes, when he was busy about the estate, by herself, she hacked through the woods and lanes, enjoying the easy paces of the beautiful horse Harry had bought for her.

Yet even Prince Hal, most sensitive of chestnut steeds, was wont to shy and snort as he carried his mistress past that huddled figure of a malevolent old woman . . .

One day Louise took her courage in both hands. She was out walking. She had passed Mrs Murgatroyd, pretending not to notice her, but suddenly she swerved back and went right up to her. She said a little breathlessly,

‘What is it? What’s the matter? What do you want?’

The old woman blinked at her. She had a cunning dark gypsy face, with wisps of iron grey hair, and bleared suspicious eyes. Louise wondered if she drank.

She spoke in a whining and yet threatening voice.

‘What do I want, you ask? What indeed? That which has been took away from me. Who turned me out of Kingsdean House? I’d lived there girl and woman for near on forty years. It was a black deed to turn me out and it’s black bad luck it’ll bring to you and him.’

Louise said:

‘You’ve got a very nice cottage and—’ she broke off.

The old woman’s arms flew up. She screamed!

‘What’s the good of that to me? It’s my own place I want, and my own fire as I sat beside all them years. And as for you and him I’m telling you there will be no happiness for you in your new fine house! It’s the black sorrow will be upon you – sorrow and death and my curse! May your fair face rot . . .’

Louise turned away and broke into a little stumbling run.

She thought:

‘
I must get away from here
. We must sell the house. We must go away . . .’

At the moment such a solution seemed easy to her. But Harry’s utter incomprehension took her aback. He exclaimed:

‘Leave here? Sell the house? Because of a crazy old woman’s threats? You must be mad!’

‘No, I’m not. But she – she frightens me . . . I know something will happen.’

v

A friendship had sprung up between Clarice Vane and young Mrs Laxton. The two girls were much of an age, though dissimilar both in character and in tastes. In Clarice’s company Louise found reassurance. Clarice was so self reliant, so sure of herself. Louise mentioned the matter of Mrs Murgatroyd and her threats but Clarice seemed to regard the matter as more annoying than frightening.

‘It’s so stupid, that sort of thing,’ she said. ‘But really very annoying for
you
!’

‘You know, Clarice, I – I feel quite frightened sometimes. My heart gives the most awful jumps.’

‘Nonsense, you mustn’t let a silly thing like that get you down. She’ll soon get tired of it.’

‘You think so?’

‘I expect so. Anyway don’t let her see you’re frightened.’