When I got back to the Vicarage I found that we were in the middle of a
domestic crisis.
Griselda met me in the hall and, with tears in her eyes, dragged me
into the drawing room.
"She's going."
"Who's going?"
"Mary. She's given notice."
I really could not take the announcement in a tragic spirit.
"Well," I said, "we'll have to get another servant."
It seemed to me a perfectly reasonable thing to say. When one servant
goes, you get another. I was at a loss to understand Griselda's look of
reproach.
"Len--you are absolutely heartless. You don't _care_."
I didn't. In fact, I felt almost lighthearted at the prospect of no
more burnt puddings and undercooked vegetables.
"I'll have to look about for a girl, and find one, and train her,"
continued Griselda in a voice of acute self-pity.
"Is Mary trained?" I said.
"Of course she is."
"I suppose," I said, "that somebody has heard her address us as 'sir'
or 'ma'am,' and has immediately wrested her from us as a paragon. All I
can say is, they'll be disappointed."
"It isn't that," said Griselda. "Nobody else wants her. I don't see how
they could. It's her feelings. They're upset because Lettice Protheroe
said she didn't dust properly."
Griselda often comes out with surprising statements, but this seemed
to me so surprising that I questioned it. It seemed to me the most
unlikely thing in the world that Lettice Protheroe should go out of
her way to interfere in our domestic affairs and reprove our maid for
slovenly housework. It was completely un-Lettice like, and I said so.
"I don't see," I said, "what our dust has to do with Lettice Protheroe."
"Nothing at all," said my wife. "That's why it's so unreasonable. I
wish you'd go and talk to Mary yourself. She's in the kitchen."
I had no wish to talk to Mary on the subject, but Griselda, who is very
energetic and quick, fairly pushed me through the baize door into the
kitchen before I had time to rebel.
Mary was peeling potatoes at the sink.
"Er--good afternoon," I said nervously.
Mary looked up and snorted, but made no other response.
"Mrs. Clement tells me that you wish to leave us," I said.
Mary condescended to reply to this.
"There's some things," she said darkly, "as no girl can be asked to put
up with."
"Will you be more explicit, please?"
"Eh?"
"Will you tell me exactly what it is that has upset you?"
"Tell you that in two words, I can" (Here, I may say, she vastly
underestimated). "People coming snooping round here when my back's
turned. Poking round. And what business of hers, is it, how often the
study is dusted or turned out? If you and the missus don't complain,
it's nobody else's business. If I give satisfaction to you that's all
that matters, I say."
Mary has never given satisfaction to me. I confess that I have a
hankering after a room thoroughly dusted and tidied every morning.
Mary's practice of flicking off the more obvious deposit on the surface
of low tables is to my thinking grossly inadequate. However, I realized
that at the moment it was no good to go into side issues.
"Had to go to that inquest, didn't I? Standing up before twelve men,
a respectable girl like me! And who knows what questions you may be
asked. I'll tell you this. I've never before been in a place where they
had a murder in the house, and I never want to be again."
"I hope you won't," I said. "On the law of averages I should say it was
very unlikely."
"I don't hold with the law. _He_ was a magistrate. Many a poor fellow
sent to jail for potting at a rabbit--and him with his pheasants and
what not. And then, before he's so much as decently buried, that
daughter of his comes round and says I don't do my work properly."
"Do you mean that Miss Protheroe has been here?"
"Found her here when I came back from the Blue Boar. In the study she
was. And 'Oh' she says, 'I'm looking for my little yellow berry--a
little yellow hat. I left it here the other day.' 'Well,' I says, 'I
haven't seen no hat. It wasn't here when I done the room on Thursday
morning,' I says. And 'Oh!' she says, 'but I daresay you wouldn't see
it. You don't spend much time doing a room, do you?' And with that she
draws her finger along the mantelshelf and looks at it. As though I had
time on a morning like this to take off all them ornaments and put them
back, with the police only unlocking the room the night before. 'If
the Vicar and his lady are satisfied that's all that matters, I think,
Miss,' I said. And she laughs and goes out of the window and says 'Oh!
but are you sure they are?'"
"I see," I said.
"And there it is! A girl has her feelings! I'm sure I'd work my fingers
to the bone for you and the Missus. And if she wants a new-fangled dish
tried I'm always ready to try it."
"I'm sure you are," I said soothingly.
"But she must have heard something or she wouldn't have said what she
did. And if I don't give satisfaction I'd rather go. Not that I take
any notice of what Miss Protheroe says. She's not loved up at the Hall,
I can tell you. Never a 'please' or a 'thank you,' and everything
scattered right and left. I wouldn't set any store by Miss Lettice
Protheroe myself, for all that Mr. Dennis is so set upon her. But
she's the kind that can always twist a young gentleman round her little
finger."
During all this, Mary had been extracting eyes from potatoes with such
energy that they had been flying round the kitchen like hailstones. At
this moment one hit me in the eye and caused a momentary pause in the
conversation.
"Don't you think," I said, as I dabbed my eye with my handkerchief,
"that you have been rather too inclined to take offence where none is
meant? You know, Mary, your mistress will be very sorry to lose you."
"I've nothing against the mistress--or against you, sir, for that
matter."
"Well, then, don't you think you're being rather silly?"
Mary sniffed.
"I was a bit upset like--after the inquest and all. And a girl has her
feelings. But I wouldn't like to cause the mistress inconvenience."
"Then that's all right," I said.
I left the kitchen to find Griselda and Dennis waiting for me in the
hall.
"Well?" exclaimed Griselda.
"She's staying," I said, and sighed.
"Len," said my wife. "You _have_ been clever."
I felt rather inclined to disagree with her. I do not think I had been
clever. It is my firm opinion that no servant could be a worse one than
Mary. Any change, I consider, would have been a change for the better.
But I like to please Griselda. I detailed the heads of Mary's grievance.
"How like Lettice," said Dennis. "She couldn't have left that yellow
beret of hers here on Wednesday. She was wearing it for tennis on
Thursday."
"That seems to me highly probable," I said.
"She never knows where she's left anything," said Dennis, with a kind
of affectionate pride and admiration that I felt was entirely uncalled
for. "She loses about a dozen things every day."
"A remarkably attractive trait," I observed.
Any sarcasm missed Dennis.
"She _is_ attractive," he said, with a deep sigh. "People are always
proposing to her--she told me so."
"They must be illicit proposals if they're made to her down here," I
remarked. "We haven't got a bachelor in the place."
"There's Dr. Stone," said Griselda, her eyes dancing.
"He asked her to come and see the barrow the other day," I admitted.
"Of course he did," said Griselda. "She _is_ attractive, Len. Even
bald-headed archæologists feel it."
"Lots of S.A.," said Dennis sapiently.
And yet Lawrence Redding is completely untouched by Lettice's charm.
Griselda, however, explained that with the air of one who knew she was
right.
"Lawrence has got lots of S.A., himself. That kind always likes
the--how shall I put it--the Quaker type. Very restrained and
diffident. The kind of women whom everybody calls cold. I think Anne
is the only woman who could ever hold Lawrence. I don't think they'll
ever tire of each other. All the same, I think he's been rather stupid
in one way. He's rather made use of Lettice, you know. I don't think he
ever dreamed she cared--he's awfully modest in some ways--but I have a
feeling she does."
"She can't bear him," said Dennis positively. "She told me so."
I have never seen anything like the pitying silence with which Griselda
received this remark.
I went into my study. There was, to my fancy, still a rather eerie
feeling in the room. I knew that I must get over this. Once give in
to that feeling, and I should probably never use the study again. I
walked thoughtfully over to the writing table. Here Protheroe had sat,
red-faced, hearty, self-righteous, and here, in a moment of time, he
had been struck down. Here, where I was standing, an enemy had stood....
And so--no more Protheroe....
Here was the pen his fingers had held.
On the floor was a faint dark stain--the rug had been sent to the
cleaner's, but the blood had soaked through.
I shivered.
"I can't use this room," I said aloud. "I can't use it."
Then my eye was caught by something--a mere speck of bright blue. I
bent down. Between the floor and the desk I saw a small object. I
picked it up.
I was standing staring at it in the palm of my hand when Griselda came
in.
"I forgot to tell you, Len, Miss Marple wants us to go over tonight
after dinner. To amuse the nephew. She's afraid of his being dull. I
said we'd go."
"Very well, my dear."
"What are you looking at?"
"Nothing."
I closed my hand, and looking at my wife, observed:
"If you don't amuse Master Raymond West, my dear, he must be very hard
to please."
My wife said, "Don't be ridiculous, Len," and turned pink.
She went out again, and I unclosed my hand.
In the palm of my hand was a blue lapis lazuli earring, set in seed
pearls.
It was rather an unusual jewel, and I knew very well where I had seen
it last.