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“Did you hear?” asked Mrs Price-Ridley, nose aquiver over the coffee-cups. “Gossington Hall is let at last!”
“Yes,” Jane Marple said, without raising her eyes from the mess of wool which she was attempting to resolve into a neat ball. “Such a relief for Dolly, with the Colonel still so unwell, and no notion when they’ll be able to return--and then the tenant is an invalid too, so they don’t need to worry about that.”
Mrs Price-Ridley, her guns spiked, sat back irritably.
“And do you know anything else?” asked Mrs Clement brightly. “Len will want to go and welcome them to the village, and it’s so difficult to know things these days--is there a wife?”
“No wife,” said Miss Marple placidly, “The tenant and his secretary. They intend to live quite retired, Dolly said, they feared that Danemouth would be too hectic. Pneumonia can be so nasty, and I do think it’s sensible when a doctor recommends rest and careful living. I remember, when I was a girl, the Dean’s wife was given arsenic for her nerves, the poor thing, and everyone said at the time she would have done much better to stop going to parties with her bad heads--but then, there was the Dean.” She shook her head a little in condemnation, and triumphed over a particularly persistent knot.
“Speaking of which,” drawled Mrs Blake, who had made one of her rare visits to the coffee morning, “Did you all hear about Major Vaughn’s niece?”
As several of the ladies had not heard why Priscilla, née Vaughn, had come to stay with her uncle in his charming country idyll with a great number of trunks, and without her husband, the conversation naturally moved on. Miss Marple devoted herself to the finer intricacies of the wool, which had been the victim of an attack by her niece’s cat on a recent visit. She did love dear Mabel, it was true, and yet... Perhaps she should be steered away from breeding Persians, no matter how delightful their little squashy faces.
The new tenants arrived two weeks later: two gentlemen, one a man of affairs, the other his secretary, accompanied by a young woman, the secretary's daughter. The Reverend prepared to greet them, perhaps with a sermon about welcoming the stranger, but first one Sunday, then a second, passed without their appearance at church.
Mrs Price-Ridley suggested that perhaps they were Methodists, or something yet more unlikely. Dr Haydock noted austerely that, having been consulted in his professional capacity, he could say that the tenant - a Mr Sidebotham - had been advised to rest, and it was possible that his secretary did not wish to abandon his employer.
"But what of their souls?" Mrs Price-Ridley demanded, and rebuffed all suggestions that this might be their own concern.
"It's no good," Griselda Clement sighed the next morning, sitting out with a teatray in Miss Marple's garden and admiring the irises. "I'll have to visit them. Len's worried they are Methodists, or something, and he'd be intruding, but someone really must welcome them to the village, tell them they can come to the church, perhaps see if they'd like to become involved in the fête."
Miss Marple, who had signed up early for the coveted tea stall, agreed that there were several stalls still in need of care. Griselda looked defeated.
"I suppose I was hoping that you'd come with me, Jane. You're so good at that sort of thing, and perhaps you could give me a hint if you think I shouldn't presume? I don't want to offend."
"Of course I shall, my dear," Miss Marple assured her. "This afternoon, perhaps?"
It was best not to give Griselda time to fuss over these things. She was always prone to overthinking herself into a panic.
The new tenants had hired their maids locally, though the cook came from London. Clara the parlourmaid answered the door, and Miss Marple smiled upon her benignly, for she had taken Clara on from St Faith's Orphanage ten years before, and she had turned out very nicely, especially after Miss Marple had helped her to get her adenoids out.
"Mrs Clement," Clara said, "Miss Marple. Mr Sidebotham is at home."
The house was not, perhaps, as the Bantrys had left it, though the tenants had taken it furnished. There was more disorder than Dolly would have countenanced, and several cases embossed with the initials P.C.B piled in a corner, accompanied by a pair of skis.
"The gentlemen are in the library," Hilda pronounced, and threw open the door.
The Bantrys had changed the library entirely, furnishings, setting, and paint, following the
discovery of a dead body in front of the fireplace. Mr Sidebotham was sat in front of the window, his secretary at a desk, and they both rose to greet the two women politely. Griselda launched into her prettily prepared welcome speech, while Miss Marple studied them: two men, both no longer young, Mr Sidebotham still showing the signs of ill-health Dolly had told her about - the slack skin of a man who had lost weight swiftly and not regained it, a slight breathlessness in his voice. His secretary, a tall, spare man with worried lines graven around his mouth, and iron grey hair, seemed wary, while Mr Sidebotham overflowed with bonhomie.
"Please," Mr Sidebotham said, "Do sit down--and forgive me for doing the same. Clara could you--thank you."
Clara bustled out, presumably for the tea tray. Griselda deposited herself on the sofa, and Miss Marple joined her, looking around the room with interest.
"My apologies for the clutter," Mr Sidebotham said, gesturing at the hall outside, "My god-daughter arrived last night, from Switzerland, and brought a shocking amount of luggage--no idea where she gets it all."
Mr Barrow coughed.
"Is she resting?" Griselda asked. "All this travelling..."
"No," said Mr Barrow shortly, then added, "She and her sister--my other daughter, Kitty, are playing tennis."
"The energy of the young is astonishing" remarked Mr Sidebotham. "Now, Mrs Clement, you mentioned a fête? I don't believe I've ever been to a village fête--I was born in Chester."
"We were intending to live a retired sort of life," said Mr Barrow, meaningfully.
"Except for when the boys come, of course," said Mr Sidebotham, "Some old family friends are visiting in August."
"Except for then," agreed Mr Barrow, "but otherwise, very retired. Enjoying the country air."
Griselda seemed a little downcast at the unpromising turn the conversation had taken, but Miss Marple smiled inwardly. Oh yes, she knew the type--her own aunt Drusilla had been just the same, determined to declare herself recovered, and so her husband was forced to refuse everything, and give way on half of it. They probably would come to the fête, and perhaps bring Mr Barrow's daughters and their guests with them, but not for the whole day.
"Do you fish?" she asked, a little wickedly, and was told that no, neither of them did--nor rode, and they could not be said to be gardeners, though they had brought on Briggs as a jobbing gardener, and another man to keep the lawns and tennis court under control.
It was then that they were interrupted by a bouncing blonde, who erupted into the room and said "Is no one going to come and play tennis with me?
"Patricia!" both men said at once, Mr Sidebotham continuing, "We have guests. Mrs Clement, Miss Marple, my god-daughter, Patricia Barrow."
"Pat," clarified Miss Barrow, holding out the hand not occupied by a tennis racket. Unlike her father, she was fair and square jawed, with a ready smile that showed her even teeth, clad in shining tennis whites.
"What have you done with your sister?" Mr Barrow asked wearily.
"We got two sets in, I was just getting warmed up, then she went off after a missing ball and I found her in the summer house, reading," Pat said direly.
"Euripides?" asked Mr Sidebotham.
"No one so sensible. John Chrysostom, whoever he is," Pat said, and threw herself into one of Mrs Bantry's embroidered chairs. "Sorry, Mrs Clement, Miss Marple, my sister Katherine is off to Oxford in the fall--autumn, I mean, and she's convinced that if she
doesn't study every second, she'll be sent down before she even arrives, as if the Fellows of Shrewsbury are hiding in the bushes. It's worse than when she was studying for the exams!"
"Do not," Mr Barrow said, "say that to her, Pat, you've only been here five minutes."
"She could at least give me a proper game of tennis!" Pat protested, "But she just wants to study instead, and then she complains I make too much noise." She thumped her racquet idly against her leg. Mr Sidebotham gave her a fond look, and Mr Barrow looked weary.
"We have a court at the Rectory," offered Griselda, "And both my sons are home for the summer. If you were to come and play at ours, you needn't disturb your sister--or you could bring her, if she wants to play."
"Oh, yes," Pat said, standing, "And if I get Kiki to come, she can't possibly have hidden one of her dusty old books there!"
"There are so few young people in the area," Miss Marple murmured, "I'm sure it will do them all good to experience a wider society--I imagine this must all seem very dull, Patricia, no doubt you're used to a faster pace of life, but St Mary Mead can be very diverting!"
"Oh," Mr Sidebotham said, "Thomas and I have dragged the girls around like additional baggage, they're happy anywhere."
"So annoying when we were too big to fit in steamer trunks marked 'Not Wanted on Voyage'," Patricia added, resettling herself on the arm of Mr Sidebotham's chair. "But I came from Switzerland, and you can't imagine the relief not to have to yodel off an alp when you want to meet someone, so yes, Mrs Clement, Kiki and I would be delighted."
"I hope your school doesn't encourage alp-yodelling," Mr Barrow said darkly, and Patricia kicked out her dangling leg, and made a brief face. This was a sort of girl Miss Marple felt she hadn't seen in some time: young, confident, bursting with animal vitality. Perhaps it was the lack of rationing in America. Still, she had the instinctive good manners which suggested she had been carefully raised, muffled as they were by youthful exuberance, and being what Miss Marple's great-nephew would have called 'demob happy'.
By the time they left, Griselda had a commitment out of Patricia to bring Katherine to church on Sunday, with Mr Sidebotham to come if he was able. Mr Barrow had made no promises.
Katherine had not appeared, though Miss Marple had found herself able to discern the signs of her passing - scholarly books, yes, but also a jacket that would neither fit nor suit Patricia, and an open handbag which held lipstick and a purse on the hall table.
"How extraordinary!" Griselda cried, once she judged them out of earshot of the house. "I wonder where his wife is!"
"I don't believe Mr Sidebotham is married."
"Oh, not his wife, the secretary's, though I must say he seems a very dour sort of man, but then I suppose the assistants to wealthy men have to be or they'll forever be importuned. Oh, I do hope David likes her, or he'll be stuck trying not to trip all over young Len's train set for the rest of the summer."
Miss Marple, aware that young Len Clement's train set had taken over all of the attics and was spreading a branch line into a bedroom with a damp problem, nodded sympathetically.
"Young people adapt so well," she said reassuringly, breathing in the heady scent of summer, "And Mr Sidebotham reminds me greatly of Canon Rossiter, when I was a girl. I'm sure they'll all settle in very nicely."