The Royal Clarence was the oldest hotel in the town. It had a mellow bow-fronted façade and an old- world atmosphere. It still catered for the type of family who came for a month to the seaside.
Miss Narracott who presided behind the reception desk was a full-bosomed lady of forty-seven with an old- fashioned style of hairdressing.
She unbent to Giles whom her accurate eye summed up as ‘one of our nice people’. And Giles, who had a ready tongue and a persuasive way with him when he liked, spun a very good tale. He had a bet on with his wife-about her godmother-and whether she had stayed at the Royal Clarence eighteen years ago. His wife had said that they could never settle the dispute because of course all the old registers would be thrown away by this time, but he had said Nonsense. An establishment like the Royal Clarence would keep its registers. They must go back for a hundred years.
‘Well, not quite that, Mr Reed. But we do keep all our old Visitors’ Books as we prefer to call them. Very interesting names in them, too. Why, the King stayed here once when he was Prince of Wales, and Princess Adlemar of Holstein-Rotz used to come every winter with her lady-in-waiting. And we’ve had some very famous novelists, too, and Mr Dovey, the portrait-painter.’
Giles responded in suitable fashion with interest and respect and in due course the sacred volume for the year in question was brought out and exhibited to him.
Having first had various illustrious names pointed out to him, he turned the pages to the month of August.
Yes, here surely was the entry he was seeking.
Major and Mrs Setoun Erskine, Anstell Manor, Daith, Northumberland, July 27th-August 17th.
‘If I may copy this out?’
‘Of course, Mr Reed. Paper and ink-Oh, you have your pen. Excuse me, I must just go back to the outer office.’
She left him with the open book, and Giles set to work.
On his return to Hillside he found Gwenda in the garden, bending over the herbaceous border.
She straightened herself and gave him a quick glance of interrogation.
‘Any luck?’
‘Yes, I think this must be it.’
Gwenda said softly, reading the words: ‘Anstell Manor, Daith, Northumberland. Yes, Edith Pagett said Northumberland. I wonder if they’re still living there-’
‘We’ll have to go and see.’
‘Yes-yes, it would be better to go-when?’
‘As soon as possible. Tomorrow? We’ll take the car and drive up. It will show you a little more of England.’
‘Suppose they’re dead-or gone away and somebody else is living there?’
Giles shrugged his shoulders.
‘Then we come back and go on with our other leads. I’ve written to Kennedy, by the way, and asked him if he’ll send me those letters Helen wrote after she went away-if he’s still got them - and a specimen of her handwriting.’
‘I wish,’ said Gwenda, ‘that we could get in touch with the other servant-with Lily-the one who put the bow on Thomas-’
‘Funny your suddenly remembering that, Gwenda.’
‘Yes, wasn’t it? I remember Tommy, too. He was black with white patches and he had three lovely kittens.’
‘What? Thomas?’
‘Well, he was called Thomas-but actually he turned out to be Thomasina. You know what cats are. But about Lily-I wonder what’s become of her? Edith Pagett seems to have lost sight of her entirely. She didn’t come from round here-and after the break-up at St Catherine’s she took a place in Torquay. She wrote once or twice but that was all. Edith said she’d heard she’d got married but she didn’t know who to. If we could get hold of her we might learn a lot more.’
‘And from Leonie, the Swiss girl.’
‘Perhaps-but she was a foreigner and wouldn’t catch on to much of what went on. You know, I don’t remember her at all. No, it’s Lily I feel would be useful. Lily was the sharp one…I know, Giles, let’s put in another advertisement-an advertisement for her-Lily Abbott, her name was.’
‘Yes,’ said Giles. ‘We might try that. And we’ll definitely go north tomorrow and see what we can find out about the Erskines.’
Chapter 16. Mother’s Son
‘Down, Henry,’ said Mrs Fane to an asthmatic spaniel whose liquid eyes burned with greed. ‘Another scone, Miss Marple, while they’re hot?’
‘Thank you. Such delicious scones. You have an excellent cook.’
‘Louisa is not bad, really. Forgetful, like all of them. And no variety in her puddings. Tell me, how is Dorothy Yarde’s sciatica nowadays? She used to be a martyr to it. Largely nerves, I suspect.’
Miss Marple hastened to oblige with details of their mutual acquaintance’s ailments. It was fortunate, she thought, that amongst her many friends and relations scattered over England, she had managed to find a woman who knew Mrs Fane and who had written explaining that a Miss Marple was at present in Dillmouth, and would dear Eleanor be very kind and ask her to something.
Eleanor Fane was a tall, commanding woman with a steely grey eye, crisp white hair, and a baby pink and white complexion which masked the fact that there was no baby-like softness whatever about her.
They discussed Dorothy’s ailments or imagined ailments and went on to Miss Marple’s health, the air of Dillmouth, and the general poor condition of most of the younger generation.
‘Not made to eat their crusts as children,’ Mrs Fane pronounced. ‘None of that allowed in my nursery.’
‘You have more than one son?’ asked Miss Marple.
‘Three. The eldest, Gerald, is in Singapore in the Far East Bank. Robert is in the Army.’ Mrs Fane sniffed. ‘Married a Roman Catholic,’ she said with significance. ‘You know what that means! All the children brought up as Catholics. What Robert’s father would have said, I don’t know. My husband was very low church. I hardly ever hear from Robert nowadays. He takes exception to some of the things I have said to him purely for his own good. I believe in being sincere and saying exactly what one thinks. His marriage was, in my opinion, a great misfortune. He may pretend to be happy, poor boy-but I can’t feel that it is at all satisfactory.’
‘Your youngest son is not married, I believe?’
Mrs Fane beamed.
‘No, Walter lives at home. He is slightly delicate- always was from a child-and I have always had to look after his health very carefully. (He will be in presently.) I can’t tell you what a thoughtful and devoted son he is. I am really a very lucky woman to have such a son.’
‘And he has never thought of marrying?’ enquired Miss Marple.
‘Walter always says he really cannot be bothered with the modern young woman. They don’t appeal to him. He and I have so much in common that I’m afraid he doesn’t go out as much as he should. He reads Thackeray to me in the evenings, and we usually have a game of picquet. Walter is a real home bird.’
‘How very nice,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Has he always been in the firm? Somebody told me that you had a son who was out in Ceylon, as a tea-planter, but perhaps they got it wrong.’
A slight frown came over Mrs Fane’s face. She urged walnut cake upon her guest and explained.
‘That was as a very young man. One of those youthful impulses. A boy always longs to see the world. Actually, there was a girl at the bottom of it. Girls can be so unsettling.’
‘Oh yes, indeed. My own nephew, I remember-’
Mrs Fane swept on, ignoring Miss Marple’s nephew. She held the floor and was enjoying the opportunity to reminisce to this sympathetic friend of dear Dorothy’s.
