to be sure – but to be murdered like that – She shook her head and went on to thoughts of Griselda, the vicar's pretty young wife. Dear Griselda – such a faithful friend – a Christmas card every year. That attractive baby of hers was a strapping young man now, and with a very good job. Engineering, was it? He always had enjoyed taking his mechanical trains to pieces. Beyond the Vicarage, there had been the stile and the field path with Farmer Giles's cattle beyond in the meadows where now – now…
The Development.
And why not? Miss Marple asked herself sternly. These things had to be. The houses were necessary, and they were very well built, or so she had been told. 'Planning,' or whatever they called it. Though why everything had to be called a Close she couldn't imagine. Aubrey Close and Longwood Close, and Grandison Close and all the rest of them. Not really Closes at all. Miss Marple knew what a Close was perfectly. Her uncle had been a Canon of Chichester Cathedral. As a child she had gone to stay with him in the Close.
It was like Cherry Baker who always called Miss Marple's old-world overcrowded drawing-room the 'lounge'. Miss Marple corrected her gently, 'It's the drawing-room, Cherry.' And Cherry, because she was young and kind, endeavoured to remember, though it was obvious to her 'drawing-room' was a very funny word to use – and 'lounge' came slipping out. She had of late, however, compromised on 'living-room'. Miss Marple liked Cherry very much. Her name was Mrs Baker and she came from the Development. She was one of the detachment of young wives who shopped at the supermarket and wheeled prams about the quiet streets of St Mary Mead. They were all smart and well turned out. Their hair was crisp and curled. They laughed and talked and called to one another. They were like a happy flock of birds. Owing to the insidious snares of Hire Purchase, they were always in need of ready money, though their husbands all earned good wages; and so they came and did housework or cooking. Cherry was a quick and efficient cook, she was an intelligent girl, took telephone calls correctly and was quick to spot inaccurades in the tradesmen's books. She was not much given to turning mattresses, and as far as washing up went Miss Marple always now passed the pantry door with her head turned away so as not to observe Cherry's method which was that of thrusting everything into the sink together and letting loose a snowstorm of detergent on it. Miss Marple had quietly removed her old Worcester teaset from daily circulation and put it in the corner cabinet whence it only emerged on special occasions. Instead she had purchased a modern service with a pattern of pale grey on white and no gilt on it whatsoever to be washed away in the sink.
How different it had been in the past… Faithful Florence, for instance, that grenadier of a parlourmaid – and there had been Amy and Clara and Alice, those 'nice little maids' arriving from St Faith's Orphanage, to be 'trained', and then going on to better paid jobs elsewhere. Rather simple, some of them had been, and frequently adenoidal, and Amy distinctly moronic. They had gossiped and chattered with the other maids in the village and walked out with the fishmonger's assistant, or the under-gardener at the Hall, or one of Mr Barnes the grocer's numerous assistants. Miss Marple's mind went back over them affectionately thinking of all the little woolly coats she had knitted for their subsequent offspring. They had not been very good with the telephone, and no good at all at arithmetic. On the other hand, they knew how to wash up, and how to make a bed. They had had skills, rather than education. It was odd that nowadays it should be the educated girls who went in for all the domestic chores. Students from abroad, girls au pair, university students in the vacation, young married women like Cherry Baker, who lived in spurious Closes on new building developments.
There were still, of course, people like Miss Knight. This last thought came suddenly as Miss Knight's tread overhead made the lustres on the mantelpiece tinkle warningly. Miss Knight had obviously had her afternoon rest and would now go out for her afternoon walk. In a moment she would come to ask Miss Marple if she could get her anything in the town. The thought of Miss Knight brought the usual reaction to Miss Marple's mind. Of course, it was very generous of dear Raymond (her nephew) and nobody could be kinder than Miss Knight, and of course that attack of bronchitis had left her very weak, and Dr Haydock had said very firmly that she must not go on sleeping alone in the house with only someone coming in daily, but – She stopped there. Because it was no use going on with the thought which was 'If only it could have been someone other than Miss Knight.' But there wasn't much choice for elderly ladies nowadays. Devoted maidservants had gone out of fashion. In real illness you could have a proper hospital nurse, at vast expense and procured with difficulty, or you could go to hospital. But after the critical phase of illness had passed, you were down to the Miss Knights.
There wasn't, Miss Marple reflected, anything wrong about the Miss Knights other than the fact that they were madly irritating. They were full of kindness, ready to feel affection towards their charges, to humour them, to be bright and cheerful with them and in general to treat them as slightly mentally afflicted children.
'But I,' said Miss Marple to herself, 'although I may be old, am not a mentally retarded child.'
At this moment, breathing rather heavily, as was her custom, Miss Knight bounced brightly into the room. She was a big, rather flabby woman of fifty-six with yellowing grey hair very elaborately arranged, glasses, a long thin nose, and below it a good-natured mouth and a weak chin.
'Here we are!' she exclaimed with a kind of beaming boisterousness, meant to cheer and enliven the sad twilight of the aged. 'I hope we've had our little snooze?'
'I have been knitting,' Miss Marple replied, putting some emphasis on the pronoun, 'and,' she went on, confessing her weakness with distaste and shame, 'I've dropped a stitch.'
'Oh dear, dear,' said Miss Knight. 'Well, we'll soon put that right, won't we?'
'You will,' said Miss Marple. 'I, alas, am unable to do so.'
The slight acerbity of her tone passed quite unnoticed. Miss Knight, as always, was eager to help.
'There,' she said after a few moments. 'There you are, dear. Quite all right now.'
Though Miss Marple was perfectly agreeable to be called 'dear' (and even 'ducks') by the woman at the greengrocer or the girl at the paper shop, it annoyed her intensely to be called 'dear' by Miss Knight. Another of those things that elderly ladies have to bear. She thanked Miss Knight politely.
'And now I'm just going out for my wee toddle,' said Miss Knight humorously. 'Shan't be long.'
'Please don't dream of hurrying back,' said Miss Marple politely and sincerely.
'Well, I don't like to leave you too long on your own, dear, in case you get moped.'
'I assure you I am quite happy,' said Miss Marple. 'I probably shall have' (she closed her eyes) 'a little nap.'
'That's right, dear. Anything I can get you?'
Miss Marple opened her eyes and considered.
'You might go into Longdon's and see if the curtains are ready. And perhaps another skein of the blue wool from Mrs Wisley. And a box of blackcurrant lozenges at the chemist's. And change my book at the library – but don't let them give you anything that isn't on my list. This last one was too terrible. I couldn't read it.' She held out The Spring Awakens.
'Oh dear dear! Didn't you like it? I thought you'd love it. Such a pretty story.'
'And if it isn't too far for you, perhaps you wouldn't mind going as far as Halletts and see if they have one of those up-and-down egg whisks – not the turn-the-handle kind.'
(She knew very well they had nothing of the kind, but Halletts was the farthest shop possible.)
'If all this isn't too much -' she murmured.
But Miss Knight replied with obvious sincerity.
'Not at all. I shall be delighted.'
Miss Knight loved shopping. It was the breath of life to her. One met acquaintances, and had the chance of a chat, one gossiped with the assistants, and had the opportunity of examining various articles in the various shops. And one could spend quite a long time engaged in these pleasant occupations without any guilty feeling that it was one's duty to hurry back.
So Miss Knight started off happily, after a last glance at the frail old lady resting so peacefully by the window.
After waiting a few minutes in case Miss Knight should return for a shopping bag, or her purse, or a handkerchief (she was a great forgetter and returner), and also to recover from the slight mental fatigue induced by thinking of so many unwanted things to ask Miss Knight to get, Miss Marple rose briskly to her feet, cast aside her knitting and strode purposefully across the room and into the hall. She took down her summer coat from its peg, a stick from the hall stand and exchanged her bedroom slippers for a pair of stout walking shoes. Then she left the house by the side door.
'It will take her at least an hour and a half,' Miss Marple estimated to herself. 'Quite that – with all the people from the Development doing their shopping.'
