Nemesis

'Oh, there's no question of that,' said Miss Marple. 'I was extremely comfortable staying with you. Oh yes, I did enjoy it very much. Such a beautiful house. And all your things are so nice. You know, your china and glass and furniture. It's such a pleasure to be in a home and not an hotel.'

'Then you must come with me now. Yes, you really must. I could go and pack your things for you.'

'Oh well, that's very kind of you. I can do that myself.'

'Well, shall I come and help you?'

'That would be very kind,' said Miss Marple.

They repaired to her bedroom where Anthea, in a somewhat slap-dash manner, packed Miss Marple's belongings together. Miss Marple, who had her own ways of folding things, had to bite her lip to keep an air of complacency on her face. Really, she thought, she can't fold anything properly.

Anthea got hold of a porter from the hotel and he carried the suitcase round the corner and down the street to The Old Manor House. Miss Marple tipped him adequately and, still uttering fussy little speeches of thanks and pleasure, rejoined the sisters.

'The Three Sisters!' she was thinking, 'here we are again.' She sat down in the drawing room, and closed her eyes for a minute, breathing rather fast. She appeared to be somewhat out of breath. It was only natural, she felt at her age, and after Anthea and the hotel porter had set a fast pace. But really she was trying to acquire through her closed eyes what the feeling was she had on coming into this house again. Was something in it sinister? No, not so much sinister as unhappy. Deep unhappiness. So much so it was almost frightening.

She opened her eyes again and looked at the two other occupants of the room. Mrs Glynne had just come in from the kitchen, bearing an afternoon tea tray. She looked as she had looked all along. Comfortable, no particular emotions or feelings. Perhaps almost too devoid of them, Miss Marple thought. Had she accustomed herself through perhaps a life of some stress and difficulty, to show nothing to the outer world, to keep a reserve and let no-one know what her inner feelings were?

She looked from her to Clotilde. She had a Clytemnestra look, as she had thought before. She had certainly not murdered her husband for she had never had a husband to murder and it seemed unlikely that she had murdered the girl to whom she was said to have been extremely attached. That, Miss Marple was quite sure was true. She had seen before how the tears had welled from Clotilde's eyes when the death of Verity had been mentioned.

And what about Anthea? Anthea had taken that cardboard box to the post office. Anthea had come to fetch her. Anthea – she was very doubtful about Anthea. Scatty? Too scatty for her age. Eyes that wandered and came back to you. Eyes that seemed to see things that other people might not see, over your shoulder. She's frightened, thought Miss Marple. Frightened of something. What was she frightened of? Was she perhaps a mental case of some kind? Frightened perhaps of going back to some institution or establishment where she might have spent part of her life. Frightened of those two sisters of hers feeling that it was unwise for her to remain at liberty? Were they uncertain, those two, what their sister Anthea might do or say?

There was some atmosphere here. She wondered, as she sipped the last of her tea, what Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow were doing. Had they gone to visit that church or was that all talk, meaningless talk. It was odd. Odd the way they had come and looked at her at St Mary Mead so as to know her again on the coach, but not to acknowledge that they had ever seen or met her before.

There were quite a lot of difficult things going on. Presently Mrs Glynne removed the tea tray, Anthea went out into the garden and Miss Marple was left alone with Clotilde.

'I think,' said Miss Marple, 'that you know an Archdeacon Brabazon, do you not?'

'Oh yes,' said Clotilde, 'he was in church yesterday at the service. Do you know him?'

'Oh no,' said Miss Marple, 'but he did come to the Golden Boar and he came and spoke to me there. I gather he had been to the hospital and was enquiring about poor Miss Temple 's death. He wondered if Miss Temple had sent any message to him. I gather she was thinking of paying him a visit. But of course I told him that although I did go there in case I could do anything there was nothing that could be done except sit by poor Miss Temple's bed. She was unconscious, you know. I could have done nothing to help her.'

'She didn't say – say anything – any explanation of what had happened?' asked Clotilde.

She asked without much interest. Miss Marple wondered if she felt more interest than she expressed, but on the whole she thought not. She thought Clotilde was busy with thoughts of something quite different.

'Do you think it was an accident?' Miss Marple asked, 'or do you think there is something in that story that Mrs Riseley-Porter's niece told. About seeing someone pushing a boulder.'

'Well, I suppose if those two said so, they must have seen it.'

'Yes. They both said so, didn't they,' said Miss Marple, 'though not quite in the same terms. But perhaps that's quite natural.'

Clotilde looked at her curiously. 'You seem to be intrigued by that.'

'Well, it seems so very unlikely,' said Miss Marple, 'an unlikely story, unless -'

'Unless what?'

'Well, I just wondered,' said Miss Marple.

Mrs Glynne came into the room again.

'You just wondered what?' she asked.

'We're talking about the accident, or the non-accident,' said Clotilde.

'But who -'

'It seems a very odd story that they told,' said Miss Marple again.

'There's something about this place,' said Clotilde suddenly. 'Something about this atmosphere. We never got over it here. Never. Never since, since Verity died. It's years but it doesn't go away. A shadow's here.' She looked at Miss Marple. 'Don't you think so too? Don't you feel a shadow here?'

'Well, I'm a stranger,' said Miss Marple. 'It's different for you and your sisters who've lived here and who knew the dead girl. She was, I gather, as Archdeacon Brabazon was saying a very charming and beautiful girl.'

'She was a lovely girl. A dear child too,' said Clotilde.

'I wish I'd known her better,' said Mrs Glynne. 'Of course I was living abroad at that time. My husband and I came home on leave once, but we were mostly in London. We didn't come down here often.'

Anthea came in from the garden. She was carrying in her hand a great bunch of lilies.

'Funeral flowers,' she said. 'That's what we ought to have here today, isn't it? I'll put them in a great jar. Funeral flowers,' and she laughed suddenly. A queer, hysterical little giggle.

'Anthea,' said Clotilde, 'don't – don't do that. It's not – it's not right.'

'I'll go and put them in water,' said Anthea, cheerfully. She went out of the room.

'Really,' said Mrs Glynne, 'Anthea! I do think she's -'

'She's getting worse,' said Clotilde.

Miss Marple adopted an attitude of not listening or hearing. She picked up a small enamel box and looked at it with admiring eyes.

'She'll probably break a vase now,' said Lavinia.

She went out of the room. Miss Marple said,

'You are worried about your sister, about Anthea?'

'Well yes, she's always been rather unbalanced. She's the youngest and she was rather delicate as a girl. But lately, I think, she's got definitely worse. She hasn't got any idea, I think, of the gravity of things. She has these silly fits of hysteria. Hysterical laughter at things one ought to be serious about. We don't want to, well, to send her anywhere or – you know. She ought to have treatment, I think, but I don't think she would like to go away from home. This is her home, after all. Though sometimes it's – it's very difficult.'

'All life is difficult sometimes,' said Miss Marple.

'Lavinia talks of going away,' said Clotilde. 'She talks of going to live abroad again. At Taormina, I think. She was there with her husband a lot and they were very happy. She's been at home with us now for many years, but she seems to have this longing to get away and to travel. Sometimes I think – sometimes I think she doesn't like being in the same house as Anthea.'

'Oh dear,' said Miss Marple. 'Yes, I have heard of cases like that where these difficulties do arise.'

'She's afraid of Anthea,' said Clotilde. 'Definitely afraid of her. And really, I keep telling her there's nothing to be afraid of. Anthea's just rather silly at times. You know, has queer ideas and says queer things. But I don't think there's any danger of her, well, I mean of – oh, I don't know what I mean. Doing anything dangerous or strange or queer.