‘But all the same—where on earth can the damned thing be?’
‘Perhaps Mrs Butt took it. She’s always seemed quite honest, but perhaps she felt nervous after the hold-up and thought she’d like to—to have a revolver in the house. Of course, she’ll never admit doing that. I shan’t even ask her. She might get offended. And what should we do then? This is such a big house—I simply couldn’t—’
‘Quite so,’ said Colonel Easterbrook. ‘Better not say anything.’
Chapter 13
Morning Activities in Chipping Cleghorn (continued)
Miss Marple came out of the Vicarage gate and walked down the little lane that led into the main street.
She walked fairly briskly with the aid of the Rev. Julian Harmon’s stout ashplant stick.
She passed the Red Cow and the butcher’s and stopped for a brief moment to look into the window of Mr Elliot’s antique shop. This was cunningly situated next door to the Bluebird Tearooms and Caféso that rich motorists, after stopping for a nice cup of tea and somewhat euphemistically named ‘Home Made Cakes’ of a bright saffron colour, could be tempted by Mr Elliot’s judiciously planned shop window.
In this antique bow frame, Mr Elliot catered for all tastes. Two pieces of Waterford glass reposed on an impeccable wine cooler. A walnut bureau, made up of various bits and pieces, proclaimed itself a Genuine Bargain and on a table, in the window itself, were a nice assortment of cheap doorknockers and quaint pixies, a few chipped bits of Dresden, a couple of sad-looking bead necklaces, a mug with ‘A Present from Tunbridge Wells’ on it, and some tit-bits of Victorian silver.
Miss Marple gave the window her rapt attention, and Mr Elliot, an elderly obese spider, peeped out of his web to appraise the possibilities of this new fly.
But just as he decided that the charms of the Present from Tunbridge Wells were about to be too much for the lady who was staying at the Vicarage (for of course Mr Elliot, like everybody else, knew exactly who she was), Miss Marple saw out of the corner of her eye Miss Dora Bunner entering the Bluebird Café, and immediately decided that what she needed to counteract the cold wind was a nice cup of morning coffee.
Four or five ladies were already engaged in sweetening their morning shopping by a pause for refreshment. Miss Marple, blinking a little in the gloom of the interior of the Bluebird, and hovering artistically, was greeted by the voice of Dora Bunner at her elbow.
‘Oh, good morning, Miss Marple. Do sit down here. I’m all alone.’
‘Thank you.’
Miss Marple subsided gratefully on to the rather angular little blue-painted armchair which the Bluebird affected.
‘Such a sharp wind,’ she complained. ‘And I can’t walk very fast because of my rheumatic leg.’
‘Oh, I know. I had sciatica one year—and really most of the time I was in agony.’
The two ladies talked rheumatism, sciatica and neuritis for some moments with avidity. A sulky-looking girl in a pink overall with a flight of bluebirds down the front of it took their order for coffee and cakes with a yawn and an air of weary patience.
‘The cakes,’ Miss Bunner said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘are really quite good here.’
‘I was so interested in that very pretty girl I met as we were coming away from Miss Blacklock’s the other day,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I think she said she does gardening. Or is she on the land? Hynes—was that her name?’
‘Oh, yes, Phillipa Haymes. Our “Lodger”, as we call her.’ Miss Bunner laughed at her own humour. ‘Such a nice quiet girl. A lady, if you know what I mean.’
‘I wonder now. I knew a Colonel Haymes—in the Indian cavalry. Her father perhaps?’
‘She’s Mrs Haymes. A widow. Her husband was killed in Sicily or Italy. Of course, it might be his father.’
‘I wondered, perhaps, if there might be a little romance on the way?’ Miss Marple suggested roguishly. ‘With that tall young man?’
‘With Patrick, do you mean? Oh, I don’t—’
‘No, I meant a young man with spectacles. I’ve seen him about.’
‘Oh, of course, Edmund Swettenham. Sh! That’s his mother, Mrs Swettenham, over in the corner. I don’t know, I’m sure. You think he admires her? He’s such an odd young man—says the most disturbing things sometimes. He’s supposed to be clever, you know,’ said Miss Bunner with frank disapproval.