doing it that they take it out of the girl. But if
265
they marry a rich girl they continue to respect
her.”
“I don’t see,” went on Pat, frowning, “how
it can be anybody from outside. And so–and
so that accounts for the atmosphere that is
here. Everyone watching everybody else.
Only something’s got to happen soon—-”
“There won’t be any more deaths,” said
Miss Marple. “At least, I shouldn’t think
so.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am fairly sure.
The murderer’s accomplished his purpose, you see.”
“His?”
“Well, his or her. One says his for convenience.”
“You say his or her purpose. What sort of
purpose?”
Miss Marple shook her head–she was not
yet quite sure herself.
266
23
ONCE again Miss Somers had just
made tea in the typists’ room, and
once again the kettle had not been
boiling when Miss Somers poured the water
on to the tea. History repeats itself. Miss
Griffith, accepting her cup, thought to
herself, “I really must speak to Mr. Percival
about Somers. I’m sure we can do better. But
with all this terrible business going on, one
doesn’t like to bother him over office
details.”
As so often before. Miss Griffith said
sharply:
“Water not boiling again, Somers,” and
Miss Somers, going pink, replied in her usual
formula:
“Oh, dear, I was sure it was boiling this
time.”
Further developments on the same line
were interrupted by the entrance of Lance
Fortescue. He looked round him somewhat
vaguely, and Miss Griffith, jumping up,
came forward to meet him.
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“Mr. Lance,” she exclaimed.
He swung round towards her and his face
lit up in a smile.
“Hallo. Why, it’s Miss Griffith.”
Miss Griffith was delighted. Eleven years
since he had seen her and he knew her name.
She said in a confused voice:
“Fancy your remembering.”
And Lance said easily, with all his charm to
the fore:
“Of course I remember.”
A flicker of excitement was running round
the typists’ room. Miss Somers’s troubles
over the tea were forgotten. She was gaping
at Lance with her mouth slightly open. Miss
Bell gazed eagerly over the top of her typewriter
and Miss Chase unobtrusively drew
out her compact and powdered her nose. Lance Fortescue looked round him.
“So everything’s still going on just the
same here,” he said.
“Not many changes, Mr. Lance. How
brown you look and how well! I suppose you must have had a very interesting life abroad.”
“You could call it that,” said Lance, “but
perhaps I am now going to try and have an
interesting life in London.”
“You’re coming back here to the office?”
268
“Maybe.”
“Oh, but how delightful.”
“You’ll find me very rusty,” said Lance.
“You’ll have to show me all the ropes. Miss
Griffith.”
Miss Griffith laughed delightedly.
“It will be very nice to have you back, Mr.
Lance. Very nice indeed.”
Lance threw her an appreciative glance.
“That’s sweet of you,” he said, “that’s very
sweet of you.”
“We never believed—none of us thought…”
Miss Griffith broke off and flushed.
Lance patted her on the arm.
“You didn’t believe the devil was as black
as he was painted? Well, perhaps he wasn’t.
But that’s all old history now. There’s no
good going back over it. The future’s the
thing.” He added, “Is my brother here?”
“He’s in the inner office, I think.”
Lance nodded easily and passed on. In the
ante-room to the inner sanctum a hard-faced
woman of middle age rose behind a desk and
said forbiddingly:
“Your name and business, please?”
Lance looked at her doubtfully.
“Are you—Miss Grosvenor?” he asked.
Miss Grosvenor had been described to him
269
as a glamorous blonde. She had indeed
appeared so in the pictures that had appeared
in the newspapers reporting the inquest on
Rex Fortescue. This, surely, could not be
Miss Grosvenor.
“Miss Grosvenor left last week. I am Mrs.
Hardcastle, Mr. Percival Fortescue’s personal
secretary.”
“How like old Percy,” thought Lance. “To
get rid of a glamorous blonde and take on a
Gorgon instead. I wonder why? Was it safety
or was it because this one comes cheaper?”
Aloud he said easily:
“I’m Lancelot Fortescue. You haven’t met