There were large numbers of photographs—some of babies, some of adults. Some in nice leather frames which were slowly drooping but had not quite fallen to pieces yet. One in a silver frame by now rather tarnished, representing a young woman in presentation court dress with feathers rising up on her head. Two naval officers, two military gentlemen, some photographs of naked babies sprawling on rugs. There was a sofa and two chairs. As bidden, Mrs. Oliver sat in a chair.
Mrs. Matcham pressed herself down on the sofa and pulled a cushion into the hollow of her back with some difficulty.
“Well, my dear, fancy seeing you. And you’re still writing your pretty stories, are you?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, assenting to this though with a slight doubt as to how far detective stories and stories of crime and general criminal behavior could be called pretty stories. But that, she thought, was very much a habit of Mrs.
Matcham’s.
“I’m all alone now,” said Mrs. Matcham. “You remember Gracie, my sister? She died last autumn, she did. Cancer it was. They operated, but it was too late.” “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Oliver.
Conversation proceeded for the next ten minutes on the subject of the demise, one by one, of Mrs. Matcham’s last remaining relatives.
“And you’re all right, are you? Doing all right? Got a husband now? Oh, now, I remember, he’s dead years ago, isn’t he? And what brings you here to Little Saltern Minor?” “I just happened to be in the neighborhood,” said Mrs.
Oliver, “and as I’ve got your address in my little address book with me, I thought I’d just drop in and–well, see how you were and everything.” “Ah! And talk about old times, perhaps. Always nice when \ you can do that, isn’t it?” “Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Oliver, feeling some relief that this particular line had been indicated to her since it was more or less what she had come for. “What a lot of photographs you’ve got,” she said.
“Ah, I have, an’ that. D’you know, when I was in that home–silly name it had, Sunset House of Happiness for the Aged, something like that it was called, a year and a quarter I lived there till I couldn’t stand it no more, a nasty lot they were, saying you couldn’t have any of your own things with you. You know, everything had to belong to the home. I don’t say as it wasn’t comfortable, but you know, I like me own things around me. My photos and my furniture. And then there was ever so nice a lady, came from a Council, she did, some society or other, and she told me there was another place where they had homes of their own or something and you could take what you liked with you. And there’s ever such a nice helper as comes in every day to see if you’re all right. Ah, very comfortable I am here. Very comfortable indeed.
I’ve got all my own things.” “Something from everywhere,” said Mrs. Oliver, looking round.
“Yes, that table—the brass one—that’s Captain Wilson, he sent me that from Singapore or something like that. And that Benares brass, too. That’s nice, isn’t it? That’s a funny thing on the ash tray. That’s Egyptian, that is. It’s a scarabee, or some name like that. You know. Sounds like some kind of scratching disease, but it isn’t. No, it’s a sort of beetle and it’s made out of some stone. They call it a precious stone. Bright blue. A lazy—a lavis—a lazy lapin or something like that.” “Lapis lazuli,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“That’s right. That’s what it is. Very nice, that is. That was my archaeological boy what went digging. He sent me that.” “All your lovely past,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Yes, all my boys and girls. Some of them as babies, some of them I had from the month, and the older ones. Some of them when I went to India and that other time when I was in Siam.
Yes. That’s Miss Moya in her court dress. Ah, she was a pretty thing. Divorced two husbands, she has. Yes. Trouble with his lordship, the first one, and then she married one of those pop singers and of course that couldn’t take very well.