Agatha Christie – The Body in the Library

“I think she’d wear her best dress. Girls do.”

Sir Henry interposed, “Yes, but look here, Miss Marple. Suppose she was going outside to this rendezvous. Going in an open car, perhaps, or walking in some rough going. Then she’d not want to risk messing a new frock and she’d put on an old one.”

“That would be the sensible thing to do,” agreed the superintendent.

Miss Marple turned on him. She spoke with animation. “The sensible thing to do would be to change into trousers and a pullover, or into tweeds. That, of course I don’t want to be snobbish, but I’m afraid it’s unavoidable, that’s what a girl of — of our class would do.”

“A well-bred girl,” continued Miss Marple, warming to her subject, “is always very particular to wear the right clothes for the right occasion. I mean, however hot the day was, a well-bred girl would never turn up at a point-to-point in a silk flowered frock.”

“And the correct wear to meet a lover?” demanded Sir Henry.

“If she were meeting him inside the hotel or somewhere where evening dress was worn, she’d wear her best evening frock, of course, but outside she’d feel she’d look ridiculous in evening dress and she’d wear her most attractive sports wear.”

“Granted, Fashion Queen, but the girl Ruby-”

Miss Marple said, “Ruby, of course, wasn’t, well, to put it bluntly Ruby wasn’t a lady. She belonged to the class that wear their best clothes, however unsuitable to the occasion. Last year, you know, we had a picnic outing at Scrantor Rocks. You’d be surprised at the unsuitable clothes the girls wore. Foulard dresses and patent-leather shoes and quite elaborate hats, some of them. For climbing about over rocks and in gorse and heather. And the young men in their best suits. Of course, hiking’s different again. That’s practically a uniform, and girls don’t seem to realize that shorts are very unbecoming unless they are very slender.”

The superintendent said slowly, “And you think that Ruby Keene-”

“I think that she’d have kept on the frock she was wearing, her best pink one. She’d only have changed it if she’d had something newer still.”

Superintendent Harper said, “And what’s your explanation, Miss Marple?”

Miss Marple said, “I haven’t got one yet. But I can’t help feeling that it’s important.”

Inside the wire cage, the tennis lesson that Raymond Starr was giving had come to an end. A stout middle-aged woman uttered a few appreciative squeaks, picked up a sky-blue cardigan and went off toward the hotel. Raymond called out a few gay words after her. Then he turned toward the bench where the three onlookers were sitting. The balls dangled in a net in his hand, his racket was under one arm. The gay, laughing expression on his face was wiped off as though by a sponge from a slate. He looked tired and worried. Coming toward them he said, “That’s over.” Then the smile broke out again, that charming, boyish, expressive smile that went so harmoniously with his sun-tanned face and dark, lithe grace. Sir Henry found himself wondering how old the man was. Twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five? It was impossible to say. Raymond said, shaking his head a little, “She’ll never be able to play, you know.”

“All this must,” said Miss Marple, “be very boring for you.”

Raymond said simply, “It is sometimes. Especially at the end of the summer. For a time the thought of the pay buoys one up, but even that fails to stimulate imagination in the end.”

Superintendent Harper got up. He said abruptly, “I’ll call for you in half an hour’s time, Miss Marple, if that will be all right?”

“Perfectly, thank you. I shall be ready.”

Harper went off. Raymond stood looking after him. Then he said, “Mind if I sit for a bit?”

“Do,” said Sir Henry. “Have a cigarette?” He offered his case, wondering as he did so why he had a slight feeling of prejudice against Raymond Starr. Was it simply because he was a professional tennis coach and dancer? If so, it wasn’t the tennis, it was the dancing. The English, Sir Henry decided, had a distrust for any man who danced too well. This fellow moved with too much grace. Ramon — Raymond — which was his name? Abruptly, he asked the question.

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