The other seemed amused. “Ramon was my original professional name. Ramon and Josie. Spanish effect, you know. Then there was rather a prejudice against foreigners, so I became Raymond, very British.”
Miss Marple said, “And is your real name something quite different?”
He smiled at her. “Actually my real name is Ramon. I had an Argentine grandmother, you see.” And that accounts for that swing from the hips, thought Sir Henry parenthetically. “But my first name is Thomas. Painfully prosaic.” He turned to Sir Henry. “You come from Devonshire, don’t you, sir? From Stane? My people lived down that way. At Alsmonston.”
Sir Henry’s face lit up. “Are you one of the Alsmonston Starrs? I didn’t realize that.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would.” There was a slight bitterness in his voice. Sir Henry said, “Bad luck… er all that.” “The place being sold up after it had been in the family for three hundred years? Yes, it was rather! Still, our kind have to go, I suppose! We’ve outlived our usefulness. My elder brother went to New York. He’s in publishing doing well. The rest of us are scattered up and down the earth. I’ll say it’s hard to get a job nowadays when you’ve nothing to say for yourself except that you’ve had a public-school education. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get taken on as a reception clerk at a hotel. The tie and the manner are an asset there. The only job I could get was showman in a plumbing establishment. Selling superb peach- and lemon-colored porcelain baths. Enormous showrooms, but as I never knew the price of the damned things or how soon we could deliver them, I got fired.”
“The only things I could do were dance and play tennis. I got taken on at a hotel on the Riviera. Good pickings there. I suppose I was doing well. Then I overheard an old colonel, real old colonel, incredibly ancient, British to the backbone and always talking about Poona. He went up to the manager and said at the top of his voice: “Where’s the gigolo? I want to get hold of the gigolo. My wife and daughter want to dance, yer know. Where is the feller? What does he sting yer for? It’s the gigolo I want.” Raymond said, “Silly to mind. But I did. I chucked it. Came here. Less pay, but pleasanter. Mostly teaching tennis to rotund women who will never, never be able to play. That and dancing with the wallflower daughters of rich clients! Oh, well, it’s life, I suppose. Excuse today’s hard-luck story.” He laughed. His teeth flashed out white, his eyes crinkled up at the corners. He looked suddenly healthy and happy and very much alive.
Sir Henry said, “I’m glad to have a chat with you. I’ve been wanting to talk with you.”
“About Ruby Keene? I can’t help you, you know. I don’t know who killed her. I knew very little about her. She didn’t confide in me.”
Miss Marple said, “Did you like her?”
“Not particularly. I didn’t dislike her.” His voice was careless, uninterested.
Sir Henry said, “So you’ve no suggestions?”
“I’m afraid not. I’d have told Harper if I had. It just seems to me one of those things! Petty, sordid little crime, no clues, no motive.”
“Two people had a motive,” said Miss Marple. Sir Henry looked at her sharply.
“Really?” Raymond looked surprised.
Miss Marple looked insistently at Sir Henry, and he said rather unwillingly, “Her death probably benefits Mrs. Jefferson and Mr. Gaskell to the amount of fifty thousand pounds.”
“What?” Raymond looked really startled, more than startled, upset. “Oh, but that’s absurd, absolutely absurd. Mrs. Jefferson — neither of them could have had anything to do with it. It would be incredible to think of such a thing.”
Miss Marple coughed. She said gently, “I’m afraid, you know, you’re rather an idealist.”
“I?” He laughed. “Not me! I’m a hard-boiled cynic.”
“Money,” said Miss Marple, “is a very powerful motive.”
“Perhaps,” Raymond said. “But that either of those two would strangle a girl in cold blood-” He shook his head. Then he got up. “Here’s Mrs. Jefferson now. Come for her lesson. She’s late.” His voice sounded amused. “Ten minutes late!”