So it was American Ruth whom she had seen most of, whereas Carrie Louise who lived in England, she had not now seen for over twenty years. Odd, but quite natural, because when one lives in the same country there is no need to arrange meetings with old friends. One assumes that, sooner or later, one will see them without contri-vance.
Only, if you move in different spheres, that does not happen. The paths of Jane Marple and Carrie Louise did not cross. It was as simple as that.
‘Why are you worried about Carrie Louise, Ruth?’ asked Miss Marple.
‘In a way that’s what worries me most! I just don’t know.’ ‘She’s not ill?’ ‘She’s very delicate – always has been. I wouldn’t say she’d been any worse than usual – considering that she’s getting on just as we all are.’ ‘Unhappy?’ ‘Oh no.’ No, it wouldn’t be that, thought Miss Marple. It would be difficult to imagine Carrie Louise unhappy and yet there were times in her life when she must have been. Only – the picture did not come clearly. Bewildered – yes – incredulous – yes – but violent grief – no.
Mrs Van Rydock’s words came appositely.
‘Carrie Louise,’ she said, ‘has always lived right out of this world. She doesn’t know what it’s like. Maybe it’s that that worries me.’ ‘Her circumstances,’ began Miss Marple, then stopped, shaking her head. ‘No,’ she said.
‘No, it’s she herself,’ said Ruth Van Rydock. ‘Carrie Louise was always the one of us who had ideals. Of course it was the fashion when we were young to have ideals – we all had them, it was the proper thing for young girls. You were going to nurse lepers, Jane, and I was going to be a nun. One gets over all that nonsense. Marriage, I suppose one might say, knocks it out of one. Still, take it by and large, I haven’t done badly out of marriage.’ Miss Marple thought that Ruth was expressing it mildly. Ruth had been married three times, each time to an extremely wealthy man, and the resultant divorces had increased her bank balance without in the least souring her disposition.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Van Rydock, ‘I’ve always been tough. Things don’t get me down. I’ve not expected too much of life and certainly not expected too much of men – and I’ve done very well out of it – and no hard feelings.
Tommy and I are still excellent friends, and Julius often asks me my opinion about the market.’ Her face darkened.
‘I believe that’s what worries me about Carrie Louise – she’s always had a tendency, you know, to marry cranks.’ ‘Cranks?’ ‘People with ideals. Carrie Louise was always a pushover for ideals. There she was, as pretty as they make them, just seventeen and listening with her eyes as big as saucers to old Gulbrandsen holding forth about his plans for the human race. Over fifty, and she married him, a widower with a familyof grown-up children – all because of his philanthropic ideas. She used to sit listening to him spellbound. Just like Desdemona and Othello. Only fortunately there was no Iago about to mess things up and anyway Gulbrandsen wasn’t coloured. He was a Swede or a Norwegian or something.’ Miss Marple nodded thoughtfully. The name of Gulbrandsen had an international significance. A man who with shrewd business acumen and perfect honesty had built up a fortune so colossal that really philanthropy had been the only solution to the disposal of it. The name still held significance. The Gulbrandsen Trust, the Gulbrandsen Research Fellowships, the Gulbrandsen Administrative Almshouses, and best known of all the vast educational College for the sons of working men.
‘She didn’t marry him for his money, you know,’ said Ruth, ‘I should have if I’d married him at all. But not Carrie Louise. I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t died when she was thirty-two. Thirty-two’s a very nice age for a widow. She’s got experience, but she’s still adaptable.’
The spinster listening to her, nodded gently whilst her mind revived, tentatively, widows she had known in the village of St Mary Mead.