Sleeping Murder by Sleeping murder

Author:Sleeping murder
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2010-06-26T06:06:53.250000+00:00

‘Down, Henry,’ said Mrs Fane to an asthmatic spaniel whose liquid eyes burned with greed. ‘Another scone, Miss Marple, while they’re hot?’

‘Thank you. Such delicious scones. You have an excellent cook.’

‘Louisa is not bad, really. Forgetful, like all of them. And no variety in her puddings. Tell me, how is Dorothy Yarde’s sciatica nowadays? She used to be a martyr to it. Largely nerves, I suspect.’

Miss Marple hastened to oblige with details of their mutual acquaintance’s ailments. It was fortunate, she thought, that amongst her many friends and relations scattered over England, she had managed to find a woman who knew Mrs Fane and who had written explaining that a Miss Marple was at present in Dillmouth, and would dear Eleanor be very kind and ask her to something.

Eleanor Fane was a tall, commanding woman with a steely grey eye, crisp white hair, and a baby pink and white complexion which masked the fact that there was no baby-like softness whatever about her.

They discussed Dorothy’s ailments or imagined ailments and went on to Miss Marple’s health, the air of Dillmouth, and the general poor condition of most of the younger generation.

‘Not made to eat their crusts as children,’ Mrs Fane pronounced. ‘None of that allowed in my nursery.’

‘You have more than one son?’ asked Miss Marple.

‘Three. The eldest, Gerald, is in Singapore in the Far East Bank. Robert is in the Army.’ Mrs Fane sniffed. ‘Married a Roman Catholic,’ she said with significance. ‘You know what that means! All the children brought up as Catholics. What Robert’s father would have said, I don’t know. My husband was very low church. I hardly ever hear from Robert nowadays. He takes exception to some of the things I have said to him purely for his own good. I believe in being sincere and saying exactly what one thinks. His marriage was, in my opinion, a great misfortune. He may pretend to be happy, poor boy—but I can’t feel that it is at all satisfactory.’

‘Your youngest son is not married, I believe?’

Mrs Fane beamed.

‘No, Walter lives at home. He is slightly delicate— always was from a child—and I have always had to look after his health very carefully. (He will be in presently.) I can’t tell you what a thoughtful and devoted son he is. I am really a very lucky woman to have such a son.’

‘And he has never thought of marrying?’ enquired Miss Marple.

‘Walter always says he really cannot be bothered with the modern young woman. They don’t appeal to him. He and I have so much in common that I’m afraid he doesn’t go out as much as he should. He reads Thackeray to me in the evenings, and we usually have a game of picquet. Walter is a real home bird.’

‘How very nice,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Has he always been in the firm? Somebody told me that you had a son who was out in Ceylon, as a tea-planter, but perhaps they got it wrong.’

A slight frown came over Mrs Fane’s face.

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