At Bertram’s Hotel

Lady Sedgwick thrust her head through the open window.

‘Don’t you know me?’ she demanded.

A sudden gleam of recognition came across the man’s face.

‘Why, if it isn’t little Bessie now! Fancy that! After all these years. Little Bessie.’

‘Nobody but you ever called me Bessie. It’s a revolting name. What have you been doing all these years?’

‘This and that,’ said Micky with some reserve. ‘I’ve not been in the news like you have. I’ve read of your doings in the paper time and again.’

Bess Sedgwick laughed. ‘Anyway, I’ve worn better than you have,’ she said. ‘You drink too much. You always did.’

‘You’ve worn well because you’ve always been in the money.’

‘Money wouldn’t have done you any good. You’d have drunk even more and gone to the dogs completely. Oh yes, you would! What brought you here? That’s what I want to know. How did you ever get taken on at this place?’

‘I wanted a job. I had these—’ his hand flicked over the row of medals.

‘Yes, I see.’ She was thoughtful. ‘All genuine too, aren’t they?’

‘Sure they’re genuine. Why shouldn’t they be?’

‘Oh I believe you. You always had courage. You’ve always been a good fighter. Yes, the army suited you. I’m sure of that.’

‘The army’s all right in time of war, but it’s no good in peace time.’

‘So you took to this stuff. I hadn’t the least idea—’ she stopped.

‘You hadn’t the least idea what, Bessie?’

‘Nothing. It’s queer seeing you again after all these years.’

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ said the man. ‘I’ve never forgotten you, little Bessie. Ah! A lovely girl you were! A lovely slip of a girl.’

‘A damn’ fool of a girl, that’s what I was,’ said Lady Sedgwick.

‘That’s true now. You hadn’t much sense. If you had, you wouldn’t have taken up with me. What hands you had for a horse. Do you remember that mare—what was her name now?—Molly O’Flynn. Ah, she was a wicked devil, that one was.’

‘You were the only one that could ride her,’ said Lady Sedgwick.

‘She’d have had me off if she could! When she found she couldn’t, she gave in. Ah, she was a beauty, now. But talking of sitting a horse, there wasn’t one lady in those parts better than you. A lovely seat you had, lovely hands. Never any fear in you, not for a minute! And it’s been the same ever since, so I judge. Aeroplanes, racing cars.’

Bess Sedgwick laughed.

‘I must get on with my letters.’

She drew back from the window.

Micky leaned over the railing. ‘I’ve not forgotten Ballygowlan,’ he said with meaning. ‘Sometimes I’ve thought of writing to you—’

Bess Sedgwick’s voice came out harshly.

‘And what do you mean by that, Mick Gorman?’

‘I was just saying as I haven’t forgotten—anything. I was just—reminding you like.’

Bess Sedgwick’s voice still held its harsh note.

‘If you mean what I think you mean, I’ll give you a piece of advice. Any trouble from you, and I’d shoot you as easily as I’d shoot a rat. I’ve shot men before—’

‘In foreign parts, maybe—’

‘Foreign parts or here—it’s all the same to me.’

‘Ah, good Lord, now, and I believe you would do just that!’ His voice held admiration. ‘In Ballygowlan—’

‘In Ballygowlan,’ she cut in, ‘they paid you to keep your mouth shut and paid you well. You took the money. You’ll get no more from me so don’t think it.’

‘It would be a nice romantic story for the Sunday papers …’

‘You heard what I said.’

‘Ah,’ he laughed, ‘I’m not serious, I was just joking. I’d never do anything to hurt my little Bessie. I’ll keep my mouth shut.’

‘Mind you do,’ said Lady Sedgwick.

She shut down the window. Staring down at the desk in front of her she looked at her unfinished letter on the blotting paper. She picked it up, looked at it, crumpled it into a ball and slung it into the waste-paper basket. Then abruptly she got up from her seat and walked out of the room. She did not even cast a glance around her before she went.

The smaller writing-rooms at Bertram’s often had an appearance of being empty even when they were not. Two well-appointed desks stood in the windows, there was a table on the right that held a few magazines, on the left were two very high-backed arm-chairs turned towards the fire. These were favourite spots in the afternoon for elderly military or naval gentlemen to ensconce themselves and fall happily asleep until tea-time. Anyone coming in to write a letter did not usually even notice them. The chairs were not so much in demand during the morning.

As it happened, however, they were on this particular morning both occupied. An old lady was in one and a young girl in the other. The young girl rose to her feet. She stood a moment looking uncertainly towards the door through which Lady Sedgwick had passed out, then she moved slowly towards it. Elvira Blake’s face was deadly pale.

It was another five minutes before the old lady moved. Then Miss Marple decided that the little rest which she always took after dressing and coming downstairs had lasted quite long enough. It was time to go out and enjoy the pleasures of London. She might walk as far as Piccadilly, and take a No. 9 bus to High Street, Kensington, or she might walk along to Bond Street and take a 25 bus to Marshall & Snelgrove’s, or she might take a 25 the other way which as far as she remembered would land her up at the Army & Navy Stores. Passing through the swing doors she was still savouring these delights in her mind. The Irish commissionaire, back on duty, made up her mind for her.

‘You’ll be wanting a taxi, Ma’am,’ he said with firmness.

‘I don’t think I do,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I think there’s a 25 bus I could take quite near here—or a 2 from Park Lane.’

‘You’ll not be wanting a bus,’ said the commissionaire firmly. ‘It’s very dangerous springing on a bus when you’re getting on in life. The way they start and stop and go on again. Jerk you off your feet, they do. No heart at all, these fellows, nowadays. I’ll whistle you along a taxi and you’ll go to wherever you want to like a queen.’

Miss Marple considered and fell.

‘Very well then,’ she said, ‘perhaps I had better have a taxi.’

The commissionaire had no need even to whistle. He merely clicked his thumb and a taxi appeared like magic. Miss Marple was helped into it with every possible care and decided on the spur of the moment to go to Robinson & Cleaver’s and look at their splendid offer of real linen sheets. She sat happily in her taxi feeling indeed as the commissionaire had promised her, just like a queen. Her mind was filled with pleasurable anticipation of linen sheets, linen pillow cases and proper glass- and kitchen-cloths without pictures of bananas, figs or performing dogs and other pictorial distractions to annoy you when you were washing up.

Lady Sedgwick came up to the Reception desk.