Diana Glass
The Help
‘You’re bleeding!’ says Mrs Bantry, as I limp back into the hotel Reception. ‘Jane, look at her. Where’s that young man with all the medical supplies? Someone call for him immediately!’
‘I’m all right,’ I say. ‘Just a knock on the head.’ But there’s a tremor in my voice and my legs feel ready to buckle underneath me.
The pain in my temple seems to pulse: sharp, now dull, now sharp again.
I set my teeth against it. ‘I think I got away lightly,’ I manage, pleased that my voice sounds steadier now. ‘As did Mr Crane.’
All turn to look at a scowling Bruno Crane. ‘Show’s over!’ he shouts. Then he staggers past us, disappearing into the depths of the hotel.
‘Come, Diana,’ Mrs Bantry says. ‘We’ll go to the library. You can tell us what happened. But what on earth possessed you?’
For a moment I’m not sure how to answer. And then, the truth: ‘A sense of duty, I suppose.’
We move into the library. The events of the last few hours haven’t seen the staff slacking: a majestic fire hisses in the grate and in spite of everything the warmth on my frozen cheeks is comforting.
With the glow of the flames, the richly patterned rugs upon the floor, a jazz record on the gramophone and the silvery scene beyond the windows – the snow continues to fall apace – it might be a scene of cosy perfection.
This safe, warm world is such a contrast to the terror I’ve just experienced that it doesn’t seem quite real.
Some of the guests are reading in high-backed armchairs or playing card games over glasses of liqueur, as though totally oblivious to the tragedy earlier this morning.
But we learned this during the war. You can’t be in a state of full-blown panic at all times.
Normality, humanity – even boredom – creep back in at the most fraught of times.
The incongruous element in the room is me, dishevelled and bleeding and accompanied by the slow drip of snow melting from my clothes onto the carpet.
Gradually, the room begins to notice our little group.
The card players lay down their hands, the readers their books, the drinkers their brandies …
and turn to stare in our direction. Then the hotel manager arrives, hovering anxiously at the edge of it all.
I explain everything that just happened on the train, finishing with the crash.
‘You have to be kidding me!’ Sylvia Sinclair has appeared from somewhere. ‘If the train’s kaput … does that mean we can’t leave this place?’
We all look to the hotel manager for confirmation.
He gives a little sigh, smooths a hand down his moustache.
‘I have just come from a phone call with the police. When our train did not arrive to pick them up at St Celeste, and the driver could not be reached, they came up in the service engine. But when they reached the tunnel they had to stop: it appears that the tunnel has been completely blocked by the crashed train.’ He seems to have run out of the energy required to polish matters for us.
He drops his voice, though, so that the rest of the room cannot overhear.
‘As that is the only route up and down the mountain, for the next little while we are alone up here. When this wind and snow stop … there are some very good climbers among the Swiss police; they can attempt the rock face. But not while the conditions are like this. No. We must wait here until the weather improves.’
A collective gasp goes up from everyone in earshot.
‘This is outrageous!’ a woman cries.
And Sylvia Sinclair is saying: ‘But I’m meant to be in Palm Springs in a couple of days’ time …’
‘And a killer on the loose!’ a man says.
‘Monsieur,’ the manager says, pleadingly, ‘I must stress that we do not know that … it is perfectly possible that Monsieur Narracott died of natural causes.’
Amidst the commotion a figure rises from a nearby armchair and moves towards our group: a tall, youngish man with prematurely silver hair. I realise it is the man that I met briefly in the gondola yesterday, Christophe.
‘If it helps,’ he says, in lightly accented English, ‘I myself am from the police. I did not feel the need to reveal myself before, but I am a detective.’
‘Indeed!’ says Mrs Bantry, rather imperiously. ‘You don’t look it.’
He doesn’t, really. He wears a royal-blue knit jumper with a white Alpine pattern of snowflakes and prancing deer, caramel-coloured corduroy trousers, hiking boots on his feet, and a red scarf tied about his neck with a panache that an Englishman could never achieve.
There is something almost boyish about him at first glance, belied by the lines etched on his brow and into the sun-kissed skin around his eyes. There is a small silvery scar, like a notch, in the corner of his full top lip.
He makes a little bow to Mrs Bantry, then reaches out a hand to shake mine. Elegant fingers, lightly calloused.
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he says. ‘I am Inspector Moreau, of the Paris Judiciaire. I am here just like you, for a holiday. But I also happen to be a detective in my own country.’
‘You’re not Swiss?’ Mrs Bantry asks. ‘You look Swiss. But perhaps it is just your knitwear. Knitwear can account for a great deal, I find.’
‘No indeed, Madame. I am French.’
His accent is odd, though: definitely not Parisian. As if in answer to this thought, he says: ‘But I am from the mountains. Whilst I am based at the Paris Judiciaire now, I’m originally from a town not far from here, on the French side of the massif.’
‘Goodness,’ says Mrs Bantry. ‘Well, we don’t have policemen like you in England.
’ Clearly age doesn’t prevent Mrs Bantry from being able to admire attractiveness in a much younger man.
I think it is those eyes, very dark blue – almost navy – that somehow elevate his looks beyond the ordinary.
It is the brightness and cleverness in them, perhaps, but a cleverness that seems as lightly worn as the red woollen scarf about his neck.
That and the unusual silver hair. I catch myself.
It has been so long since I have thought about another man in this way.
I thought that part of myself had died completely.
Perhaps I hit my head harder than I thought.
‘I am going to try to conduct an investigation of sorts here,’ he says. ‘I have already spoken to the Swiss police and they are happy – indeed, eager – for me to begin, while they are unable to do so. When they arrive, I will hand matters over to them.’
A pause as the assembled company digests this. Then: ‘Jane can help you in your investigation!’ Mrs Bantry exclaims. ‘Really! She is very good at this sort of thing and has much experience with it. Inspector Moreau, meet Miss Jane Marple.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Madame,’ he greets Miss Marple. Then he takes her hand and kisses it. Miss Marple pinkens a little.
‘She has solved several very complicated and terrible crimes,’ Mrs Bantry says, ‘including—I still shudder to remember it – the discovery of a body in the library at Gossington Hall, my own home.’ And then, as though for her pièce de résistance: ‘In England, you know, Sir Henry Clithering, former head of Scotland Yard, trusts her absolutely.’
Inspector Moreau raises his eyebrows. ‘The great Scotland Yard? I am impressed. One English thing for which I have great admiration.’ He smiles, and it is still difficult to be certain whether he is really impressed or simply humouring her.
‘My grandmother was English,’ he says, ‘an English governess who fell in love with a Frenchman. She taught me the language – though as you discover I am out of practice – and gave me a great appreciation for all things from your country. Shakespeare, cold post-theatre suppers, Colman’s mustard and Cooper’s Thick Cut Marmalade.
But above all, for English people.’ He smiles at Mrs Bantry, who positively beams back at him.
‘So, will you allow Jane to help? She is so clever.’
‘Oh really!’ Miss Marple says, deprecatingly.
‘Jane, you are too modest.’ And to the detective: ‘So, what about it?’
He hesitates for a second. And then he gives a rather Gallic shrug.
‘Pourquoi pas? It is a little … irregular, but then everything about this situation is a little irregular. I am not acting in an official capacity here. No: indeed, it would be my honour. Because, you know, as I also learned from my grandmother, women who have had a good experience of life …’ – I note that he is careful not to mention age directly here – ‘are an excellent judge of character. My grandmother could always tell when any one of us was lying. It was very …’ ? he grins ? ‘annoying. And of course you will be able to speak to the guests in a way that I will not. The English guests because of the language and the culture … but also those who feel inhibited by speaking to a police officer.’
Mrs Bantry says, ‘Jane can get simply anyone to talk to her. Can’t you, Jane?’
‘I believe,’ Miss Marple says, ‘it is simply because I am a very old lady that I present no threat to anyone. So many people seem to have had some sort of elderly aunt figure they have been wont to confide in. I think I fulfil that role.’
‘I suspect it is more than that, Madame,’ the French detective says. ‘I think it is those wonderful eyes of yours, clear as verglas. One imagines, and I imagine one is right, that they are all-seeing.’
‘Oh, well …’ says Miss Marple, with almost girlish coquettishness, apparently for once lost for words.
It is fascinating to watch the two of them. There is something there: a spark, as though on some level they are kindred spirits. If there weren’t such a great gap of years I might almost be tempted to call the attraction a romantic one.
‘So.’ Inspector Moreau clasps his hand together and sits in the free armchair across from us.
‘First of all,’ he says to Miss Marple. ‘We must – ah – compare our notes, is the phrase, I think?
I have made some investigations of my own.
There is the matter of the flask of coffee that Anthony Narracott took with him.
Proper analysis in a laboratory will have to wait, of course, but it seems that may have been the cause of death.
‘Mr Narracott had, I believe, an allergy to nuts. So, it might not have been a poison, precisely, but something that was as deadly as cyanide to him alone. An empty bottle of almond oil was later discovered tossed in the snow outside the library windows.’
‘So it must be someone who knew he had a nut allergy,’ Mrs Bantry says.
‘But everyone knew, dear,’ Miss Marple replies, surprised. ‘The nusstorte, at dinner the first night: he got rather cross about it. Of course, it may not have been the almond oil at all. The bottle may have been a plant.’
Inspector Moreau nods. ‘It seems likely that someone tampered with the flask of coffee while he had it filled at Reception, or indeed made it seem that was when the flask was tampered with. Possibly during the phone call that took him away for a few minutes, while the flask waited for him on the side, in which time someone might have been able to slip something into his drink. I have spoken to Monsieur Narracott’s office in London.
Apparently they had received a telegram – purporting to be from Narracott – asking them to call him close to nine o’clock, and if they didn’t get him immediately, to keep trying, because it was urgent.
When Narracott finally came on the line the whole confusion was discovered: that an unknown third party must have set up the whole thing.
‘I have been asking about anyone who was seen passing through Reception around that time. Based on the reports of staff and other guests, no one can remember seeing much of interest at that time. The usual members of staff, numerous hotel guests,’ he reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small notepad, consults its pages: ‘a maid carrying laundry. Now, this is interesting because some of the staff claim not to have seen her before; though there are many new staff here.’
‘Diana,’ says Mrs Bantry, rather excitedly, ‘did you not in fact tell me that there was a shop selling garments for maids and other domestics, in the town? And after all, the maids here wear a very generic sort of uniform, the black dress, the white apron, the little cap …’ She’s getting rather excited, speaking quickly, turning now to Miss Marple.
‘Jane … don’t you think it a possibility?
And the large bundle of laundry used to conceal the face …
or indeed to conceal whatever it was that contained the poison. ’
‘It is certainly a possibility, my dear,’ Miss Marple says. ‘After all, so many people fail to notice the help.’ She turns to me. ‘You were there of course, Diana. Do you remember seeing anything else out of the ordinary?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Inspector Moreau’s account seems … about right.’
‘You are a photographer, I think?’ he says suddenly.
‘I take photographs, yes. But how did you—’
‘Oh, I have seen you on your walks, with your camera about your neck.’
‘Yes.’
‘What have you been taking photographs of?’
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘the surroundings, the wildlife, that sort of thing.’
‘I wonder … perhaps we could borrow your film from the last few days?’
‘What?’ I say, too surprised to think of anything more intelligent.
‘In case you captured anything interesting. The smallest detail may seem like nothing, but could prove to be very helpful,’ he says.
‘Even in the most innocuous photograph of a mountain landscape we may find a figure that seems out of place, a set of tracks … something caught on the edge of the frame.’
‘No,’ I say – then realise this won’t do. ‘I mean, I don’t think it’s going to be possible to develop them here. We need a proper darkroom, paper – all of that. I would be very upset if the film got damaged being improperly developed.’
He opens his mouth and for a second I think he’s going to say more. But he seems to think better of it and lets it go – for the time being, anyway.
‘I think, then,’ he says instead, ‘the next step is to speak with the circle closest to Anthony Narracott. To see if we can uncover anything that does not add up. Or rather, something that does add up to a motive.’