Diana Glass
The Help
I meet Mrs Bantry and Miss Marple on the terrace behind the hotel to enjoy the promised ‘afternoon alphorn concert’ I suggested they might both enjoy.
I’ve unpacked both my own and Mrs Bantry’s cases in our respective rooms. My room’s almost a third of the size of my employer’s but still elegantly appointed with its little writing desk and view – I was pleasantly surprised by this – up the mountain towards the glacier.
I hand Mrs Bantry the shawl I have brought down for her. ‘Thank you, Diana, dear … though I’m not sure I shall need it!’
I see what she means. The terrace is bathed in the full glare of the afternoon sun.
The sky above the white peaks is a cloudless, gas-flame blue and the mountains encircle us; I have the sense of sitting inside a cut-crystal bowl.
The music is just beginning: the trio stand at the far end of the terrace in William Tell felt caps and embroidered waistcoats, playing the huge wooden instruments, the trumpets of which rest on the floor in front of them.
The deep sound is mournful and at times surprisingly majestic: swelling to encompass the vastness of the landscape, echoing off the surrounding rock and snow.
After a moment I realise that the tables out here are ringed around an ice rink. Mrs Bantry makes a cry of delight at the sight of the ice-skating waiters, who in their frock coats glide expertly among the tables carrying – one-handed – trays laden with drinks.
There is a bar built out of hard-packed snow and atop it sit bottles of champagne in silver buckets, platters of smoked oysters, pungent mountain cheeses and cured meats.
The guests sitting at the bar on their wooden stools have a glow about them: cheeks ruddy from sun exposure and good food.
After the privations of rationing, the pinched grey faces on the Underground and the wet London streets, it feels as though I have fallen into another universe. It is hard not to stare.
‘Well,’ Miss Marple says. ‘I had always thought a London hotel the very height of luxury. Bertram’s always seemed to me second to none, but even they have not managed ice-skating waiters. It makes one wonder how much they have to practise before they are trusted with a full tray.’
‘Arthur wouldn’t like this at all,’ Mrs Bantry says, as one performs a rather showy pirouette to whoops of applause, all while balancing a champagne bucket and coupes, ‘no, not at all.’ If I didn’t know better, I might say she sounds almost gleeful.
‘He would think it terribly European and flamboyant.’
‘But look how quickly they move among the tables. So I suppose,’ Miss Marple says thoughtfully, ‘he might at least approve of the efficiency.’
All around us sit our fellow patrons in their furs and gleaming sunglasses, drinking steaming hot chocolates and coffees. A bartender flourishes a cocktail shaker and pours a syrupy stream into a martini glass.
‘I think these people must be what they call the café society,’ Mrs Bantry says, looking about her avidly. ‘Aren’t they frightfully glamorous?’
I lift my camera and take a few photographs of the peaks that seem to surge above us.
‘I wonder,’ says Miss Marple, ‘if your photography is a little like my bird-watching.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Well, that it often proves a useful way of satisfying one’s curiosity.’
I manage a laugh. ‘Well, I take pictures of landscapes and animals. You make it sound a little … prurient.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that. Only … I wondered if you ever experience the same thing I do. One goes to observe one thing, but people will keep getting in the way.’
‘Are those … nuns?’ Mrs Bantry asks. They are: two nuns at the far end of the terrace reclining on a couple of deck-chairs, wearing dark glasses like everybody else. Finishing their coffees they stand and shuffle away.
‘What on earth can they be doing here, do you think?’ Mrs Bantry asks, watching them go.
A man sitting nearby can’t help answering; he leans over and in an American accent says: ‘It’s an old pilgrimage site. It’s what people came here for first: the holy waters of the spring.’
‘Oh, thank you!’ says Mrs Bantry. ‘I think I do remember something on that, now I come to think of it. Where is it …’ She pulls a Baedeker from her handbag and rifles through the pages.
‘Ah! Here we are. Yes: the first visitors came for the healing waters, which according to local religious legend were blessed by the spirit of the Virgin Mary herself, several visions of whom have been reported locally, over the centuries. As such, the Virgin remains an important site of religious importance, particularly for orders that are dedicated to her.’
‘Something this place has in common with St Mary Mead then,’ Miss Marple says.
‘I believe they get a special rate to stay at the hotel,’ the man says.
‘Different accommodation, dear,’ his wife chimes in, ‘dormitories, I heard.’
‘Well how simply wonderful!’ Mrs Bantry exclaims in delight.
‘It does make it feel worthwhile, doesn’t it, Jane?
All the discomfort of travelling. Nuns! One really doesn’t see many of them at home.
I wonder where all our English nuns can be?
Do you know, Jane, I can see you making a good nun. Anglican, of course.’
‘I’m sure you mean that as a compliment, my dear,’ Miss Marple says. ‘But I’m afraid I’m too interested in people as they are to be all that interested in altering them for the better.’
‘Oh,’ Mrs Bantry says. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’
Our hot chocolates arrive, topped with cream as white as the peaks beyond.
Mrs Bantry takes a sip and sighs happily.
‘Ice-skating waiters and sunbathing nuns,’ she says. ‘Now I have truly seen all there is to see of life and can go to my grave happily – not that I’m planning to do so any time soon!’
We all sit in silence for a while, contemplating the view.
I allow myself to enjoy the warmth of the sun on my upturned face, and experience several moments of brief, thoughtless bliss.
Then Mrs Bantry speaks again: ‘Goodness … can that be … ?’ She turns to Miss Marple. ‘Jane, do you think it is … ?’
She is staring at a figure who has just arrived and is settling herself on one of the sunbeds: white silk headscarf, silver mink coat and large dark glasses.
A couple of inches of platinum-blonde hair is revealed by the headscarf at the front.
A gigantic shaggy grey dog flops onto the ground beside her – an Irish wolfhound – rests its head in her lap, and closes its eyes in apparent bliss.
The woman drains half the martini glass in one go, somehow managing to appear elegant while doing so.
Then she summons one of the ice-skating waiters.
As soon as the poor man glides close the dog leaps to its feet and lets out a volley of barks that seem to echo off the surrounding peaks.
The man wobbles, losing his balance and control of his tray stacked with glasses, looks almost ready to keel over, and then with magnificent poise manages to right himself without dropping a single glass.
Several of the sunbathing guests cheer, as though all of this was performed for their entertainment.
‘What is her name?’ Mrs Bantry says. ‘Jane, you must know!’
Miss Marple peers mildly at the woman. ‘Oh, my dear – if it’s anyone fashionable or celebrated I am utterly useless. I will say that I think that particular hair shade must be a great deal of work to maintain.’
‘Oh, Jane, you really are no use.’
Mrs Bantry turns to me. I shake my head apologetically. I dislike letting her down, even in this small thing; I take this job seriously.
‘No, I’ve got it!’ she declares in triumph.
‘It’s Sylvia Sinclair, of course. The Hollywood actress!
And here, in this out-of-the-way place in Switzerland.
What on earth can she be doing here? She’s often in those odd magazines one gets at the hairdressers.
One does spend so much time waiting around that one ends up reading them.
Though perhaps now I think about it, she’s appeared less often of late.
There’s a whole crop of new stars in Hollywood.
Even Sylvia Sinclair has become old hat.
’ She sighs. ‘Well, it seems to be what happens in other walks of life to any woman over thirty-five.’
She darts a little look at me, as though worried she may have caused offence. I want to tell her it doesn’t signify. I resigned myself to being a spinster for life a long time ago now. I haven’t thought of myself as eligible for anything for a very long time.
‘Still,’ Mrs Bantry goes on, ‘she is like … an icon, isn’t she?
Like – a medal of St Christopher – oh, I don’t know if that’s dreadfully blasphemous.
Or … the King. Gosh, and perhaps that’s treasonous.
But you do see, don’t you? Instantly recognisable: that very blonde hair, the dark glasses, that magnificent ermine.
Just think of the cost! I’ve never seen one that luxurious.
One feels one would know her anywhere, at almost a hundred paces.
All of it says “film star” quite as distinctly as a crown says “royalty”.
Now the woman finishes her martini in a second languid gulp and then stretches in the sun like a cat.
We all watch surreptitiously as she calls the waiter over again who returns a few moments later with a pair of binoculars, which she trains on the cliff face opposite us.
Miss Marple is looking around at the other guests. ‘There seem to be a great many people using their binoculars,’ she says. ‘How wonderful to be among so many other keen bird-watchers. Diana, will you ask what they are watching for?’
‘If you don’t mind my answering, Madame,’ says a prematurely grey man in ? I’d guess ? his thirties at the next table, ‘they like to watch the climbers, up on the mountain.’ He stubs out his cigarette in the snow with a hiss.
‘It is more of a pastime in the summer months, of course, when there are more routes open.’ He grimaces.
‘It is a difficult face, that one. Sometimes one falls and then they all get very … animated. It is’ ? he seems to be searching for the right words ? ‘a little like a sport for them. You have heard of the Eiger Birds? They do the same thing there: they like to see climbers perish on the Mordwand, the “Murder Wall”. It is similar here.’
Miss Marple’s mouth pinches in disapproval. ‘I would like to say that I am surprised. But there is something about tragedy that attracts people, like … like carrion birds. After that murder at the vicarage we had a sudden expansion in the congregation.’
Then she lifts the binoculars to her eyes and trains them upon the mountainside. ‘There are two of them up there now,’ she says. ‘Look.’
She passes them to Mrs Bantry and then they are handed, in turn, to me.
Through the lenses I find the two figures up there on the face.
They appear to be standing upon a ledge of some sort, above a frozen waterfall of bright blue ice.
With all their attire – the goggles, the woollen hats – it’s impossible to make out any distinguishing features: only that they are two men, of approximately the same height.
As I continue to watch, something strikes me as odd about their position.
One of the climbers seems to be standing a little behind the other and this lends an immediate precariousness to the situation.
It occurs to me that it would take one small movement from the man behind – one small push – and the unthinkable could happen.
From here they are doll-sized and of course nothing can be seen of their faces, and yet from the way the man behind is holding himself I am certain that he, too, is contemplating this fact.
I am transfixed. I can’t look away. I have effectively become one of the people that we just learned about …
waiting for something awful to happen up there on the mountain.
Is anyone else seeing this? I watch as the man behind takes a step forward; then another.
And now he actually raises his arms, palm of his hands outstretched.
I don’t believe it. He’s going to do it – he’s going to shove the other man over the ledge.
From this sunlit terrace, to the soft sound of the alphorns playing, we’re all about to witness an horrific tragedy. A murder.
Miss Marple lets out a small exclamation and when I glance at her I see that she is looking up there. She isn’t even using binoculars: her eyesight, in spite of her advanced years, must be quite something.
I look back through the lenses. Ah. There has been no disaster while I glanced away.
In fact, the one standing behind has moved further back, his hands at his sides now, as though there was never any risk at all, as though he never appeared to briefly consider pitching the other man to his death.
For a moment I wonder if I imagined it …
until I place the binoculars on the table in front of me and catch Miss Marple’s expression.
She, too, knows what nearly happened up there on the ledge.