Diana Glass
The Help
‘How was it, Diana?’ asks Mrs Bantry, over a late lunch of cold cuts and pungent mountain cheese, brought to us in the library where a few other guests are thawing from the cold.
The actress is here too, flicking disconsolately through a fashion magazine, several martinis in, judging by the collection of empty glasses around her, but looking the picture of glamour in a slightly-too-tight white silk shirt and charcoal wool slacks, her silver hair upswept.
‘We couldn’t really see very much, with the snow,’ Mrs Bantry goes on, ‘but also with the way it is all laid out. All we could see from our seats at the bottom were the riders hurtling out at the very end of the run. It all looked like the purest form of madness, to me. Poor Catherine Narracott sat with us … I hope we gave her some succour, Jane. She seems rather a lost soul.’
‘It was terrifying,’ I say. ‘But also rather wonderful.’
‘Oh,’ says Mrs Bantry. ‘You’ve hurt yourself.’
I put a hand up to my lip, which is tender and slightly split. It has stopped bleeding, at least. ‘Yes, I think I must have bitten it on the run. I’ve definitely been in the wars …’
‘We saw all sorts of people come down!’ Mrs Bantry says. ‘People you really wouldn’t expect to be doing it – Colonel Chapman, that Prince Gustav, the young doctor … even a couple of nuns!’
‘May I join you?’
I look up, see Inspector Moreau and, hating myself for it, feel heat rising to my face as I think of the late-night conference in my room.
It is also because he is looking irritatingly attractive; his cheeks flushed from exertion and cold and his hair ruffled by the wind.
It suits him; he looks as though he is in his natural state.
There is a thick dusting of snowflakes on the jacket he is shrugging off and I find myself – ridiculous – admiring the breadth of the shoulders revealed beneath.
His eyes meet mine unexpectedly; I look quickly away.
The little manager passes by us on his way back to Reception, stopping briefly by Inspector Moreau to say: ‘Thank you, for suggesting that the toboggan competition should go ahead as planned. I would have thought it might be better to cancel, but it has improved spirits.’
‘Oh, it was your idea?’ I ask Inspector Moreau.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I thought it would be a way of suppressing the panic and claustrophobia of being trapped in one place – neither of which are helpful to me in my investigations. And you see how well it has worked out!’ He checks his watch.
‘I think the competition should be coming to an end shortly.’
‘Diana took part!’ Mrs Bantry says.
He smiles at me; a generous smile revealing a deep dimple in one cheek. ‘Somehow,’ he says, ‘I am not at all surprised.’
‘And did you take part?’ Miss Marple asks Inspector Moreau. ‘We didn’t see you.’
‘No, Madame,’ he says. ‘Unfortunately not. I was investigating a couple of other leads back at the hotel while it was relatively empty of people. I was asking, for example, about the maid that some of the staff claimed not to have seen before on the morning Monsieur Narracott was poisoned. Unfortunately – for the investigation at least – she has been identified as a new employee, but a bona fide one.’
‘Oh, but you are dressed in outdoor clothes,’ Mrs Bantry says.
‘Yes, I went for a walk to think through the case,’ he says. ‘It does help the mind to do something physical, don’t you think?’
‘Oh indeed,’ says Miss Marple. ‘I do agree. I find gardening works very well for me. There was a – situation – in Dillmouth, a few years ago, where I found simply pulling out some bindweed in someone else’s garden most edifying.
Of course, it isn’t possible here. I suppose a walk would be the next best thing.
’ She glances up as the door flies open.
A member of staff bursts into the room in a state of great agitation.
He wears the fur hat and fur-lined uniform jacket that mark him out as one of those who was attending the Verglas competition.
He makes straight for the manager; an urgent conference takes place.
Finally the manager comes over to our group and whispers urgently to the inspector.
I distinctly hear the words ‘un autre mort’.
Inspector Moreau turns to us, his expression now very grim.
‘Unfortunately there has been another death,’ he says.
‘Bruno Crane. Up the mountain. Some of the staff noticed the unusual activities of the birds. Apparently fifty to a hundred ravens, circling above the patch of trees some little way up the mountain from the top of the toboggan run, making a great racket and commotion. They appear very quickly at this time of year because there is so little food’ – a quick grimace of distaste at the implication here – ‘in the winter, so high up. And they usually only gather in such numbers when there is a big carcass: a cow, in the summer, for example. The staff went to investigate and found Bruno Crane, lying in the copse of trees.’ He lowers his voice.
‘And it would seem he met a violent end.’