Free A Murder Is Announced by Agatha Christie Page B

don’t like that sort ’ere. And Marlene, who’s behind the bar, you understand, she will ’ave it that there mustbe something very valuable up at Miss Blacklock’s. Not that you’d think it, she says, for I’m sure Miss Blacklock goes about as plain as plain, except for them great rows of false pearls she wears. And then she says—Supposin’ as them pearls is real, and Florrie (what’s old Bellamy’s daughter) she says, ‘Nonsense,’ she says—‘ noovo ar —that’s what they are—costume jewellery,’ she says. Costume jewellery—that’s a fine way of labelling a string of false pearls. Roman pearls, the gentry used to call ’em once—and Parisian diamonds—my wife was a lady’s maid and I know. But what does it all mean—just glass! I suppose it’s ‘costume jewellery’ that young Miss Simmons wears—gold ivy leaves and dogs and such like. ’Tisn’t often you see a real bit of gold nowadays—even wedding rings they make of this grey plattinghum stuff. Shabby, I call it—for all that it costs the earth.”
    Old Ashe paused for breath and then continued:
    â€œâ€˜Miss Blacklock don’t keep much money in the ’ouse, that I do know,’ says Jim ’Uggins, speaking up. ’E should know, for it’s ’is wife as goes up and does for ’em at Little Paddocks, and she’s a woman as knows most of what’s going on. Nosey, if you take me.”
    â€œDid he say what Mrs. Huggins’ view was?”
    â€œThat Mitzi’s mixed up in it, that’s what she thinks. Awful temper she ’as, and the airs she gives ’erself! Called Mrs. ’Uggins a working woman to ’er face the other morning.”
    Craddock stood a moment, checking over in his orderly mind the substance of the old gardener’s remarks. It gave him a good cross-section of rural opinion in Chipping Cleghorn, but he didn’t think there was anything to help him in his task. He turned away and the old man called after him grudgingly:
    â€œMaybe you’d find her in the apple orchard. She’s younger than I am for getting the apples down.”
    And sure enough in the apple orchard Craddock found Phillipa Haymes. His first view was a pair of nice legs encased in breeches sliding easily down the trunk of a tree. Then Phillipa, her face flushed, her fair hair ruffled by the branches, stood looking at him in a startled fashion.
    â€œMake a good Rosalind,” Craddock thought automatically, for Detective-Inspector Craddock was a Shakespeare enthusiast and had played the part of the melancholy Jaques with great success in a performance of As You Like It for the Police Orphanage.
    A moment later he amended his views. Phillipa Haymes was too wooden for Rosalind, her fairness and her impassivity were intensely English, but English of the twentieth rather than of the sixteenth century. Well-bred, unemotional English, without a spark of mischief.
    â€œGood morning, Mrs. Haymes. I’m sorry if I startled you. I’m Detective-Inspector Craddock of the Middleshire Police. I wanted to have a word with you.”
    â€œAbout last night?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWill it take long? Shall we—?”
    She looked about her rather doubtfully.
    Craddock indicated a fallen tree trunk.
    â€œRather informal,” he said pleasantly, “but I don’t want to interrupt your work longer than necessary.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œIt’s just for the record. You came in from work at what time last night?”
    â€œAt about half past five. I’d stayed about twenty minutes later in order to finish some watering in the greenhouse.”
    â€œYou came in by which door?”
    â€œThe side door. One cuts across by the ducks and the hen-house from the drive. It saves you going round, and besides it avoids dirtying up the front porch. I’m in