Miss Marple – Miss Marple and Mystery: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

not,’ said Mrs Lemprière thoughtfully. ‘Yes, that may be the explanation.’

      And it was then, with her usual genius for accuracy, that she pulled out a canvas that was leaning with its face to the wall. There were about eight of them, stacked carelessly. It was pure chance that Mrs Lemprière selected the one she did – but as I said before, these things happen with Mrs Lemprière.

      ‘Ah!’ said Mrs Lemprière as she turned it to the light.

      It was unfinished, a mere rough sketch. The woman, or girl – she was not, I thought, more than twenty-five or six – was leaning forward, her chin on her hand. Two things struck me at once: the extraordinary vitality of the picture and the amazing cruelty of it. Everard had painted with a vindictive brush. The attitude even was a cruel one – it had brought out every awkwardness, every sharp angle, every crudity. It was a study in brown – brown dress, brown background, brown eyes – wistful, eager eyes. Eagerness was, indeed, the prevailing note of it.

      Mrs Lemprière looked at it for some minutes in silence. Then she called to Everard.

      ‘Alan,’ she said. ‘Come here. Who’s this?’

      Everard came over obediently. I saw the sudden flash of annoyance that he could not quite hide.

      ‘That’s only a daub,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose I shall ever finish it.’

      ‘Who is she?’ said Mrs Lemprière.

      Everard was clearly unwilling to answer, and his unwillingness was as meat and drink to Mrs Lemprière, who always believes the worst on principle.

      ‘A friend of mine. A Miss Jane Haworth.’

      ‘I’ve never met her here,’ said Mrs Lemprière.

      ‘She doesn’t come to these shows.’ He paused a minute, then added: ‘She’s Winnie’s godmother.’

      Winnie was his little daughter, aged five.

      ‘Really?’ said Mrs Lemprière. ‘Where does she live?’

      ‘Battersea. A flat.’

      ‘Really,’ said Mrs Lemprière again, and then added: ‘And what has she ever done to you?’

      ‘To me?’

      ‘To you. To make you so – ruthless.’

      ‘Oh, that!’ he laughed. ‘Well, you know, she’s not a beauty. I can’t make her one out of friendship, can I?’

      ‘You’ve done the opposite,’ said Mrs Lemprière. ‘You’ve caught hold of every defect of hers and exaggerated it and twisted it. You’ve tried to make her ridiculous – but you haven’t succeeded, my child. That portrait, if you finish it, will live.’

      Everard looked annoyed.

      ‘It’s not bad,’ he said lightly, ‘for a sketch, that is. But, of course, it’s not a patch on Isobel’s portrait. That’s far and away the best thing I’ve ever done.’

      He said the last words defiantly and aggressively. Neither of us answered.

      ‘Far and away the best thing,’ he repeated.

      Some of the others had drawn near us. They, too, caught sight of the sketch. There were exclamations, comments. The atmosphere began to brighten up.

      It was in this way that I first heard of Jane Haworth. Later, I was to meet her – twice. I was to hear details of her life from one of her most intimate friends. I was to learn much from Alan Everard himself. Now that they are both dead, I think it is time to contradict some of the stories Mrs Lemprière is busily spreading abroad. Call some of my story invention if you will – it is not far from the truth.

      When the guests had left, Alan Everard turned the portrait of Jane Haworth with its face to the wall again. Isobel came down the room and stood beside him.

      ‘A success, do you think?’ she asked thoughtfully. ‘Or – not quite a success?’

      ‘The portrait?’ he asked quickly.

      ‘No, silly, the party. Of course the portrait’s a success.’

      ‘It’s the best thing I’ve done,’ Everard declared aggressively.

      ‘We’re getting on,’ said Isobel. ‘Lady Charmington wants you to paint her.’

      ‘Oh, Lord!’ He frowned. ‘I’m not a fashionable portrait painter, you know.’

      ‘You will be. You’ll get to the top of the tree.’

      ‘That’s not the tree I want to get to the top of.’

      ‘But, Alan dear, that’s the way to make mints of money.’

      ‘Who wants mints of money?’

      ‘Perhaps I do,’ she said smiling.

      At once he felt apologetic, ashamed. If she had not married him she could have had her mints of money. And she needed it. A certain amount of luxury was her proper setting.

      ‘We’ve not done so badly just lately,’ he said wistfully.

      ‘No, indeed; but the bills are coming in rather fast.’

      Bills – always bills!

      He walked up and down.

      ‘Oh, hang it! I don’t want to paint Lady Charmington,’ he burst out, rather like a petulant child.

      Isobel smiled a little. She stood by the fire without moving. Alan stopped his restless pacing and came nearer to her. What was there in her, in her stillness, her inertia, that drew him – drew him like a magnet? How beautiful she was – her arms like sculptured white marble, the pure gold of her hair, her lips – red full lips.

      He kissed them – felt them fasten on his own. Did anything else matter? What was there in Isobel that soothed you, that took all your cares from you? She drew you into her own beautiful inertia and held you there, quiet and content. Poppy and mandragora; you drifted there, on a dark lake, asleep.

      ‘I’ll do Lady Charmington,’ he said presently. ‘What does it matter? I shall be bored – but after all, painters must eat. There’s Mr Pots the painter, Mrs Pots the painter’s wife, and Miss Pots the painter’s daughter – all needing sustenance.’

      ‘Absurd boy!’ said Isobel. ‘Talking of our daughter – you ought to go and see Jane some time. She was here yesterday, and said she hadn’t seen you for months.’

      ‘Jane was here?’

      ‘Yes – to see Winnie.’

      Alan brushed Winnie aside.

      ‘Did she see the picture of you?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘What did she think of it?’

      ‘She said it was splendid.’

      ‘Oh!’

      He frowned, lost in thought.

      ‘Mrs Lemprière suspects you of a guilty passion for Jane, I think,’ remarked Isobel. ‘Her nose twitched a good deal.’

      ‘That woman!’ said Alan, with deep disgust. ‘That woman! What wouldn’t she think? What doesn’t she think?’

      ‘Well, I don’t think,’ said Isobel, smiling. ‘So go and see Jane soon.’

      Alan looked across at her. She was sitting now on a low couch by the fire. Her face was half turned away, the smile still lingered on her lips. And at that moment he felt bewildered, confused, as though a mist had formed round him, and, suddenly parting, had given him a glimpse into a strange country.

      Something said to him: ‘Why does she want you to go and see Jane? There’s a reason.’ Because with Isobel, there was bound to be a reason.