At Bertram’s Hotel. Агата Кристи

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      To Joan’s proffer of a week or two at one of Bournemouth’s best hotels, she had hesitated, murmured, ‘It’s very, very kind of you, my dear, but I really don’t think—’

      ‘But it’s good for you, Aunt Jane. Good to get away from home sometimes. It gives you new ideas, and new things to think about.’

      ‘Oh yes, you are quite right there, and I would like a little visit somewhere for a change. Not, perhaps, Bournemouth.’

      Joan was slightly surprised. She had thought Bournemouth would have been Aunt Jane’s Mecca.

      ‘Eastbourne? Or Torquay?’

      ‘What I would really like—’ Miss Marple hesitated.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘I dare say you will think it rather silly of me.’

      ‘No, I’m sure I shan’t.’ (Where did the old dear want to go?)

      ‘I would really like to go to Bertram’s Hotel—in London.’

      ‘Bertram’s Hotel?’ The name was vaguely familiar.

      Words came from Miss Marple in a rush.

      ‘I stayed there once—when I was fourteen. With my uncle and aunt, Uncle Thomas, that was, he was Canon of Ely. And I’ve never forgotten it. If I could stay there—a week would be quite enough—two weeks might be too expensive.’

      ‘Oh, that’s all right. Of course you shall go. I ought to have thought that you might want to go to London—the shops and everything. We’ll fix it up—if Bertram’s Hotel still exists. So many hotels have vanished, sometimes bombed in the war and sometimes just given up.’

      ‘No, I happen to know Bertram’s Hotel is still going. I had a letter from there—from my American friend Amy McAllister of Boston. She and her husband were staying there.’

      ‘Good, then I’ll go ahead and fix it up.’ She added gently, ‘I’m afraid you may find it’s changed a good deal from the days when you knew it. So don’t be disappointed.’

      But Bertram’s Hotel had not changed. It was just as it had always been. Quite miraculously so, in Miss Marple’s opinion. In fact, she wondered …

      It really seemed too good to be true. She knew quite well, with her usual clear-eyed common sense, that what she wanted was simply to refurbish her memories of the past in their old original colours. Much of her life had, perforce, to be spent recalling past pleasures. If you could find someone to remember them with, that was indeed happiness. Nowadays that was not easy to do; she had outlived most of her contemporaries. But she still sat and remembered. In a queer way, it made her come to life again—Jane Marple, that pink and white eager young girl … Such a silly girl in many ways … now who was that very unsuitable young man whose name—oh dear, she couldn’t even remember it now! How wise her mother had been to nip that friendship so firmly in the bud. She had come across him years later—and really he was quite dreadful! At the time she had cried herself to sleep for at least a week!

      Nowadays, of course—she considered nowadays … These poor young things. Some of them had mothers, but never mothers who seemed to be any good—mothers who were quite incapable of protecting their daughters from silly affairs, illegitimate babies, and early and unfortunate marriages. It was all very sad.

      Her friend’s voice interrupted these meditations.

      ‘Well, I never. Is it—yes, it is—Bess Sedgwick over there! Of all the unlikely places—’

      Miss Marple had been listening with only half an ear to Lady Selina’s comments on her surroundings. She and Miss Marple moved in entirely different circles, so that Miss Marple had been unable to exchange scandalous tit-bits about the various friends or acquaintances that Lady Selina recognized or thought she recognized.

      But Bess Sedgwick was different. Bess Sedgwick was a name that almost everyone in England knew. For over thirty years now, Bess Sedgwick had been reported by the Press as doing this or that outrageous or extraordinary thing. For a good part of the war she had been a member of the French Resistance, and was said to have six notches on her gun representing dead Germans. She had flown solo across the Atlantic years ago, had ridden on horseback across Europe and fetched up at Lake Van. She had driven racing cars, had once saved two children from a burning house, had several marriages to her credit and discredit and was said to be the second best-dressed woman in Europe. It was also said that she had successfully smuggled herself aboard a nuclear submarine on its test voyage.

      It was therefore with the most intense interest that Miss Marple sat up and indulged in a frankly avid stare.

      Whatever she had expected of Bertram’s Hotel, it was not to find Bess Sedgwick there. An expensive night club, or a lorry drivers’ pull up—either of those would be quite in keeping with Bess Sedgwick’s wide range of interests. But this highly respectable and old world hostelry seemed strangely alien.

      Still there she was—no doubt of it. Hardly a month passed without Bess Sedgwick’s face appearing in the fashion magazines or the popular press. Here she was in the flesh, smoking a cigarette in a quick impatient manner and looking in a surprised way at the large tea tray in front of her as though she had never seen one before. She had ordered—Miss Marple screwed up her eyes and peered—it was rather far away—yes, doughnuts. Very interesting.

      As she watched, Bess Sedgwick stubbed out her cigarette in her saucer, lifted a doughnut and took an immense bite. Rich red real strawberry jam gushed out over her chin. Bess threw back her head and laughed, one of the loudest and gayest sounds to have been heard in the lounge of Bertram’s Hotel for some time.

      Henry was immediately beside her, a small delicate napkin proffered. She took it, scrubbed her chin with the vigour of a schoolboy, exclaiming: ‘That’s what I call a real doughnut. Gorgeous.’

      She dropped the napkin on the tray and stood up. As usual every eye was on her. She was used to that. Perhaps she liked it, perhaps she no longer noticed it. She was worth looking at—a striking woman rather than a beautiful one. The palest of platinum hair fell sleek and smooth to her shoulders. The bones of her head and face were exquisite. Her nose was faintly aquiline, her eyes deep set and a real grey in colour. She had the wide mouth of a natural comedian. Her dress was of such simplicity that it puzzled most men. It looked like the coarsest kind of sacking, had no ornamentation of any kind, and no apparent fastening or seams. But women knew better. Even the provincial old dears in Bertram’s knew, quite certainly, that it had cost the earth!

      Striding across the lounge towards the lift, she passed quite close to Lady Selina and Miss Marple, and she nodded to the former.

      ‘Hello, Lady Selina. Haven’t seen you since Crufts. How are the Borzois?’

      ‘What on earth are you doing here, Bess?’

      ‘Just staying here. I’ve just driven up from Land’s End. Four hours and three quarters. Not bad.’

      ‘You’ll kill yourself one of these days. Or someone else.’

      ‘Oh I hope not.’

      ‘But why are you staying here?’

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