“Eh?”
“Will you tell me exactly what it is that has upset you?”
“Tell you that in two words, I can.” (Here, I may say, she vastly underestimated.) “People coming snooping round here when my back’s turned. Poking round. And what business of hers is it, how often the study is dusted or turned out? If you and the missus don’t complain, it’s nobody else’s business. If I give satisfaction to you that’s all that matters, I say.”
Mary has never given satisfaction to me. I confess that I have a hankering after a room thoroughly dusted and tidied every morning. Mary’s practice of flicking off the more obvious deposit on the surface of low tables is to my thinking grossly inadequate. However, I realized that at the moment it was no good to go into side issues.
“Had to go to that inquest, didn’t I? Standing up before twelve men, a respectable girl like me! And who knows what questions you may be asked. I’ll tell you this. I’ve never before been in a place where they had a murder in the house, and I never want to be again.”
“I hope you won’t,” I said. “On the law of averages, I should say it was very unlikely.”
“I don’t hold with the law. He was a magistrate. Many a poor fellow sent to jail for potting at a rabbit—and him with his pheasants and whatnot. And then, before he’s so much as decently buried, that daughter of his comes round and says I don’t do my work properly.”
“Do you mean that Miss Protheroe has been here?”
“Found her here when I come back from the Blue Boar. In the study she was. And ‘Oh!’ she says. ‘I’m looking for my little yellow berry—a little yellow hat. I left it here the other day.’ ‘Well,’ I says, ‘I haven’t seen no