Author: Agatha Christie
Date: 2011-08-31 23:00:00+00:00
Keywords: kindle; fiction; mystery
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Rights: Text &#x00A9; Agatha Christie 2011

The Case of the Perfect Maid

A Short Story
by Agatha Christie

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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Copyright © 2011 Agatha Christie Ltd.

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EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007452187
Version: 2017-04-18

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

The Case of the Perfect Maid

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About the Publisher

The Case of the Perfect Maid

‘The Case of the Perfect Maid’ was first published as ‘The Perfect Maid’ in Strand Magazine, April 1942, and then in the USA as ‘The Maid Who Disappeared’ in the Chicago Sunday Tribune, 13 September 1942.

‘Oh, if you please, madam, could I speak to you a moment?’

It might be thought that this request was in the nature of an absurdity, since Edna, Miss Marple’s little maid, was actually speaking to her mistress at the moment.

Recognizing the idiom, however, Miss Marple said promptly, ‘Certainly, Edna, come in and shut the door. What is it?’

Obediently shutting the door, Edna advanced into the room, pleated the corner of her apron between her fingers, and swallowed once or twice.

‘Yes, Edna?’ said Miss Marple encouragingly.

‘Oh, please, ma’am, it’s my cousin, Gladdie.’

‘Dear me,’ said Miss Marple, her mind leaping to the worst – and, alas, the most usual conclusion. ‘Not – not in trouble?’

Edna hastened to reassure her. ‘Oh, no, ma’am, nothing of that kind. Gladdie’s not that kind of girl. It’s just that she’s upset. You see, she’s lost her place.’

‘Dear me, I am sorry to hear that. She was at Old Hall, wasn’t she, with the Miss – Misses – Skinner?’

‘Yes, ma’am, that’s right, ma’am. And Gladdie’s very upset about it – very upset indeed.’

‘Gladys has changed places rather often before, though, hasn’t she?’

‘Oh, yes, ma’am. She’s always one for a change, Gladdie is. She never seems to get really settled, if you know what I mean. But she’s always been the one to give the notice, you see!’

‘And this time it’s the other way round?’ asked Miss Marple dryly.

‘Yes, ma’am, and it’s upset Gladdie something awful.’

Miss Marple looked slightly surprised. Her recollection of Gladys, who had occasionally come to drink tea in the kitchen on her ‘days out’, was a stout, giggling girl of unshakably equable temperament.

Edna went on. ‘You see, ma’am, it’s the way it happened – the way Miss Skinner looked.’

‘How,’ enquired Miss Marple patiently, ‘did Miss Skinner look?’ This time Edna got well away with her news bulletin.

‘Oh, ma’am, it was ever such a shock to Gladdie. You see, one of Miss Emily’s brooches was missing, and such a hue and cry for it as never was, and of course nobody likes a thing like that to happen; it’s upsetting, ma’am, if you know what I mean. And Gladdie’s helped search everywhere, and there was Miss Lavinia saying she was going to the police about it, and then it turned up again, pushed right to the back of a drawer in the dressing-table, and very thankful Gladdie was.

‘And the very next day as ever was a plate got broken, and Miss Lavinia she bounced out right away and told Gladdie to take a month’s notice. And what Gladdie feels is it couldn’t have been the plate and that Miss Lavinia was just making an excuse of that, and that it must be because of the brooch and they think as she took it and put it back when the police was mentioned, and Gladdie wouldn’t do such a thing, not never she wouldn’t, and what she feels is as it will get round and tell against her and it’s a very serious thing for a girl, as you know, ma’am.’

Miss Marple nodded. Though having no particular liking for the bouncing, self-opinionated Gladys, she was quite sure of the girl’s intrinsic honesty and could well imagine that the affair must have upset her.

Edna said wistfully, ‘I suppose, ma’am, there isn’t anything you could do about it? Gladdie’s in ever such a taking.’

‘Tell her not to be silly,’ said Miss Marple crisply. ‘If she didn’t take the brooch – which I’m sure she didn’t – then she has no cause to be upset.’

‘It’ll get about,’ said Edna dismally.

Miss Marple said, ‘I – er – am going up that way this afternoon. I’ll have a word with the Misses Skinner.’

‘Oh, thank you, madam,’ said Edna.

Old Hall was a big Victorian house surrounded by woods and park land. Since it had been proved unlettable and unsaleable as it was, an enterprising speculator had divided it into four flats with a central hot-water system, and the use of ‘the grounds’ to be held in common by the tenants. The experiment had been satisfactory. A rich and eccentric old lady and her maid occupied one flat. The old lady had a passion for birds and entertained a feathered gathering to meals every day. A retired Indian judge and his wife rented a second. A very young couple, recently married, occupied the third, and the fourth had been taken only two months ago by two maiden ladies of the name of Skinner. The four sets of tenants were only on the most distant terms with each other, since none of them had anything in common. The landlord had been heard to say that this was an excellent thing. What he dreaded were friendships followed by estrangements and subsequent complaints to him.

Miss Marple was acquainted with all the tenants, though she knew none of them well. The elder Miss Skinner, Miss Lavinia, was what might be termed the working member of the firm. Miss Emily, the younger, spent most of her time in bed suffering from various complaints which, in the opinion of St Mary Mead, were largely imaginary. Only Miss Lavinia believed devoutly in her sister’s martyrdom and patience under affliction, and willingly ran errands and trotted up and down to the village for things that ‘my sister had suddenly fancied’.

It was the view of St Mary Mead that if Miss Emily suffered half as much as she said she did, she would have sent for Doctor Haydock long ago. But Miss Emily, when this was hinted to her, shut her eyes in a superior way and murmured that her case was not a simple one – the best specialists in London had been baffled by it – and that a wonderful new man had put her on a most revolutionary course of treatment and that she really hoped her health would improve under it. No humdrum GP could possibly understand her case.

‘And it’s my opinion,’ said the outspoken Miss Hartnell, ‘that she’s very wise not to send for him. Dear Doctor Haydock, in that breezy manner of his, would tell her that there was nothing the matter with her and to get up and not make a fuss! Do her a lot of good!’

Failing such arbitrary treatment, however, Miss Emily continued to lie on sofas, to surround herself with strange little pill boxes, and to reject nearly everything that had been cooked for her and ask for something else – usually something difficult and inconvenient to get.

The door was opened to Miss Marple by ‘Gladdie’, looking more depressed than Miss Marple had ever thought possible. In the sitting-room (a quarter of the late drawing-room, which had been partitioned into a dining-room, drawing-room, bathroom, and housemaid’s cupboard), Miss Lavinia rose to greet Miss Marple.

Lavinia Skinner was a tall, gaunt, bony female of fifty. She had a gruff voice and an abrupt manner.

‘Nice to see you,’ she said. ‘Emily’s lying down – feeling low today, poor dear. Hope she’ll see you, it would cheer her up, but there are times when she doesn’t feel up to seeing anybody. Poor dear, she’s wonderfully patient.’

Miss Marple responded politely. Servants were the main topic of conversation in St Mary Mead, so it was not difficult to lead the conversation in that direction. Miss Marple said she had heard that that nice girl, Gladys Holmes, was leaving.

Miss Lavinia nodded.

‘Wednesday week. Broke things, you know. Can’t have that.’

Miss Marple sighed and said we all had to put up with things nowadays. It was so difficult to get girls to come to the country. Did Miss Skinner really think it was wise to part with Gladys?

‘Know it’s difficult to get servants,’ admitted Miss Lavinia. ‘The Devereuxs haven’t got anybody – but then, I don’t wonder – always quarrelling, jazz on all night – meals any time – that girl knows nothing of housekeeping. I pity her husband! Then the Larkins have just lost their maid. Of course, what with the judge’s Indian temper and his wanting chota hazri, as he calls it, at six in the morning and Mrs Larkin always fussing, I don’t wonder at that, either. Mrs Carmichael’s Janet is a fixture of course – though in my opinion she’s the most disagreeable woman, and absolutely bullies the old lady.’

‘Then don’t you think you might reconsider your decision about Gladys? She really is a nice girl. I know all her family; very honest and superior.’

Miss Lavinia shook her head. ‘I’ve got my reasons,’ she said importantly.

Miss Marple murmured, ‘You missed a brooch, I understand –’

‘Now, who has been talking? I suppose the girl has. Quite frankly, I’m almost certain she took it. And then got frightened and put it back – but, of course, one can’t say anything unless one is sure.’ She changed the subject. ‘Do come and see Emily, Miss Marple. I’m sure it would do her good.’

Miss Marple followed meekly to where Miss Lavinia knocked on a door, was bidden enter, and ushered her guest into the best room in the flat, most of the light of which was excluded by half-drawn blinds. Miss Emily was lying in bed, apparently enjoying the half-gloom and her own indefinite sufferings.

The dim light showed her to be a thin, indecisive-looking creature, with a good deal of greyish-yellow hair untidily wound around her head and erupting into curls, the whole thing looking like a bird’s nest of which no self-respecting bird could be proud. There was a smell in the room of Eau de Cologne, stale biscuits, and camphor.

With half-closed eyes and a thin, weak voice, Emily Skinner explained that this was ‘one of her bad days’.

‘The worst of ill health is,’ said Miss Emily in a melancholy tone, ‘that one knows what a burden one is to everyone around one.

‘Lavinia is very good to me. Lavvie dear, I do so hate giving trouble but if my hot-water bottle could only be filled in the way I like it – too full it weighs on me so – on the other hand, if it is not sufficiently filled, it gets cold immediately!’

‘I’m sorry, dear. Give it to me. I will empty a little out.’

‘Perhaps, if you’re doing that, it might be refilled. There are no rusks in the house, I suppose – no, no, it doesn’t matter. I can do without. Some weak tea and a slice of lemon – no lemons? No, really, I couldn’t drink tea without lemon. I think the milk was slightly turned this morning. It has put me against milk in my tea. It doesn’t matter. I can do without my tea. Only I do feel so weak. Oysters, they say, are nourishing. I wonder if I could fancy a few? No, no, too much bother to get hold of them so late in the day. I can fast until tomorrow.’

Lavinia left the room murmuring something incoherent about bicycling down to the village.

Miss Emily smiled feebly at her guest and remarked that she did hate giving anyone any trouble.

Miss Marple told Edna that evening that she was afraid her embassy had met with no success.

She was rather troubled to find that rumours as to Gladys’s dishonesty were already going around the village.

In the post office, Miss Wetherby tackled her. ‘My dear Jane, they gave her a written reference saying she was willing and sober and respectable, but saying nothing about honesty. That seems to me most significant! I hear there was some trouble about a brooch. I think there must be something in it, you know, because one doesn’t let a servant go nowadays unless it’s something rather grave. They’ll find it most difficult to get anyone else. Girls simply will not go to Old Hall. They’re nervous coming home on their days out. You’ll see, the Skinners won’t find anyone else, and then, perhaps, that dreadful hypochondriac sister will have to get up and do something!’

Great was the chagrin of the village when it was made known that the Misses Skinner had engaged, from an agency, a new maid who, by all accounts, was a perfect paragon.

‘A three-years’ reference recommending her most warmly, she prefers the country, and actually asks less wages than Gladys. I really feel we have been most fortunate.’

‘Well, really,’ said Miss Marple, to whom these details were imparted by Miss Lavinia in the fishmonger’s shop. ‘It does seem too good to be true.’

It then became the opinion of St Mary Mead that the paragon would cry off at the last minute and fail to arrive.

None of these prognostications came true, however, and the village was able to observe the domestic treasure, by name, Mary Higgins, driving through the village in Reed’s taxi to Old Hall. It had to be admitted that her appearance was good. A most respectable-looking woman, very neatly dressed.

When Miss Marple next visited Old Hall, on the occasion of recruiting stall-holders for the vicarage fete, Mary Higgins opened the door. She was certainly a most superior-looking maid, at a guess forty years of age, with neat black hair, rosy cheeks, a plump figure discreetly arrayed in black with a white apron and cap – ‘quite the good, old-fashioned type of servant,’ as Miss Marple explained afterwards, and with the proper, inaudible respectful voice, so different from the loud but adenoidal accents of Gladys.

Miss Lavinia was looking far less harassed than usual and, although she regretted that she could not take a stall owing to her preoccupation with her sister, she nevertheless tendered a handsome monetary contribution, and promised to produce a consignment of pen-wipers and babies’ socks.

Miss Marple commented on her air of well-being. ‘I really feel I owe a great deal to Mary, I am so thankful I had the resolution to get rid of that other girl. Mary is really invaluable. Cooks nicely and waits beautifully and keeps our little flat scrupulously clean – mattresses turned over every day. And she is really wonderful with Emily!’

Miss Marple hastily enquired after Emily. ‘Oh, poor dear, she has been very much under the weather lately. She can’t help it, of course, but it really makes things a little difficult sometimes. Wanting certain things cooked and then, when they come, saying she can’t eat now – and then wanting them again half an hour later and everything spoiled and having to be done again. It makes, of course, a lot of work – but fortunately Mary does not seem to mind at all. She’s used to waiting on invalids, she says, and understands them. It is such a comfort.’

‘Dear me,’ said Miss Marple. ‘You are fortunate.’

‘Yes, indeed. I really feel Mary has been sent to us as an answer to prayer.’

‘She sounds to me,’ said Miss Marple, ‘almost too good to be true. I should – well, I should be a little careful if I were you.’

Lavinia Skinner failed to perceive the point of this remark. She said, ‘Oh! I assure you I do all I can to make her comfortable. I don’t know what I should do if she left.’

‘I don’t expect she’ll leave until she’s ready to leave,’ said Miss Marple and stared very hard at her hostess.

Miss Lavinia said, ‘If one has no domestic worries, it takes such a load off one’s mind, doesn’t it? How is your little Edna shaping?’

‘She’s doing quite nicely. Not much head, of course. Not like your Mary. Still, I do know all about Edna because she’s a village girl.’

As she went out into the hall she heard the invalid’s voice fretfully raised. ‘This compress has been allowed to get quite dry – Doctor Allerton particularly said moisture continually renewed. There, there, leave it. I want a cup of tea and a boiled egg – boiled only three minutes and a half, remember, and send Miss Lavinia to me.’

The efficient Mary emerged from the bedroom and, saying to Lavinia, ‘Miss Emily is asking for you, madam,’ proceeded to open the door for Miss Marple, helping her into her coat and handing her her umbrella in the most irreproachable fashion.

Miss Marple took the umbrella, dropped it, tried to pick it up, and dropped her bag, which flew open. Mary politely retrieved various odds and ends – a handkerchief, an engagement book, an old-fashioned leather purse, two shillings, three pennies, and a striped piece of peppermint rock.

Miss Marple received the last with some signs of confusion. ‘Oh, dear, that must have been Mrs Clement’s little boy. He was sucking it, I remember, and he took my bag to play with. He must have put it inside. It’s terribly sticky, isn’t it?’

‘Shall I take it, madam?’

‘Oh, would you? Thank you so much.’

Mary stooped to retrieve the last item, a small mirror, upon recovering which Miss Marple exclaimed fervently, ‘How lucky, now, that that isn’t broken.’

She thereupon departed, Mary standing politely by the door holding a piece of striped rock with a completely expressionless face.

For ten days longer St Mary Mead had to endure hearing of the excellencies of Miss Lavinia’s and Miss Emily’s treasure.

On the eleventh day, the village awoke to its big thrill.

Mary, the paragon, was missing! Her bed had not been slept in, and the front door was found ajar. She had slipped out quietly during the night.

And not Mary alone was missing! Two brooches and five rings of Miss Lavinia’s; three rings, a pendant, a bracelet, and four brooches of Miss Emily’s were missing, also!

It was the beginning of a chapter of catastrophe.

Young Mrs Devereux had lost her diamonds which she kept in an unlocked drawer and also some valuable furs given to her as a wedding present. The judge and his wife also had had jewellery taken and a certain amount of money. Mrs Carmichael was the greatest sufferer. Not only had she some very valuable jewels but she also kept in the flat a large sum of money which had gone. It had been Janet’s evening out, and her mistress was in the habit of walking round the gardens at dusk calling to the birds and scattering crumbs. It seemed clear that Mary, the perfect maid, had had keys to fit all the flats!

There was, it must be confessed, a certain amount of ill-natured pleasure in St Mary Mead. Miss Lavinia had boasted so much of her marvellous Mary.

‘And all the time, my dear, just a common thief!’

Interesting revelations followed. Not only had Mary disappeared into the blue, but the agency who had provided her and vouched for her credentials was alarmed to find that the Mary Higgins who had applied to them and whose references they had taken up had, to all intents and purposes, never existed. It was the name of a bona fide servant who had lived with the bona fide sister of a dean, but the real Mary Higgins was existing peacefully in a place in Cornwall.

‘Damned clever, the whole thing,’ Inspector Slack was forced to admit. ‘And, if you ask me, that woman works with a gang. There was a case of much the same kind in Northumberland a year ago. Stuff was never traced, and they never caught her. However, we’ll do better than that in Much Benham!’

Inspector Slack was always a confident man.

Nevertheless, weeks passed, and Mary Higgins remained triumphantly at large. In vain Inspector Slack redoubled that energy that so belied his name.

Miss Lavinia remained tearful. Miss Emily was so upset, and felt so alarmed by her condition that she actually sent for Doctor Haydock.

The whole of the village was terribly anxious to know what he thought of Miss Emily’s claims to ill health, but naturally could not ask him. Satisfactory data came to hand on the subject, however, through Mr Meek, the chemist’s assistant, who was walking out with Clara, Mrs Price-Ridley’s maid. It was then known that Doctor Haydock had prescribed a mixture of asafoetida and valerian which, according to Mr Meek, was the stock remedy for malingerers in the army!

Soon afterwards it was learned that Miss Emily, not relishing the medical attention she had had, was declaring that in the state of her health she felt it her duty to be near the specialist in London who understood her case. It was, she said, only fair to Lavinia.

The flat was put up for subletting.

* * *

It was a few days after that that Miss Marple, rather pink and flustered, called at the police station in Much Benham and asked for Inspector Slack.

Inspector Slack did not like Miss Marple. But he was aware that the Chief Constable, Colonel Melchett, did not share that opinion. Rather grudgingly, therefore, he received her.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Marple, what can I do for you?’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Miss Marple, ‘I’m afraid you’re in a hurry.’

‘Lots of work on,’ said Inspector Slack, ‘but I can spare a few moments.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Miss Marple. ‘I hope I shall be able to put what I say properly. So difficult, you know, to explain oneself, don’t you think? No, perhaps you don’t. But you see, not having been educated in the modern style – just a governess, you know, who taught one the dates of the kings of England and general knowledge – Doctor Brewer – three kinds of diseases of wheat – blight, mildew – now what was the third – was it smut?’

‘Do you want to talk about smut?’ asked Inspector Slack and then blushed.

‘Oh, no, no.’ Miss Marple hastily disclaimed any wish to talk about smut. ‘Just an illustration, you know. And how needles are made, and all that. Discursive, you know, but not teaching one to keep to the point. Which is what I want to do. It’s about Miss Skinner’s maid, Gladys, you know.’

‘Mary Higgins,’ said Inspector Slack.

‘Oh, yes, the second maid. But it’s Gladys Holmes I mean – rather an impertinent girl and far too pleased with herself but really strictly honest, and it’s so important that that should be recognized.’

‘No charge against her so far as I know,’ said the inspector.

‘No, I know there isn’t a charge – but that makes it worse. Because, you see, people go on thinking things. Oh, dear – I knew I should explain things badly. What I really mean is that the important thing is to find Mary Higgins.’

‘Certainly,’ said Inspector Slack. ‘Have you any ideas on the subject?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, I have,’ said Miss Marple. ‘May I ask you a question? Are fingerprints of no use to you?’

‘Ah,’ said Inspector Slack, ‘that’s where she was a bit too artful for us. Did most of her work in rubber gloves or housemaid’s gloves, it seems. And she’d been careful – wiped off everything in her bedroom and on the sink. Couldn’t find a single fingerprint in the place!’

‘If you did have fingerprints, would it help?’

‘It might, madam. They may be known at the Yard. This isn’t her first job, I’d say!’

Miss Marple nodded brightly. She opened her bag and extracted a small cardboard box. Inside it, wedged in cotton wool, was a small mirror.

‘From my handbag,’ said Miss Marple. ‘The maid’s prints are on it. I think they should be satisfactory – she touched an extremely sticky substance a moment previously.’

Inspector Slack stared.

‘Did you get her fingerprints on purpose?’

‘Of course.’

‘You suspected her then?’

‘Well, you know, it did strike me that she was a little too good to be true. I practically told Miss Lavinia so. But she simply wouldn’t take the hint! I’m afraid, you know, Inspector, that I don’t believe in paragons. Most of us have our faults – and domestic service shows them up very quickly!’

‘Well,’ said Inspector Slack, recovering his balance, ‘I’m obliged to you, I’m sure. We’ll send these up to the Yard and see what they have to say.’

He stopped. Miss Marple had put her head a little on one side and was regarding him with a good deal of meaning.

‘You wouldn’t consider, I suppose, Inspector, looking a little nearer home?’

‘What do you mean, Miss Marple?’

‘It’s very difficult to explain, but when you come across a peculiar thing you notice it. Although, often, peculiar things may be the merest trifles. I’ve felt that all along, you know; I mean about Gladys and the brooch. She’s an honest girl; she didn’t take that brooch. Then why did Miss Skinner think she did? Miss Skinner’s not a fool; far from it! Why was she so anxious to let a girl go who was a good servant when servants are hard to get? It was peculiar, you know. So I wondered. I wondered a good deal. And I noticed another peculiar thing! Miss Emily’s a hypochondriac, but she’s the first hypochondriac who hasn’t sent for some doctor or other at once. Hypochondriacs love doctors, Miss Emily didn’t!’

‘What are you suggesting, Miss Marple?’

‘Well, I’m suggesting, you know, that Miss Lavinia and Miss Emily are peculiar people. Miss Emily spends nearly all her time in a dark room. And if that hair of hers isn’t a wig I – I’ll eat my own back switch! And what I say is this – it’s perfectly possible for a thin, pale, grey-haired, whining woman to be the same as a black-haired, rosy-cheeked, plump woman. And nobody that I can find ever saw Miss Emily and Mary Higgins at one and the same time.

‘Plenty of time to get impressions of all the keys, plenty of time to find out all about the other tenants, and then – get rid of the local girl. Miss Emily takes a brisk walk across country one night and arrives at the station as Mary Higgins next day. And then, at the right moment, Mary Higgins disappears, and off goes the hue and cry after her. I’ll tell you where you’ll find her, Inspector. On Miss Emily Skinner’s sofa! Get her fingerprints if you don’t believe me, but you’ll find I’m right! A couple of clever thieves, that’s what the Skinners are – and no doubt in league with a clever post and rails or fence or whatever you call it. But they won’t get away with it this time! I’m not going to have one of our village girls’ character for honesty taken away like that! Gladys Holmes is as honest as the day, and everybody’s going to know it! Good afternoon!’

Miss Marple had stalked out before Inspector Slack had recovered.

‘Whew?’ he muttered. ‘I wonder if she’s right?’

He soon found out that Miss Marple was right again.

Colonel Melchett congratulated Slack on his efficiency, and Miss Marple had Gladys come to tea with Edna and spoke to her seriously on settling down in a good situation when she got one.

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