At Bertram's Hotel Read Free Page B

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' lunch counter - 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 elevator, she passed quite close to Lady Selina and Miss Marple, and she nodded to the former.
    “Hello, Lady Selina. Haven't seen you since Crults. 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?”
    Bess Sedgwick threw a swift glance round. She seemed to see the point and acknowledge it with an ironic smile.
    “Someone told me I ought to try it. I think they're right. I've just had the most marvellous doughnut.”
    “My dear, they have real muffins too.”
    “Muffins,” said Lady Sedgwick thoughtfully. “Yes.” She seemed to concede the point. “Muffins!”
    She nodded and went on towards the elevator. “Extraordinary girl,” said Lady Selina. To her, like to Miss Marple, every woman under sixty was a girl. “Known her ever since she was a child. Nobody could do anything with her. Ran away with an Irish groom when she was sixteen. They managed to get her