The Herb of Death: A Miss Marple Short Story. Agatha Christie

Helier?’ he suggested smiling.

      Jane still looked puzzled.

      ‘Characters in order of their appearance,’ said Sir Henry gently.

      ‘Oh, yes,’ said Jane. ‘That’s a good idea.’

      Mrs Bantry began briskly to tick people off on her fingers.

      ‘Sir Ambrose – Sylvia Keene (that’s the girl who died) – a friend of hers who was staying there, Maud Wye, one of those dark ugly girls who manage to make an effort somehow – I never know how they do it. Then there was a Mr Curle who had come down to discuss books with Sir Ambrose – you know, rare books – queer old things in Latin – all musty parchment. There was Jerry Lorimer – he was a kind of next door neighbour. His place, Fairlies, joined Sir Ambrose’s estate. And there was Mrs Carpenter, one of those middle-aged pussies who always seem to manage to dig themselves in comfortably somewhere. She was by way of being dame de compagnie