My Fic: Sage and Onions: Gen
Aug. 12th, 2021 03:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stonepicnicking_okapiTitle: Sage and Onions
Fandom: Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Length: 700
Rating: Gen
Characters: Miss Marple, OC
For: My gen prompt bingo square B-3: Venerable
Notes: Based on the Agatha Christie short story "The Herb of Death" and should be considered SPOILERS for that work.
Summary: Miss Marple visits the graves of Sir Ambrose Bercy and Sylvia Keene.
Miss Marple stood before the grave, flowers in her hand and at her back, at a respectable not-quite arms’ length, the young lady’s companion with whom her nephew Raymond West had so generously supplied her.
Miss Marple studied the grave. It was adorned with carved marble, a venerable tribute to what most of the world probably considered a venerable personage.
And maybe he had been for most his life. But not at the end, no.
Miss Marple knew there was nothing venerable about the end of this person’s life.
Dolly Bantry had told the tale at one of the Tuesday evening gatherings of attending by Sir Henry Clithering, Doctor Lloyd, the Bantrys, Jane Helier, and Miss Marple where they’d each taken a turn and presented an unsolved mystery for the group to test their wits upon.
Dolly’s story might have been called “The Herb of Death,” but Dolly herself preferred the title “Sage and Onions,” and that was how Miss Marple thought of it.
Miss Marple also thought of the protagonist of that mystery in the pseudonym Dolly had given him: Sir Ambrose Bercy.
That was not, of course, the name carved in the marble before Miss Marple’s eyes, but it hardly mattered.
How had Dolly described him?
Very distinguished-looking. Possessed of very charming manners. Courtly. Beautiful hair. A charming voice.
In a word, venerable.
But a murderer all the same.
Miss Marple spied a tiny crack at the base of the grave marker, and she imagined the fissure extending up, up, up with time, growing larger until it split the hard stone in two.
It would be an apt metaphor for the obsession that had led Sir Ambrose to murder his young ward. He refused to let her be taken from him in the form of marriage and so he’d sown the foxglove among the sage and had the girl herself take the leaves to the cook. Then Sir Ambrose had poisoned his ward with his own prescribed digitalis while the rest of the household suffered a confounding mild food poisoning from the foxglove leaves eaten at dinner.
Wicked, thought Miss Marple.
Venerable gentlemen are sometimes very peculiar indeed where young girls are concerned, but it was still wickedness.
Miss Marple moved away from Sir Ambrose’s grave. She noted her shadow companion followed her as she moved, steadily and slowly, not impeding Miss Marple but there just in case a foot slipped or an uneven patch threatened.
In less than ten paces, Miss Marple found the plot of the girl that Dolly Bantry had called Sylvia Keene.
Miss Marple laid her flowers gently on the simple gravestone and sighed.
The pretty and the charming and the young and the very stupid, she prayed, angels preserve them, and if the angels are busy, well, then were that Providence allowed a bit of—and here Miss Marple indulged in a silent pun—Sage and Onion advice from an aged spinster to penetrate their illusion of invincibility.
If I had been there instead of Dolly, thought Miss Marple, I would’ve warned you, but I don’t know that you would’ve listened. Nevertheless, I would’ve done my utmost.
There was venerable and there was vulnerable, and Miss Marple knew precisely where her allegiance lay.
Finally, she turned.
“I am done here,” said Miss Marple to her waiting companion. “Thank you for being patient with me.”
“Not at all,” said the other, whose name was Una. “The coach is ready.”
They walked side-by-side, Miss Marple taking the girl’s arm quite naturally.
“Did you know them?” asked Una.
“No, I didn’t,” admitted Miss Marple. “But I knew of them, and I wanted to pay my respects. Theirs is, if I may say so, a rather interesting story. Might I tell it to you on the way to the hotel?”
“Of course,” said Una.
Miss Marple recounted the Sage and Onions story, and Una listened attentively.
When Miss Marple had finished, Una was quiet.
“I’ve bored you,” suggested Miss Marple, who knew that not to be the case.
“No, it’s just that Sir Ambrose, the way you describe him, his manners, it reminds me of my own guardian.”
Ah, Miss Marple thought, not so stupid after all.
Fandom: Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Length: 700
Rating: Gen
Characters: Miss Marple, OC
For: My gen prompt bingo square B-3: Venerable
Notes: Based on the Agatha Christie short story "The Herb of Death" and should be considered SPOILERS for that work.
Summary: Miss Marple visits the graves of Sir Ambrose Bercy and Sylvia Keene.
Miss Marple stood before the grave, flowers in her hand and at her back, at a respectable not-quite arms’ length, the young lady’s companion with whom her nephew Raymond West had so generously supplied her.
Miss Marple studied the grave. It was adorned with carved marble, a venerable tribute to what most of the world probably considered a venerable personage.
And maybe he had been for most his life. But not at the end, no.
Miss Marple knew there was nothing venerable about the end of this person’s life.
Dolly Bantry had told the tale at one of the Tuesday evening gatherings of attending by Sir Henry Clithering, Doctor Lloyd, the Bantrys, Jane Helier, and Miss Marple where they’d each taken a turn and presented an unsolved mystery for the group to test their wits upon.
Dolly’s story might have been called “The Herb of Death,” but Dolly herself preferred the title “Sage and Onions,” and that was how Miss Marple thought of it.
Miss Marple also thought of the protagonist of that mystery in the pseudonym Dolly had given him: Sir Ambrose Bercy.
That was not, of course, the name carved in the marble before Miss Marple’s eyes, but it hardly mattered.
How had Dolly described him?
Very distinguished-looking. Possessed of very charming manners. Courtly. Beautiful hair. A charming voice.
In a word, venerable.
But a murderer all the same.
Miss Marple spied a tiny crack at the base of the grave marker, and she imagined the fissure extending up, up, up with time, growing larger until it split the hard stone in two.
It would be an apt metaphor for the obsession that had led Sir Ambrose to murder his young ward. He refused to let her be taken from him in the form of marriage and so he’d sown the foxglove among the sage and had the girl herself take the leaves to the cook. Then Sir Ambrose had poisoned his ward with his own prescribed digitalis while the rest of the household suffered a confounding mild food poisoning from the foxglove leaves eaten at dinner.
Wicked, thought Miss Marple.
Venerable gentlemen are sometimes very peculiar indeed where young girls are concerned, but it was still wickedness.
Miss Marple moved away from Sir Ambrose’s grave. She noted her shadow companion followed her as she moved, steadily and slowly, not impeding Miss Marple but there just in case a foot slipped or an uneven patch threatened.
In less than ten paces, Miss Marple found the plot of the girl that Dolly Bantry had called Sylvia Keene.
Miss Marple laid her flowers gently on the simple gravestone and sighed.
The pretty and the charming and the young and the very stupid, she prayed, angels preserve them, and if the angels are busy, well, then were that Providence allowed a bit of—and here Miss Marple indulged in a silent pun—Sage and Onion advice from an aged spinster to penetrate their illusion of invincibility.
If I had been there instead of Dolly, thought Miss Marple, I would’ve warned you, but I don’t know that you would’ve listened. Nevertheless, I would’ve done my utmost.
There was venerable and there was vulnerable, and Miss Marple knew precisely where her allegiance lay.
Finally, she turned.
“I am done here,” said Miss Marple to her waiting companion. “Thank you for being patient with me.”
“Not at all,” said the other, whose name was Una. “The coach is ready.”
They walked side-by-side, Miss Marple taking the girl’s arm quite naturally.
“Did you know them?” asked Una.
“No, I didn’t,” admitted Miss Marple. “But I knew of them, and I wanted to pay my respects. Theirs is, if I may say so, a rather interesting story. Might I tell it to you on the way to the hotel?”
“Of course,” said Una.
Miss Marple recounted the Sage and Onions story, and Una listened attentively.
When Miss Marple had finished, Una was quiet.
“I’ve bored you,” suggested Miss Marple, who knew that not to be the case.
“No, it’s just that Sir Ambrose, the way you describe him, his manners, it reminds me of my own guardian.”
Ah, Miss Marple thought, not so stupid after all.