Agatha Christie

A Murder Is Announced

A Miss Marple Mystery

To Ralph and Anne Newman
at whose house I first tasted
âDelicious Death!â

One

A MURDER IS ANNOUNCED

I

Between 7:30 and 8:30 every morning except Sundays, Johnnie Butt made the round of the village of Chipping Cleghorn on his bicycle, whistling vociferously through his teeth, and alighting at each house or cottage to shove through the letterbox such morning papers as had been ordered by the occupants of the house in question from Mr. Totman, stationer, of the High Street. Thus, at Colonel and Mrs. Easterbrookâs he delivered The Times and the Daily Graphic; at Mrs. Swettenhamâs he left The Times and the Daily Worker; at Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroydâs he left the Daily Telegraph and the New Chronicle; at Miss Blacklockâs he left the Telegraph, The Times and the Daily Mail.

At all these houses, and indeed at practically every house in Chipping Cleghorn, he delivered every Friday a copy of the North Benham News and Chipping Cleghorn Gazette, known locally simply as âthe Gazette.â

Thus, on Friday mornings, after a hurried glance at the headlines in the daily paper

(International situation critical! U.N.O. meets today! Bloodhounds seek blonde typistâs killer! Three collieries idle. Twenty-three die of food poisoning in Seaside Hotel, etc.)

most of the inhabitants of Chipping Cleghorn eagerly opened the Gazette and plunged into the local news. After a cursory glance at Correspondence (in which the passionate hates and feuds of rural life found full play) nine out of ten subscribers then turned to the PERSONAL column. Here were grouped together higgledy-piggledy articles for Sale or Wanted, frenzied appeals for Domestic Help, innumerable insertions regarding dogs, announcements concerning poultry and garden equipment; and various other items of an interesting nature to those living in the small community of Chipping Cleghorn.

This particular Friday, October 29thâwas no exception to the ruleâ

II

Mrs. Swettenham, pushing back the pretty little grey curls from her forehead, opened The Times, looked with a lacklustre eye at the left-hand centre page, decided that, as usual, if there was any exciting news The Times had succeeded in camouflaging it in an impeccable manner; took a look at the Births, Marriages and Deaths, particularly the latter; then, her duty done, she put aside The Times and eagerly seized the Chipping Cleghorn Gazette.

When her son Edmund entered the room a moment later, she was already deep in the Personal Column.

âGood morning, dear,â said Mrs. Swettenham. âThe Smedleys are selling their Daimler. 1935âthatâs rather a long time ago, isnât it?â

Her son grunted, poured himself out a cup of coffee, helped himself to a couple of kippers, sat down at the table and opened the Daily Worker which he propped up against the toast rack.

âBull mastiff puppies,â read out Mrs. Swettenham. âI really donât know how people manage to feed big dogs nowadaysâI really donât â¦ Hâm, Selina Lawrence is advertising for a cook again. I could tell her itâs just a waste of time advertising in these days. She hasnât put her address, only a box numberâthatâs quite fatalâI could have told her soâservants simply insist on knowing where they are going. They like a good address â¦ False teethâI canât think why false teeth are so popular. Best prices paid â¦ Beautiful bulbs. Our special selection. They sound rather cheap â¦ Hereâs a girl wants an âInteresting postâWould travel.â I dare say! Who wouldnât?â¦ Dachshundsâ¦ Iâve never really cared for dachshunds myselfâI donât mean because theyâre German, because weâve got over all thatâI just donât care for them, thatâs all.âYes, Mrs. Finch?â

The door had opened to admit the head and torso of a grim-looking female in an aged velvet beret.

âGood morning, Mum,â said Mrs. Finch. âCan I clear?â

âNot yet. We havenât finished,â said Mrs. Swettenham. âNot quite finished,â she added ingratiatingly.

Casting a look at Edmund and his paper, Mrs. Finch sniffed, and withdrew.

âIâve only just begun,â said Edmund, just as his mother remarked:

âI do wish you wouldnât read that horrid paper, Edmund. Mrs. Finch doesnât like it at all.â

âI donât see what my political views have to do with Mrs. Finch.â

âAnd it isnât,â pursued Mrs. Swettenham, âas though you were a worker. You donât do any work at all.â

âThatâs not in the least true,â said Edmund indignantly. âIâm writing a book.â

âI meant real work,â said Mrs. Swettenham. âAnd Mrs. Finch does matter. If she takes a dislike to us and wonât come, who else could we get?â

âAdvertise in the Gazette,â said Edmund, grinning.

âIâve just told you thatâs no use. Oh dear me, nowadays unless one has an old Nannie in the family, who will go into the kitchen and do everything, one is simply sunk.â

âWell, why havenât we an old Nannie? How remiss of you not to have provided me with one. What were you thinking about?â

âYou had an ayah, dear.â

âNo foresight,â murmured Edmund.

Mrs. Swettenham was once more deep in the Personal Column.

âSecond hand Motor Mower for sale. Now I wonder â¦ Goodness, what a price!â¦ More dachshunds â¦ âDo write or communicate desperate Woggles.â What silly nicknames people have â¦ Cocker Spanielsâ¦ Do you remember darling Susie, Edmund? She really was human. Understood every word you said to her â¦ Sheraton sideboard for sale. Genuine family antique. Mrs. Lucas, Dayas Hall â¦ What a liar that woman is! Sheraton indeed â¦!â

Mrs. Swettenham sniffed and then continued her reading:

âAll a mistake, darling. Undying love. Friday as usual.âJ â¦ I suppose theyâve had a loversâ quarrelâor do you think itâs a code for burglars?â¦ More dachshunds! Really, I do think people have gone a little crazy about breeding dachshunds. I mean, there are other dogs. Your Uncle Simon used to breed Manchester Terriers. Such graceful little things. I do like dogs with legs â¦ Lady going abroad will sell her navy two piece suiting â¦ no measurements or price given â¦ A marriage is announcedâno, a murder. What? Well, I never! Edmund, Edmund, listen to thisâ¦.

A murder is announced and will take place on Friday, October 29th, at Little Paddocks at 6:30 p.m. Friends please accept this, the only intimation.

What an extraordinary thing! Edmund!â

âWhatâs that?â Edmund looked up from his newspaper.

âFriday, October 29th â¦ Why, thatâs today.â

âLet me see.â Her son took the paper from her.

âBut what does it mean?â Mrs. Swettenham asked with lively curiosity.

Edmund Swettenham rubbed his nose doubtfully.

âSome sort of party, I suppose. The Murder GameâThat kind of thing.â

âOh,â said Mrs. Swettenham doubtfully. âIt seems a very odd way of doing it. Just sticking it in the advertisements like that. Not at all like Letitia Blacklock who always seems to me such a sensible woman.â

âProbably got up by the bright young things she has in the house.â

âItâs very short notice. Today. Do you think weâre just supposed to go?â

âIt says âFriends, please accept this, the only intimation,ââ her son pointed out.

âWell, I think these newfangled ways of giving invitations are very tiresome,â said Mrs. Swettenham decidedly.

âAll right, Mother, you neednât go.â

âNo,â agreed Mrs. Swettenham.

There was a pause.

âDo you really want that last piece of toast, Edmund?â

âI should have thought my being properly nourished mattered more than letting that old hag clear the table.â

âSh, dear, sheâll hear you â¦ Edmund, what happens at a Murder Game?â

âI donât know, exactly â¦ They pin pieces of paper upon you, or something â¦ No, I think you draw them out of a hat. And somebodyâs the victim and somebody else is a detectiveâand then they turn the lights out and somebody taps you on the shoulder and then you scream and lie down and sham dead.â

âIt sounds quite exciting.â

âProbably a beastly bore. Iâm not going.â

âNonsense, Edmund,â said Mrs. Swettenham resolutely. âIâm going and youâre coming with me. Thatâs settled!â

III

âArchie,â said Mrs. Easterbrook to her husband, âlisten to this.â

Colonel Easterbrook paid no attention, because he was already snorting with impatience over an article in The Times.

âTrouble with these fellows is,â he said, âthat none of them knows the first thing about India! Not the first thing!â

âI know, dear, I know.â

âIf they did, they wouldnât write such piffle.â

âYes, I know. Archie, do listen.

A murder is announced and will take place on Friday, October 29th (thatâs today), at Little Paddocks at 6:30 p.m. Friends please accept this, the only intimation.â

She paused triumphantly. Colonel Easterbrook looked at her indulgently but without much interest.

âMurder Game,â he said.

âOh.â

âThatâs all it is. Mind you,â he unbent a little, âit can be very good fun if itâs well done. But it needs good organizing by someone who knows the ropes. You draw lots. One personâs the murderer, nobody knows who. Lights out. Murderer chooses his victim. The victim has to count twenty before he screams. Then the person whoâs chosen to be the detective takes charge. Questions everybody. Where they were, what they were doing, tries to trip the real fellow up. Yes, itâs a good gameâif the detectiveâerâknows something about police work.â

âLike you, Archie. You had all those interesting cases to try in your district.â

Colonel Easterbrook smiled indulgently and gave his moustache a complacent twirl.

âYes, Laura,â he said. âI dare say I could give them a hint or two.â

And he straightened his shoulders.

âMiss Blacklock ought to have asked you to help her in getting the thing up.â

The Colonel snorted.

âOh, well, sheâs got that young cub staying with her. Expect this is his idea. Nephew or something. Funny idea, though, sticking it in the paper.â

âIt was in the Personal Column. We might never have seen it. I suppose it is an invitation, Archie?â

âFunny kind of invitation. I can tell you one thing. They can count me out.â

âOh, Archie,â Mrs. Easterbrookâs voice rose in a shrill wail.

âShort notice. For all they know I might be busy.â

âBut youâre not, are you, darling?â Mrs. Easterbrook lowered her voice persuasively. âAnd I do think, Archie, that you really ought to goâjust to help poor Miss Blacklock out. Iâm sure sheâs counting on you to make the thing a success. I mean, you know so much about police work and procedure. The whole thing will fall flat if you donât go and help to make it a success. After all, one must be neighbourly.â

Mrs. Easterbrook put her synthetic blonde head on one side and opened her blue eyes very wide.

âOf course, if you put it like that, Laura â¦â Colonel Easterbrook twirled his grey moustache again, importantly, and looked with indulgence on his fluffy little wife. Mrs. Easterbrook was at least thirty years younger than her husband.

âIf you put it like that, Laura,â he said.

âI really do think itâs your duty, Archie,â said Mrs. Easterbrook solemnly.

IV

The Chipping Cleghorn Gazette had also been delivered at Boulders, the picturesque three cottages knocked into one inhabited by Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd.

âHinch?â

âWhat is it, Murgatroyd?â

âWhere are you?â

âHenhouse.â

âOh.â

Padding gingerly through the long wet grass, Miss Amy Murgatroyd approached her friend. The latter, attired in corduroy slacks and battledress tunic, was conscientiously stirring in handfuls of balancer meal to a repellently steaming basin full of cooked potato peelings and cabbage stumps.

She turned her head with its short man-like crop and weather-beaten countenance toward her friend.

Miss Murgatroyd, who was fat and amiable, wore a checked tweed skirt and a shapeless pullover of brilliant royal blue. Her curly birdâs nest of grey hair was in a good deal of disorder and she was slightly out of breath.

âIn the Gazette,â she panted. âJust listenâwhat can it mean?

A murder is announced â¦ and will take place on Friday, October 29th, at Little Paddocks at 6:30 p.m. Friends please accept this, the only intimation.â

She paused, breathless, as she finished reading, and awaited some authoritative pronouncement.

âDaft,â said Miss Hinchcliffe.

âYes, but what do you think it means?â

âMeans a drink, anyway,â said Miss Hinchcliffe.

âYou think itâs a sort of invitation?â

âWeâll find out what it means when we get there,â said Miss Hinchcliffe. âBad sherry, I expect. Youâd better get off the grass, Murgatroyd. Youâve got your bedroom slippers on still. Theyâre soaked.â

âOh, dear.â Miss Murgatroyd looked down ruefully at her feet. âHow many eggs today?â

âSeven. That damned henâs still broody. I must get her into the coop.â

âItâs a funny way of putting it, donât you think?â Amy Murgatroyd asked, reverting to the notice in the Gazette. Her voice was slightly wistful.

But her friend was made of sterner and more single-minded stuff. She was intent on dealing with recalcitrant poultry and no announcement in a paper, however enigmatic, could deflect her.

She squelched heavily through the mud and pounced upon a speckled hen. There was a loud and indignant squawking.

âGive me ducks every time,â said Miss Hinchcliffe. âFar less troubleâ¦.â

V

âOo, scrumptious!â said Mrs. Harmon across the breakfast table to her husband, the Rev. Julian Harmon, âthereâs going to be a murder at Miss Blacklockâs.â

âA murder?â said her husband, slightly surprised. âWhen?â

âThis afternoon â¦ at least, this evening. 6:30. Oh, bad luck, darling, youâve got your preparations for confirmation then. It is a shame. And you do so love murders!â

âI donât really know what youâre talking about, Bunch.â

Mrs. Harmon, the roundness of whose form and face had early led to the soubriquet of âBunchâ being substituted for her baptismal name of Diana, handed the Gazette across the table.

âThere. All among the second-hand pianos, and the old teeth.â

âWhat a very extraordinary announcement.â

âIsnât it?â said Bunch happily. âYou wouldnât think that Miss Blacklock cared about murders and games and things, would you? I suppose itâs the young Simmonses put her up to itâthough I should have thought Julia Simmons would find murders rather crude. Still, there it is, and I do think, darling, itâs a shame you canât be there. Anyway, Iâll go and tell you all about it, though itâs rather wasted on me, because I donât really like games that happen in the dark. They frighten me, and I do hope I shanât have to be the one whoâs murdered. If someone suddenly puts a hand on my shoulder and whispers, âYouâre dead,â I know my heart will give such a big bump that perhaps it really might kill me! Do you think thatâs likely?â

âNo, Bunch. I think youâre going to live to be an old, old womanâwith me.â

âAnd die on the same day and be buried in the same grave. That would be lovely.â

Bunch beamed from ear to ear at this agreeable prospect.

âYou seem very happy, Bunch?â said her husband, smiling.

âWhoâd not be happy if they were me?â demanded Bunch, rather confusedly. âWith you and Susan and Edward, and all of you fond of me and not caring if Iâm stupid â¦ And the sun shining! And this lovely big house to live in!â

The Rev. Julian Harmon looked round the big bare dining room and assented doubtfully.

âSome people would think it was the last straw to have to live in this great rambling draughty place.â

âWell, I like big rooms. All the nice smells from outside can get in and stay there. And you can be untidy and leave things about and they donât clutter you.â

âNo labour-saving devices or central heating? It means a lot of work for you, Bunch.â

âOh, Julian, it doesnât. I get up at half past six and light the boiler and rush around like a steam engine, and by eight itâs all done. And I keep it nice, donât I? With beeswax and polish and big jars of Autumn leaves. Itâs not really harder to keep a big house clean than a small one. You go round with mops and things much quicker, because your behind isnât always bumping into things like it is in a small room. And I like sleeping in a big cold roomâitâs so cosy to snuggle down with just the tip of your nose telling you what itâs like up above. And whatever size of house you live in, you peel the same amount of potatoes and wash up the same amount of plates and all that. Think how nice it is for Edward and Susan to have a big empty room to play in where they can have railways and dollsâ tea-parties all over the floor and never have to put them away? And then itâs nice to have extra bits of the house that you can let people have to live in. Jimmy Symes and Johnnie Finchâtheyâd have had to live with their in-laws otherwise. And you know, Julian, it isnât nice living with your in-laws. Youâre devoted to Mother, but you wouldnât really have liked to start our married life living with her and Father. And I shouldnât have liked it, either. Iâd have gone on feeling like a little girl.â

Julian smiled at her.

âYouâre rather like a little girl still, Bunch.â

Julian Harmon himself had clearly been a model designed by Nature for the age of sixty. He was still about twenty-five years short of achieving Natureâs purpose.

âI know Iâm stupidââ

âYouâre not stupid, Bunch. Youâre very clever.â

âNo, Iâm not. Iâm not a bit intellectual. Though I do try â¦ And I really love it when you talk to me about books and history and things. I think perhaps it wasnât an awfully good idea to read aloud Gibbon to me in the evenings, because if itâs been a cold wind out, and itâs nice and hot by the fire, thereâs something about Gibbon that does, rather, make you go to sleep.â

Julian laughed.

âBut I do love listening to you, Julian. Tell me the story again about the old vicar who preached about Ahasuerus.â

âYou know that by heart, Bunch.â

âJust tell it me again. Please.â

Her husband complied.

âIt was old Scrymgour. Somebody looked into his church one day. He was leaning out of the pulpit and preaching fervently to a couple of old charwomen. He was shaking his finger at them and saying, âAha! I know what you are thinking. You think that the Great Ahasuerus of the First Lesson was Artaxerxes the Second. But he wasnât!â And then with enormous triumph, âHe was Artaxerxes the Third.ââ

It had never struck Julian Hermon as a particularly funny story himself, but it never failed to amuse Bunch.

Her clear laugh floated out.

âThe old pet!â she exclaimed. âI think youâll be exactly like that some day, Julian.â

Julian looked rather uneasy.

âI know,â he said with humility. âI do feel very strongly that I canât always get the proper simple approach.â

âI shouldnât worry,â said Bunch, rising and beginning to pile the breakfast plates on a tray. âMrs. Butt told me yesterday that Butt, who never went to church and used to be practically the local atheist, comes every Sunday now on purpose to hear you preach.â

She went on, with a very fair imitation of Mrs. Buttâs super-refined voice:

ââAnd Butt was saying only the other day, Madam, to Mr. Timkins from Little Worsdale, that weâd got real culture here in Chipping Cleghorn. Not like Mr. Goss, at Little Worsdale, who talks to the congregation as though they were children who hadnât had any education. Real culture, Butt said, thatâs what weâve got. Our Vicarâs a highly educated gentlemanâOxford, not Milchester, and he gives us the full benefit of his education. All about the Romans and the Greeks he knows, and the Babylonians and the Assyrians, too. And even the Vicarage cat, Butt says, is called after an Assyrian king!â So thereâs glory for you,â finished Bunch triumphantly. âGoodness, I must get on with things or I shall never get done. Come along, Tiglath Pileser, you shall have the herring bones.â

Opening the door and holding it dexterously ajar with her foot, she shot through with the loaded tray, singing in a loud and not particularly tuneful voice, her own version of a sporting song.

âItâs a fine murdering day, (sang Bunch)

And as balmy as May

And the sleuths from the village are gone.â

A rattle of crockery being dumped in the sink drowned the next lines, but as the Rev. Julian Harmon left the house, he heard the final triumphant assertion:

âAnd weâll all go aâmurdering today!â

Two

BREAKFAST AT LITTLE PADDOCKS

I

At Little Paddocks also, breakfast was in progress.

Miss Blacklock, a woman of sixty odd, the owner of the house, sat at the head of the table. She wore country tweedsâand with them, rather incongruously, a choker necklace of large false pearls. She was reading Lane Norcott in the Daily Mail. Julia Simmons was languidly glancing through the Telegraph. Patrick Simmons was checking up on the crossword in The Times. Miss Dora Bunner was giving her attention wholeheartedly to the local weekly paper.

Miss Blacklock gave a subdued chuckle, Patrick muttered: âAdherentânot adhesiveâthatâs where I went wrong.â

Suddenly a loud cluck, like a startled hen, came from Miss Bunner.

âLettyâLettyâhave you seen this? Whatever can it mean?â

âWhatâs the matter, Dora?â

âThe most extraordinary advertisement. It says Little Paddocks quite distinctly. But whatever can it mean?â

âIf youâd let me see, Dora dearââ

Miss Bunner obediently surrendered the paper into Miss Blacklockâs outstretched hand, pointing to the item with a tremulous forefinger.

âJust look, Letty.â

Miss Blacklock looked. Her eyebrows went up. She threw a quick scrutinizing glance round the table. Then she read the advertisement out loud.

âA murder is announced and will take place on Friday, October 29th, at Little Paddocks at 6:30 p.m. Friends please accept this, the only intimation.â

Then she said sharply: âPatrick, is this your idea?â

Her eyes rested searchingly on the handsome devil-may-care face of the young man at the other end of the table.

Patrick Simmonsâ disclaimer came quickly.

âNo, indeed, Aunt Letty. Whatever put that idea into your head? Why should I know anything about it?â

âI wouldnât put it past you,â said Miss Blacklock grimly. âI thought it might be your idea of a joke.â

âA joke? Nothing of the kind.â

âAnd you, Julia?â

Julia, looking bored, said: âOf course not.â

Miss Bunner murmured: âDo you think Mrs. Haymesââ and looked at an empty place where someone had breakfasted earlier.

âOh, I donât think our Phillipa would try and be funny,â said Patrick. âSheâs a serious girl, she is.â

âBut whatâs the idea, anyway?â said Julia, yawning. âWhat does it mean?â

Miss Blacklock said slowly, âI supposeâitâs some silly sort of hoax.â

âBut why?â Dora Bunner exclaimed. âWhatâs the point of it? It seems a very stupid sort of joke. And in very bad taste.â

Her flabby cheeks quivered indignantly, and her shortsighted eyes sparkled with indignation.

Miss Blacklock smiled at her.

âDonât work yourself up over it, Bunny,â she said. âItâs just somebodyâs idea of humour, but I wish I knew whose.â

âIt says today,â pointed out Miss Bunner. âToday at 6:30 p.m. What do you think is going to happen?â

âDeath!â said Patrick in sepulchral tones. âDelicious death.â

âBe quiet, Patrick,â said Miss Blacklock as Miss Bunner gave a little yelp.

âI only meant the special cake that Mitzi makes,â said Patrick apologetically. âYou know we always call it delicious death.â

Miss Blacklock smiled a little absentmindedly.

Miss Bunner persisted: âBut Letty, what do you really thinkâ?â

Her friend cut across the words with reassuring cheerfulness.

âI know one thing that will happen at 6:30,â she said dryly. âWeâll have half the village up here, agog with curiosity. Iâd better make sure weâve got some sherry in the house.â

II

âYou are worried, arenât you Lotty?â

Miss Blacklock started. She had been sitting at her writing-table, absentmindedly drawing little fishes on the blotting paper. She looked up into the anxious face of her old friend.

She was not quite sure what to say to Dora Bunner. Bunny, she knew, mustnât be worried or upset. She was silent for a moment or two, thinking.

She and Dora Bunner had been at school together. Dora then had been a pretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed rather stupid girl. Her being stupid hadnât mattered, because her gaiety and high spirits and her prettiness had made her an agreeable companion. She ought, her friend thought, to have married some nice Army officer, or a country solicitor. She had so many good qualitiesâaffection, devotion, loyalty. But life had been unkind to Dora Bunner. She had had to earn her living. She had been painstaking but never competent at anything she undertook.

The two friends had lost sight of each other. But six months ago a letter had come to Miss Blacklock, a rambling, pathetic letter. Doraâs health had given way. She was living in one room, trying to subsist on her old age pension. She endeavoured to do needlework, but her fingers were stiff with rheumatism. She mentioned their schooldaysâsince then life had driven them apartâbut couldâpossiblyâher old friend help?

Miss Blacklock had responded impulsively. Poor Dora, poor pretty silly fluffy Dora. She had swooped down upon Dora, had carried her off, had installed her at Little Paddocks with the comforting fiction that âthe housework is getting too much for me. I need someone to help me run the house.â It was not for longâthe doctor had told her thatâbut sometimes she found poor old Dora a sad trial. She muddled everything, upset the temperamental foreign âhelp,â miscounted the laundry, lost bills and lettersâand sometimes reduced the competent Miss Blacklock to an agony of exasperation. Poor old muddle-headed Dora, so loyal, so anxious to help, so pleased and proud to think she was of assistanceâand, alas, so completely unreliable.

She said sharply:

âDonât, Dora. You know I asked youââ

âOh,â Miss Bunner looked guilty. âI know. I forgot. Butâbut you are, arenât you?â

âWorried? No. At least,â she added truthfully, ânot exactly. You mean about that silly notice in the Gazette?â

âYesâeven if itâs a joke, it seems to me itâs aâa spiteful sort of joke.â

âSpiteful?â

âYes. It seems to me thereâs spite there somewhere. I meanâitâs not a nice kind of joke.â

Miss Blacklock looked at her friend. The mild eyes, the long obstinate mouth, the slightly upturned nose. Poor Dora, so maddening, so muddle-headed, so devoted and such a problem. A dear fussy old idiot and yet, in a queer way, with an instinctive sense of value.

âI think youâre right, Dora,â said Miss Blacklock. âItâs not a nice joke.â

âI donât like it at all,â said Dora Bunner with unsuspected vigour. âIt frightens me.â She added, suddenly: âAnd it frightens you, Letitia.â

âNonsense,â said Miss Blacklock with spirit.

âItâs dangerous. Iâm sure it is. Like those people who send you bombs done up in parcels.â

âMy dear, itâs just some silly idiot trying to be funny.â

âBut it isnât funny.â

It wasnât really very funny â¦ Miss Blacklockâs face betrayed her thoughts, and Dora cried triumphantly, âYou see. You think so, too!â

âBut Dora, my dearââ

She broke off. Through the door there surged a tempestuous young woman with a well-developed bosom heaving under a tight jersey. She had on a dirndl skirt of a bright colour and had greasy dark plaits wound round and round her head. Her eyes were dark and flashing.

She said gustily:

âI can speak to you, yes, please, no?â

Miss Blacklock sighed.

âOf course, Mitzi, what is it?â

Sometimes she thought it would be preferable to do the entire work of the house as well as the cooking rather than be bothered with the eternal nerve storms of her refugee âlady help.â

âI tell you at onceâit is in order, I hope? I give you my notices and I goâI go at once!â

âFor what reason? Has somebody upset you?â

âYes, I am upset,â said Mitzi dramatically. âI do not wish to die! Already in Europe I escape. My family they all dieâthey are all killedâmy mother, my little brother, my so sweet little nieceâall, all they are killed. But me I run awayâI hide. I get to England. I work. I do work that neverânever would I do in my own countryâIââ

âI know all that,â said Miss Blacklock crisply. It was, indeed, a constant refrain on Mitziâs lips. âBut why do you want to leave now?â

âBecause again they come to kill me!â

âWho do?â

âMy enemies. The Nazis! Or perhaps this time it is the Bolsheviks. They find out I am here. They come to kill me. I have read itâyesâit is in the newspaper!â

âOh, you mean in the Gazette?â

âHere, it is written here.â Mitzi produced the Gazette from where she had been holding it behind her back. âSeeâhere it says a murder. At Little Paddocks. That is here, is it not? This evening at 6:30. Ah! I do not wait to be murderedâno.â

âBut why should this apply to you? Itâsâwe think it is a joke.â

âA joke? It is not a joke to murder someone.â

âNo, of course not. But my dear child, if anyone wanted to murder you, they wouldnât advertise the fact in the paper, would they?â

âYou do not think they would?â Mitzi seemed a little shaken. âYou think, perhaps, they do not mean to murder anyone at all? Perhaps it is you they mean to murder, Miss Blacklock.â

âI certainly canât believe anyone wants to murder me,â said Miss Blacklock lightly. âAnd really, Mitzi, I donât see why anyone should want to murder you. After all, why should they?â

âBecause they are bad peoples â¦ Very bad peoples. I tell you, my mother, my little brother, my so sweet nieceâ¦.â

âYes, yes.â Miss Blacklock stemmed the flow, adroitly. âBut I cannot really believe anyone wants to murder you, Mitzi. Of course, if you want to go off like this at a momentâs notice, I canât possibly stop you. But I think you will be very silly if you do.â

She added firmly, as Mitzi looked doubtful:

âWeâll have that beef the butcher sent stewed for lunch. It looks very tough.â

âI make you a goulash, a special goulash.â

âIf you prefer to call it that, certainly. And perhaps you could use up that rather hard bit of cheese in making some cheese straws. I think some people may come in this evening for drinks.â

âThis evening? What do you mean, this evening?â

âAt half past six.â

âBut that is the time in the paper? Who should come then? Why should they come?â

âTheyâre coming to the funeral,â said Miss Blacklock with a twinkle. âThatâll do now, Mitzi. Iâm busy. Shut the door after you,â she added firmly.

âAnd thatâs settled her for the moment,â she said as the door closed behind a puzzled-looking Mitzi.

âYou are so efficient, Letty,â said Miss Bunner admiringly.

Three

AT 6:30 P.M.

I

âWell, here we are, all set,â said Miss Blacklock. She looked round the double drawing room with an appraising eye. The rose-patterned chintzesâthe two bowls of bronze chrysanthemums, the small vase of violets and the silver cigarette box on a table by the wall, the tray of drinks on the centre table.

Little Paddocks was a medium-sized house built in the early Victorian style. It had a long shallow veranda and green shuttered windows. The long, narrow drawing room which lost a good deal of light owing to the veranda roof had originally had double doors at one end leading into a small room with a bay window. A former generation had removed the double doors and replaced them with portieres of velvet. Miss Blacklock had dispensed with the portieres so that the two rooms had become definitely one. There was a fireplace each end, but neither fire was lit although a gentle warmth pervaded the room.

âYouâve had the central heating lit,â said Patrick.

Miss Blacklock nodded.

âItâs been so misty and damp lately. The whole house felt clammy. I got Evans to light it before he went.â

âThe precious precious coke?â said Patrick mockingly.

âAs you say, the precious coke. But otherwise there would have been the even more precious coal. You know the Fuel Office wonât even let us have the little bit thatâs due to us each weekânot unless we can say definitely that we havenât got any other means of cooking.â

âI suppose there was once heaps of coke and coal for everybody?â said Julia with the interest of one hearing about an unknown country.

âYes, and cheap, too.â

âAnd anyone could go and buy as much as they wanted, without filling in anything, and there wasnât any shortage? There was lots of it there?â

âAll kinds and qualitiesâand not all stones and slates like what we get nowadays.â

âIt must have been a wonderful world,â said Julia, with awe in her voice.

Miss Blacklock smiled. âLooking back on it, I certainly think so. But then Iâm an old woman. Itâs natural for me to prefer my own times. But you young things oughtnât to think so.â

âI neednât have had a job then,â said Julia. âI could just have stayed at home and done the flowers, and written notes â¦ Why did one write notes and who were they to?â

âAll the people that you now ring up on the telephone,â said Miss Blacklock with a twinkle. âI donât believe you even know how to write, Julia.â

âNot in the style of that delicious âComplete Letter Writerâ I found the other day. Heavenly! It told you the correct way of refusing a proposal of marriage from a widower.â

âI doubt if you would have enjoyed staying at home as much as you think,â said Miss Blacklock. âThere were duties, you know.â Her voice was dry. âHowever, I donât really know much about it. Bunny and I,â she smiled affectionately at Dora Bunner, âwent into the labour market early.â

âOh, we did, we did indeed,â agreed Miss Bunner. âThose naughty, naughty children. Iâll never forget them. Of course, Letty was clever. She was a business woman, secretary to a big financier.â

The door opened and Phillipa Haymes came in. She was tall and fair and placid-looking. She looked round the room in surprise.

âHallo,â she said. âIs it a party? Nobody told me.â

âOf course,â cried Patrick. âOur Phillipa doesnât know. The only woman in Chipping Cleghorn who doesnât, I bet.â

Phillipa looked at him inquiringly.

âHere you behold,â said Patrick dramatically, waving a hand, âthe scene of a murder!â

Phillipa Haymes looked faintly puzzled.

âHere,â Patrick indicated the two big bowls of chrysanthemums, âare the funeral wreaths and these dishes of cheese straws and olives represent the funeral baked meats.â

Phillipa looked inquiringly at Miss Blacklock.

âIs it a joke?â she asked. âIâm always terribly stupid at seeing jokes.â

âItâs a very nasty joke,â said Dora Bunner with energy. âI donât like it at all.â

âShow her the advertisement,â said Miss Blacklock. âI must go and shut up the ducks. Itâs dark. Theyâll be in by now.â

âLet me do it,â said Phillipa.

âCertainly not, my dear. Youâve finished your dayâs work.â

âIâll do it, Aunt Letty,â offered Patrick.

âNo, you wonât,â said Miss Blacklock with energy. âLast time you didnât latch the door properly.â

âIâll do it, Letty dear,â cried Miss Bunner. âIndeed, I should love to. Iâll just slip on my goloshesâand now where did I put my cardigan?â

But Miss Blacklock, with a smile, had already left the room.

âItâs no good, Bunny,â said Patrick. âAunt Lettyâs so efficient that she can never bear anybody else to do things for her. She really much prefers to do everything herself.â

âShe loves it,â said Julia.

âI didnât notice you making any offers of assistance,â said her brother.

Julia smiled lazily.

âYouâve just said Aunt Letty likes to do things herself,â she pointed out. âBesides,â she held out a well-shaped leg in a sheer stocking, âIâve got my best stockings on.â

âDeath in silk stockings!â declaimed Patrick.

âNot silkânylons, you idiot.â

âThatâs not nearly such a good title.â

âWonât somebody please tell me,â cried Phillipa plaintively, âwhy there is all this insistence on death?â

Everybody tried to tell her at onceânobody could find the Gazette to show her because Mitzi had taken it into the kitchen.

Miss Blacklock returned a few minutes later.

âThere,â she said briskly, âthatâs done.â She glanced at the clock. âTwenty past six. Somebody ought to be here soonâunless Iâm entirely wrong in my estimate of my neighbours.â

âI donât see why anybody should come,â said Phillipa, looking bewildered.

âDonât you, dear?â¦ I dare say you wouldnât. But most people are rather more inquisitive than you are.â

âPhillipaâs attitude to life is that she just isnât interested,â said Julia, rather nastily.

Phillipa did not reply.

Miss Blacklock was glancing round the room. Mitzi had put the sherry and three dishes containing olives, cheese straws and some little fancy pastries on the table in the middle of the room.

âYou might move that trayâor the whole table if you likeâround the corner into the bay window in the other room, Patrick, if you donât mind. After all, I am not giving a party! I havenât asked anyone. And I donât intend to make it obvious that I expect people to turn up.â

âYou wish, Aunt Letty, to disguise your intelligent anticipation?â

âVery nicely put, Patrick. Thank you, my dear boy.â

âNow we can all give a lovely performance of a quiet evening at home,â said Julia, âand be quite surprised when somebody drops in.â

Miss Blacklock had picked up the sherry bottle. She stood holding it uncertainly in her hand.

Patrick reassured her.

âThereâs quite half a bottle there. It ought to be enough.â

âOh, yesâyes â¦â She hesitated. Then, with a slight flush, she said:

âPatrick, would you mind â¦ thereâs a new bottle in the cupboard in the pantry â¦ Bring it and a corkscrew. Iâweâmight as well have a new bottle. Thisâthis has been opened some time.â

Patrick went on his errand without a word. He returned with the new bottle and drew the cork. He looked up curiously at Miss Blacklock as he placed it on the tray.

âTaking this seriously, arenât you, darling?â he asked gently.

âOh,â cried Dora Bunner, shocked. âSurely, Letty, you canât imagineââ

âHush,â said Miss Blacklock quickly. âThatâs the bell. You see, my intelligent anticipation is being justified.â

II

Mitzi opened the door of the drawing room and admitted Colonel and Mrs. Easterbrook. She had her own methods of announcing people.

âHere is Colonel and Mrs. Easterbrook to see you,â she said conversationally.

Colonel Easterbrook was very bluff and breezy to cover some slight embarrassment.

âHope you donât mind us dropping in,â he said. (A subdued gurgle came from Julia.) âHappened to be passing this wayâeh what? Quite a mild evening. Notice youâve got your central heating on. We havenât started ours yet.â

âArenât your chrysanthemums lovely?â gushed Mrs. Easterbrook. âSuch beauties!â

âTheyâre rather scraggy, really,â said Julia.

Mrs. Easterbrook greeted Phillipa Haymes with a little extra cordiality to show that she quite understood that Phillipa was not really an agricultural labourer.

âHow is Mrs. Lucasâ garden getting on?â she asked. âDo you think it will ever be straight again? Completely neglected all through the warâand then only that dreadful old man Ashe who simply did nothing but sweep up a few leaves and put in a few cabbage plants.â

âItâs yielding to treatment,â said Phillipa. âBut it will take a little time.â

Mitzi opened the door again and said:

âHere are the ladies from Boulders.â

ââEvening,â said Miss Hinchcliffe, striding over and taking Miss Blacklockâs hand in her formidable grip. âI said to Murgatroyd: âLetâs just drop in at Little Paddocks!â I wanted to ask you how your ducks are laying.â

âThe evenings do draw in so quickly now, donât they?â said Miss Murgatroyd to Patrick in a rather fluttery way. âWhat lovely chrysanthemums!â

âScraggy!â said Julia.

âWhy canât you be cooperative?â murmured Patrick to her in a reproachful aside.

âYouâve got your central heating on,â said Miss Hinchcliffe. She said it accusingly. âVery early.â

âThe house gets so damp this time of year,â said Miss Blacklock.

Patrick signalled with his eyebrows: âSherry yet?â and Miss Blacklock signalled back: âNot yet.â

She said to Colonel Easterbrook:

âAre you getting any bulbs from Holland this year?â

The door again opened and Mrs. Swettenham came in rather guiltily, followed by a scowling and uncomfortable Edmund.

âHere we are!â said Mrs. Swettenham gaily, gazing round her with frank curiosity. Then, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, she went on: âI just thought Iâd pop in and ask you if by any chance you wanted a kitten, Miss Blacklock? Our cat is justââ

âAbout to be brought to bed of the progeny of a ginger tom,â said Edmund. âThe result will, I think, be frightful. Donât say you havenât been warned!â

âSheâs a very good mouser,â said Mrs. Swettenham hastily. And added: âWhat lovely chrysanthemums!â

âYouâve got your central heating on, havenât you?â asked Edmund, with an air of originality.

âArenât people just like gramophone records?â murmured Julia.

âI donât like the news,â said Colonel Easterbrook to Patrick, buttonholing him fiercely. âI donât like it at all. If you ask me, warâs inevitableâabsolutely inevitable.â

âI never pay any attention to news,â said Patrick.

Once more the door opened and Mrs. Harmon came in.

Her battered felt hat was stuck on the back of her head in a vague attempt to be fashionable and she had put on a rather limp frilly blouse instead of her usual pullover.

âHallo, Miss Blacklock,â she exclaimed, beaming all over her round face. âIâm not too late, am I? When does the murder begin?â

III

There was an audible series of gasps. Julia gave an approving little giggle, Patrick crinkled up his face and Miss Blacklock smiled at her latest guest.

âJulian is just frantic with rage that he canât be here,â said Mrs. Harmon. âHe adores murders. Thatâs really why he preached such a good sermon last SundayâI suppose I oughtnât to say it was a good sermon as heâs my husbandâbut it really was good, didnât you think?âso much better than his usual sermons. But as I was saying it was all because of Death Does the Hat Trick. Have you read it? The girl at Bootsâ kept it for me specially. Itâs simply baffling. You keep thinking you knowâand then the whole thing switches roundâand there are a lovely lot of murders, four or five of them. Well, I left it in the study when Julian was shutting himself up there to do his sermon, and he just picked it up and simply could not put it down! And consequently he had to write his sermon in a frightful hurry and had to just put down what he wanted to say very simplyâwithout any scholarly twists and bits and learned referencesâand naturally it was heaps better. Oh, dear, Iâm talking too much. But do tell me, when is the murder going to begin?â

Miss Blacklock looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

âIf itâs going to begin,â she said cheerfully, âit ought to begin soon. Itâs just a minute to the half hour. In the meantime, have a glass of sherry.â

Patrick moved with alacrity through the archway. Miss Blacklock went to the table by the archway where the cigarette box was.

âIâd love some sherry,â said Mrs. Harmon. âBut what do you mean by if?â

âWell,â said Miss Blacklock, âIâm as much in the dark as you are. I donât know whatââ

She stopped and turned her head as the little clock on the mantelpiece began to chime. It had a sweet silvery bell-like tone. Everybody was silent and nobody moved. They all stared at the clock.

It chimed a quarterâand then the half. As the last note died away all the lights went out.

IV

Delighted gasps and feminine squeaks of appreciation were heard in the darkness. âItâs beginning,â cried Mrs. Harmon in an ecstasy. Dora Bunnerâs voice cried out plaintively, âOh, I donât like it!â Other voices said, âHow terribly, terribly frightening!â âIt gives me the creeps.â

âArchie, where are you?â âWhat do I have to do?â âOh dearâdid I step on your foot? Iâm so sorry.â

Then, with a crash, the door swung open. A powerful flashlight played rapidly round the room. A manâs hoarse nasal voice, reminiscent to all of pleasant afternoons at the cinema, directed the company crisply to:

âStick âem up!

âStick âem up, I tell you!â the voice barked.

Delightedly, hands were raised willingly above heads.

âIsnât it wonderful?â breathed a female voice. âIâm so thrilled.â

And then, unexpectedly, a revolver spoke. It spoke twice. The ping of two bullets shattered the complacency of the room. Suddenly the game was no longer a game. Somebody screamedâ¦.

The figure in the doorway whirled suddenly round, it seemed to hesitate, a third shot rang out, it crumpled and then it crashed to the ground. The flashlight dropped and went out.

There was darkness once again. And gently, with a little Victorian protesting moan, the drawing room door, as was its habit when not propped open, swung gently to and latched with a click.

V

Inside the drawing room there was pandemonium. Various voices spoke at once. âLights.â âCanât you find the switch?â âWhoâs got a lighter?â âOh, I donât like it, I donât like it.â âBut those shots were real!â âIt was a real revolver he had.â âWas it a burglar?â âOh, Archie, I want to get out of here.â âPlease, has somebody got a lighter?â

And then, almost at the same moment, two lighters clicked and burned with small steady flames.

Everybody blinked and peered at each other. Startled face looked into startled face. Against the wall by the archway Miss Blacklock stood with her hand up to her face. The light was too dim to show more than that something dark was trickling over her fingers.

Colonel Easterbrook cleared his throat and rose to the occasion.

âTry the switches, Swettenham,â he ordered.

Edmund, near the door, obediently jerked the switch up and down.

âOff at the main, or a fuse,â said the Colonel. âWhoâs making that awful row?â

A female voice had been screaming steadily from somewhere beyond the closed door. It rose now in pitch and with it came the sound of fists hammering on a door.

Dora Bunner, who had been sobbing quietly, called out:

âItâs Mitzi. Somebodyâs murdering Mitziâ¦.â

Patrick muttered: âNo such luck.â

Miss Blacklock said: âWe must get candles. Patrick, will youâ?â

The Colonel was already opening the door. He and Edmund, their lighters flickering, stepped into the hall. They almost stumbled over a recumbent figure there.

âSeems to have knocked him out,â said the Colonel. âWhereâs that woman making that hellish noise?â

âIn the dining room,â said Edmund.

The dining room was just across the hall. Someone was beating on the panels and howling and screaming.

âSheâs locked in,â said Edmund, stooping down. He turned the key and Mitzi came out like a bounding tiger.

The dining room light was still on. Silhouetted against it Mitzi presented a picture of insane terror and continued to scream. A touch of comedy was introduced by the fact that she had been engaged in cleaning silver and was still holding a chamois leather and a large fish slice.

âBe quiet, Mitzi,â said Miss Blacklock.

âStop it,â said Edmund, and as Mitzi showed no disposition to stop screaming, he leaned forward and gave her a sharp slap on the cheek. Mitzi gasped and hiccuped into silence.

âGet some candles,â said Miss Blacklock. âIn the kitchen cupboard. Patrick, you know where the fusebox is?â

âThe passage behind the scullery? Right, Iâll see what I can do.â

Miss Blacklock had moved forward into the light thrown from the dining room and Dora Bunner gave a sobbing gasp. Mitzi let out another full-blooded scream.

âThe blood, the blood!â she gasped. âYou are shotâMiss Blacklock, you bleed to death.â

âDonât be so stupid,â snapped Miss Blacklock. âIâm hardly hurt at all. It just grazed my ear.â

âBut Aunt Letty,â said Julia, âthe blood.â

And indeed Miss Blacklockâs white blouse and pearls and her hands were a horrifyingly gory sight.

âEars always bleed,â said Miss Blacklock. âI remember fainting in the hairdresserâs when I was a child. The man had only just snipped my ear. There seemed to be a basin of blood at once. But we must have some light.â

âI get the candles,â said Mitzi.

Julia went with her and they returned with several candles stuck into saucers.

âNow letâs have a look at our malefactor,â said the Colonel. âHold the candles down low, will you, Swettenham? As many as you can.â

âIâll come the other side,â said Phillipa.

With a steady hand she took a couple of saucers. Colonel Easterbrook knelt down.

The recumbent figure was draped in a roughly made black cloak with a hood to it. There was a black mask over the face and he wore black cotton gloves. The hood had slipped back disclosing a ruffled fair head.

Colonel Easterbrook turned him over, felt the pulse, the heart â¦ then drew away his fingers with an exclamation of distaste, looking down on them. They were sticky and red.

âShot himself,â he said.

âIs he badly hurt?â asked Miss Blacklock.

âHâm. Iâm afraid heâs dead â¦ May have been suicideâor he may have tripped himself up with that cloak thing and the revolver went off as he fell. If I could see betterââ

At that moment, as though by magic, the lights came on again.

With a queer feeling of unreality those inhabitants of Chipping Cleghorn who stood in the hall of Little Paddocks realized that they stood in the presence of violent and sudden death. Colonel Easterbrookâs hand was stained red. Blood was still trickling down Miss Blacklockâs neck over her blouse and coat and the grotesquely sprawled figure of the intruder lay at their feetâ¦.

Patrick, coming from the dining room, said, âIt seemed to be just one fuse gone â¦â He stopped.

Colonel Easterbrook tugged at the small black mask.

âBetter see who the fellow is,â he said. âThough I donât suppose itâs anyone we knowâ¦.â

He detached the mask. Necks were craned forward. Mitzi hiccuped and gasped, but the others were very quiet.

âHeâs quite young,â said Mrs. Harmon with a note of pity in her voice.

And suddenly Dora Bunner cried out excitedly:

âLetty, Letty, itâs the young man from the Spa Hotel in Medenham Wells. The one who came out here and wanted you to give him money to get back to Switzerland and you refused. I suppose the whole thing was just a pretextâto spy out the house â¦ Oh, dearâhe might easily have killed youâ¦.â

Miss Blacklock, in command of the situation, said incisively:

âPhillipa, take Bunny into the dining room and give her a half glass of brandy. Julia dear, just run up to the bathroom and bring me the sticking plaster out of the bathroom cupboardâitâs so messy bleeding like a pig. Patrick, will you ring up the police at once?â

Four

THE ROYAL SPA HOTEL

I

George Rydesdale, Chief Constable of Middleshire, was a quiet man. Of medium height, with shrewd eyes under rather bushy brows, he was in the habit of listening rather than talking. Then, in his unemotional voice, he would give a brief orderâand the order was obeyed.

He was listening now to Detective-Inspector Dermot Craddock. Craddock was now officially in charge of the case. Rydesdale had recalled him last night from Liverpool where he had been sent to make certain inquiries in connection with another case. Rydesdale had a good opinion of Craddock. He not only had brains and imagination, he had also, which Rydesdale appreciated even more, the self-discipline to go slow, to check and examine each fact, and to keep an open mind until the very end of a case.

âConstable Legg took the call, sir,â Craddock was saying. âHe seems to have acted very well, with promptitude and presence of mind. And it canât have been easy. About a dozen people all trying to talk at once, including one of those Mittel Europas who go off at the deep end at the mere sight of a policeman. Made sure she was going to be locked up, and fairly screamed the place down.â

âDeceased has been identified?â

âYes, sir. Rudi Scherz. Swiss Nationality. Employed at the Royal Spa Hotel, Medenham Wells, as a receptionist. If you agree, sir, I thought Iâd take the Royal Spa Hotel first, and go out to Chipping Cleghorn afterwards. Sergeant Fletcher is out there now. Heâll see the bus people and then go on to the house.â

Rydesdale nodded approval.

The door opened, and the Chief Constable looked up.

âCome in, Henry,â he said. âWeâve got something here thatâs a little out of the ordinary.â

Sir Henry Clithering, ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard, came in with slightly raised eyebrows. He was a tall, distinguished-looking elderly man.

âIt may appeal to even your blasÃ© palate,â went on Rydesdale.

âI was never blasÃ©,â said Sir Henry indignantly.

âThe latest idea,â said Rydesdale, âis to advertise oneâs murders beforehand. Show Sir Henry that advertisement, Craddock.â

âThe North Benham News and Chipping Cleghorn Gazette,â said Sir Henry. âQuite a mouthful.â He read the half inch of print indicated by Craddockâs finger. âHâm, yes, somewhat unusual.â

âAny line on who inserted this advertisement?â asked Rydesdale.

âBy the description, sir, it was handed in by Rudi Scherz himselfâon Wednesday.â

âNobody questioned it? The person who accepted it didnât think it odd?â

âThe adenoidal blonde who receives the advertisements is quite incapable of thinking, I should say, sir. She just counted the words and took the money.â

âWhat was the idea?â asked Sir Henry.

âGet a lot of the locals curious,â suggested Rydesdale. âGet them all together at a particular place at a particular time, then hold them up and relieve them of their spare cash and valuables. As an idea, itâs not without originality.â

âWhat sort of a place is Chipping Cleghorn?â asked Sir Henry.

âA large sprawling picturesque village. Butcher, baker, grocer, quite a good antique shopâtwo tea shops. Self-consciously a beauty spot. Caters for the motoring tourist. Also highly residential. Cottages formerly lived in by agricultural labourers now converted and lived in by elderly spinsters and retired couples. A certain amount of building done round about in Victorian times.â

âI know,â said Sir Henry. âNice old Pussies and retired Colonels. Yes, if they noticed that advertisement theyâd all come sniffing round at 6:30 to see what was up. Lord, I wish I had my own particular old Pussy here. Wouldnât she like to get her nice ladylike teeth into this. Right up her street it would be.â

âWhoâs your own particular Pussy, Henry? An aunt?â

âNo,â Sir Henry sighed. âSheâs no relation.â He said reverently: âSheâs just the finest detective God ever made. Natural genius cultivated in a suitable soil.â

He turned upon Craddock.

âDonât you despise the old Pussies in this village of yours, my boy,â he said. âIn case this turns out to be a high-powered mystery, which I donât suppose for a moment it will, remember that an elderly unmarried woman who knits and gardens is streets ahead of any detective sergeant. She can tell you what might have happened and what ought to have happened and even what actually did happen! And she can tell you why it happened!â

âIâll bear that in mind, sir,â said Detective-Inspector Craddock in his most formal manner, and nobody would have guessed that Dermot Eric Craddock was actually Sir Henryâs godson and was on easy and intimate terms with his godfather.

Rydesdale gave a quick outline of the case to his friend.

âTheyâd all turn up at 6:30, I grant you that,â he said. âBut would that Swiss fellow know they would? And another thing, would they be likely to have much loot on them to be worth the taking?â

âA couple of old-fashioned brooches, a string of seed pearlsâa little loose change, perhaps a note or twoânot more,â said Sir Henry, thoughtfully. âDid this Miss Blacklock keep much money in the house?â

âShe says not, sir. Five pounds odd, I understand.â

âMere chicken feed,â said Rydesdale.

âWhat youâre getting at,â said Sir Henry, âis that this fellow liked to playactâit wasnât the loot, it was the fun of playing and acting the hold-up. Cinema stuff? Eh? Itâs quite possible. How did he manage to shoot himself?â

Rydesdale drew a paper towards him.

âPreliminary medical report. The revolver was discharged at close rangeâsingeing â¦ hâm â¦ nothing to show whether accident or suicide. Could have been done deliberately, or he could have tripped and fallen and the revolver which he was holding close to him could have gone off â¦ Probably the latter.â He looked at Craddock. âYouâll have to question the witnesses very carefully and make them say exactly what they saw.â

Detective-Inspector Craddock said sadly: âTheyâll all have seen something different.â

âItâs always interested me,â said Sir Henry, âwhat people do see at a moment of intense excitement and nervous strain. What they do see and, even more interesting, what they donât see.â

âWhereâs the report on the revolver?â

âForeign makeâ(fairly common on the Continent)âScherz did not hold a permit for itâand did not declare it on coming into England.â

âBad lad,â said Sir Henry.

âUnsatisfactory character all round. Well, Craddock, go and see what you can find out about him at the Royal Spa Hotel.â

II

At the Royal Spa Hotel, Inspector Craddock was taken straight to the Managerâs office.

The Manager, Mr. Rowlandson, a tall florid man with a hearty manner, greeted Inspector Craddock with expansive geniality.

âGlad to help you in any way we can, Inspector,â he said. âReally a most surprising business. Iâd never have credited itânever. Scherz seemed a very ordinary, pleasant young chapânot at all my idea of a hold-up man.â

âHow long has he been with you, Mr. Rowlandson?â

âI was looking that up just before you came. A little over three months. Quite good credentials, the usual permits, etc.â

âAnd you found him satisfactory?â

Without seeming to do so, Craddock marked the infinitesimal pause before Rowlandson replied.

âQuite satisfactory.â

Craddock made use of a technique he had found efficacious before now.

âNo, no, Mr. Rowlandson,â he said, gently shaking his head. âThatâs not really quite the case, is it?â

âWe-llââ The Manager seemed slightly taken aback.

âCome now, there was something wrong. What was it?â

âThatâs just it. I donât know.â

âBut you thought there was something wrong?â

âWellâyesâI did â¦ But Iâve nothing really to go upon. I shouldnât like my conjectures to be written down and quoted against me.â

Craddock smiled pleasantly.

âI know just what you mean. You neednât worry. But Iâve got to get some idea of what this fellow, Scherz, was like. You suspected him ofâwhat?â

Rowlandson said, rather reluctantly:

âWell, there was trouble, once or twice, about the bills. Items charged that oughtnât to have been there.â

âYou mean you suspected that he charged up certain items which didnât appear in the hotel records, and that he pocketed the difference when the bill was paid?â

âSomething like that â¦ Put it at the best, there was gross carelessness on his part. Once or twice quite a big sum was involved. Frankly, I got our accountant to go over his books suspecting that he wasâwell, a wrong âun, but though there were various mistakes and a good deal of slipshod method, the actual cash was quite correct. So I came to the conclusion that I must be mistaken.â

âSupposing you hadnât been wrong? Supposing Scherz had been helping himself to various small sums here and there, he could have covered himself, I suppose, by making good the money?â

âYes, if he had the money. But people who help themselves to âsmall sumsâ as you put itâare usually hard up for those sums and spend them offhand.â

âSo, if he wanted money to replace missing sums, he would have had to get moneyâby a hold-up or other means?â

âYes. I wonder if this is his first attemptâ¦.â

âMight be. It was certainly a very amateurish one. Is there anyone else he could have got money from? Any women in his life?â

âOne of the waitresses in the Grill. Her nameâs Myrna Harris.â

âIâd better have a talk with her.â

III

Myrna Harris was a pretty girl with a glorious head of red hair and a pert nose.

She was alarmed and wary, and deeply conscious of the indignity of being interviewed by the police.

âI donât know a thing about it, sir. Not a thing,â she protested. âIf Iâd known what he was like Iâd never have gone out with Rudi at all. Naturally, seeing as he worked in Reception here, I thought he was all right. Naturally I did. What I say is the hotel ought to be more careful when they employ peopleâespecially foreigners. Because you never know where you are with foreigners. I suppose he might have been in with one of these gangs you read about?â

âWe think,â said Craddock, âthat he was working quite on his own.â

âFancyâand him so quiet and respectable. Youâd never think. Though there have been things missedânow I come to think of it. A diamond broochâand a little gold locket, I believe. But I never dreamed that it could have been Rudi.â

âIâm sure you didnât,â said Craddock. âAnyone might have been taken in. You knew him fairly well?â

âI donât know that Iâd say well.â

âBut you were friendly?â

âOh, we were friendlyâthatâs all, just friendly. Nothing serious at all. Iâm always on my guard with foreigners, anyway. Theyâve often got a way with them, but you never know, do you? Some of those Poles during the war! And even some of the Americans! Never let on theyâre married men until itâs too late. Rudi talked big and all thatâbut I always took it with a grain of salt.â

Craddock seized on the phrase.

âTalked big, did he? Thatâs very interesting, Miss Harris. I can see youâre going to be a lot of help to us. In what way did he talk big?â

âWell, about how rich his people were in Switzerlandâand how important. But that didnât go with his being as short of money as he was. He always said that because of the money regulation he couldnât get money from Switzerland over here. That might be, I suppose, but his things werenât expensive. His clothes, I mean. They werenât really class. I think, too, that a lot of the stories he used to tell me were so much hot air. About climbing in the Alps, and saving peopleâs lives on the edge of a glacier. Why, he turned quite giddy just going along the edge of Boulterâs Gorge. Alps, indeed!â

âYou went out with him a good deal?â

âYesâwellâyes, I did. He had awfully good manners and he knew how toâto look after a girl. The best seats at the pictures always. And even flowers heâd buy me, sometimes. And he was just a lovely dancerâlovely.â

âDid he mention this Miss Blacklock to you at all?â

âShe comes in and lunches here sometimes, doesnât she? And sheâs stayed here once. No, I donât think Rudi ever mentioned her. I didnât know he knew her.â

âDid he mention Chipping Cleghorn?â

He thought a faintly wary look came into Myrna Harrisâs eyes but he couldnât be sure.

âI donât think so â¦ I think he did once ask about busesâwhat time they wentâbut I canât remember if that was Chipping Cleghorn or somewhere else. It wasnât just lately.â

He couldnât get more out of her. Rudi Scherz had seemed just as usual. She hadnât seen him the evening before. Sheâd no ideaâno idea at allâshe stressed the point, that Rudi Scherz was a crook.

And probably, Craddock thought, that was quite true.

Five

MISS BLACKLOCK AND MISS BUNNER

Little Paddocks was very much as Detective-Inspector Craddock had imagined it to be. He noted ducks and chickens and what had been until lately an attractive herbaceous border and in which a few late Michaelmas daisies showed a last dying splash of purple beauty. The lawn and the paths showed signs of neglect.

Summing up, Detective-Inspector Craddock thought: âProbably not much money to spend on gardenersâfond of flowers and a good eye for planning and massing a border. House needs painting. Most houses do, nowadays. Pleasant little property.â

As Craddockâs car stopped before the front door, Sergeant Fletcher came round the side of the house. Sergeant Fletcher looked like a guardsman, with an erect military bearing, and was able to impart several different meanings to the one monosyllable: âSir.â

âSo there you are, Fletcher.â

âSir,â said Sergeant Fletcher.

âAnything to report?â

âWeâve finished going over the house, sir. Scherz doesnât seem to have left any fingerprints anywhere. He wore gloves, of course. No signs of any of the doors or windows being forced to effect an entrance. He seems to have come out from Medenham on the bus, arriving here at six oâclock. Side door of the house was locked at 5:30, I understand. Looks as though he must have walked in through the front door. Miss Blacklock states that that door isnât usually locked until the house is shut up for the night. The maid, on the other hand, states that the front door was locked all the afternoonâbut sheâd say anything. Very temperamental youâll find her. Mittel Europa refugee of some kind.â

âDifficult, is she?â

âSir!â said Sergeant Fletcher, with intense feeling.

Craddock smiled.

Fletcher resumed his report.

âLighting system is quite in order everywhere. We havenât spotted yet how he operated the lights. It was just the one circuit went. Drawing room and hall. Of course, nowadays the wall brackets and lamps wouldnât all be on one fuseâbut this is an old-fashioned installation and wiring. Donât see how he could have tampered with the fusebox because itâs out by the scullery and heâd have had to go through the kitchen, so the maid would have seen him.â

âUnless she was in it with him?â

âThatâs very possible. Both foreignersâand I wouldnât trust her a yardânot a yard.â

Craddock noticed two enormous frightened black eyes peering out of a window by the front door. The face, flattened against the pane, was hardly visible.

âThat her there?â

âThatâs right, sir.â

The face disappeared.

Craddock rang the front doorbell.

After a long wait the door was opened by a good-looking young woman with chestnut hair and a bored expression.

âDetective-Inspector Craddock,â said Craddock.

The young woman gave him a cool stare out of very attractive hazel eyes and said:

âCome in. Miss Blacklock is expecting you.â

The hall, Craddock noted, was long and narrow and seemed almost incredibly full of doors.

The young woman threw open a door on the left, and said: âInspector Craddock, Aunt Letty. Mitzi wouldnât go to the door. Sheâs shut herself up in the kitchen and sheâs making the most marvellous moaning noises. I shouldnât think weâll get any lunch.â

She added in an explanatory manner to Craddock: âShe doesnât like the police,â and withdrew, shutting the door behind her.

Craddock advanced to meet the owner of Little Paddocks.

He saw a tall active-looking woman of about sixty. Her grey hair had a slight natural wave and made a distinguished setting for an intelligent, resolute face. She had keen grey eyes and a square determined chin. There was a surgical dressing on her left ear. She wore no makeup and was plainly dressed in a well-cut tweed coat and skirt and pullover. Round the neck of the latter she wore, rather unexpectedly, a set of old-fashioned cameosâa Victorian touch which seemed to hint at a sentimental streak not otherwise apparent.

Close beside her, with an eager round face and untidy hair escaping from a hair net, was a woman of about the same age whom Craddock had no difficulty in recognizing as the âDora Bunnerâcompanionâ of Constable Leggâs notesâto which the latter had added an off-the-record commentary of âScatty!â

Miss Blacklock spoke in a pleasant well-bred voice.

âGood morning, Inspector Craddock. This is my friend, Miss Bunner, who helps me run the house. Wonât you sit down? You wonât smoke, I suppose?â

âNot on duty, Iâm afraid, Miss Blacklock.â

âWhat a shame!â

Craddockâs eyes took in the room with a quick, practised glance. Typical Victorian double drawing room. Two long windows in this room, built-out bay window in the other â¦ chairs â¦ sofa â¦ centre table with a big bowl of chrysanthemumsâanother bowl in windowâall fresh and pleasant without much originality. The only incongruous note was a small silver vase with dead violets in it on a table near the archway into the further room. Since he could not imagine Miss Blacklock tolerating dead flowers in a room, he imagined it to be the only indication that something out of the way had occurred to distract the routine of a well-run household.

He said:

âI take it, Miss Blacklock, that this is the room in which theâincident occurred?â

âYes.â

âAnd you should have seen it last night,â Miss Bunner exclaimed. âSuch a mess. Two little tables knocked over, and the leg off oneâpeople barging about in the darkâand someone put down a lighted cigarette and burnt one of the best bits of furniture. Peopleâyoung people especiallyâare so careless about these things â¦ Luckily none of the china got brokenââ

Miss Blacklock interrupted gently but firmly:

âDora, all these things, vexatious as they may be, are only trifles. It will be best, I think, if we just answer Inspector Craddockâs questions.â

âThank you, Miss Blacklock. I shall come to what happened last night, presently. First of all I want you to tell me when you first saw the dead manâRudi Scherz.â

âRudi Scherz?â Miss Blacklock looked slightly surprised. âIs that his name? Somehow, I thought â¦ Oh, well, it doesnât matter. My first encounter with him was when I was in Medenham Spa for a dayâs shopping aboutâlet me see, about three weeks ago. WeâMiss Bunner and Iâwere having lunch at the Royal Spa Hotel. As we were just leaving after lunch, I heard my name spoken. It was this young man. He said: âIt is Miss Blacklock, is it not?â And went on to say that perhaps I did not remember him, but that he was the son of the proprietor of the Hotel des Alpes at Montreux where my sister and I had stayed for nearly a year during the war.â

âThe Hotel des Alpes, Montreux,â noted Craddock. âAnd did you remember him, Miss Blacklock?â

âNo, I didnât. Actually I had no recollection of ever having seen him before. These boys at hotel reception desks all look exactly alike. We had had a very pleasant time at Montreux and the proprietor there had been extremely obliging, so I tried to be as civil as possible and said I hoped he was enjoying being in England, and he said, yes, that his father had sent him over for six months to learn the hotel business. It all seemed quite natural.â

âAnd your next encounter?â

âAboutâyes, it must have been ten days ago, he suddenly turned up here. I was very surprised to see him. He apologized for troubling me, but said I was the only person he knew in England. He told me that he urgently needed money to return to Switzerland as his mother was dangerously ill.â

âBut Letty didnât give it to him,â Miss Bunner put in breathlessly.

âIt was a thoroughly fishy story,â said Miss Blacklock, with vigour. âI made up my mind that he was definitely a wrong âun. That story about wanting the money to return to Switzerland was nonsense. His father could easily have wired for arrangements to have been made in this country. These hotel people are all in with each other. I suspected that heâd been embezzling money or something of that kind.â She paused and said dryly: âIn case you think Iâm hardhearted, I was secretary for many years to a big financier and one becomes wary about appeals for money. I know simply all the hard-luck stories there are.

âThe only thing that did surprise me,â she added thoughtfully, âwas that he gave in so easily. He went away at once without any more argument. Itâs as though he had never expected to get the money.â

âDo you think now, looking back on it, that his coming was really by way of a pretext to spy out the land?â

Miss Blacklock nodded her head vigorously.

âThatâs exactly what I do thinkânow. He made certain remarks as I let him outâabout the rooms. He said, âYou have a very nice dining roomâ (which of course it isnâtâitâs a horrid dark little room) just as an excuse to look inside. And then he sprang forward and unfastened the front door, said, âLet me.â I think now he wanted to have a look at the fastening. Actually, like most people round here, we never lock the front door until it gets dark. Anyone could walk in.â

âAnd the side door? There is a side door to the garden, I understand?â

âYes. I went out through it to shut up the ducks not long before the people arrived.â

âWas it locked when you went out?â

Miss Blacklock frowned.

âI canât remember â¦ I think so. I certainly locked it when I came in.â

âThat would be about quarter past six?â

âSomewhere about then.â

âAnd the front door?â

âThatâs not usually locked until later.â

âThen Scherz could have walked in quite easily that way. Or he could have slipped in whilst you were out shutting up the ducks. Heâd already spied out the lie of the land and had probably noted various places of concealmentâcupboards, etc. Yes, that all seems quite clear.â

âI beg your pardon, it isnât at all clear,â said Miss Blacklock. âWhy on earth should anyone take all that elaborate trouble to come and burgle this house and stage that silly sort of hold-up?â

âDo you keep much money in the house, Miss Blacklock?â

âAbout five pounds in that desk there, and perhaps a pound or two in my purse.â

âJewellery?â

âA couple of rings and brooches, and the cameos Iâm wearing. You must agree with me, Inspector, that the whole thingâs absurd.â

âIt wasnât burglary at all,â cried Miss Bunner. âIâve told you so, Letty, all along. It was revenge! Because you wouldnât give him that money! He deliberately shot at youâtwice.â

âAh,â said Craddock. âWeâll come now to last night. What happened exactly, Miss Blacklock? Tell me in your own words as nearly as you can remember.â

Miss Blacklock reflected a moment.

âThe clock struck,â she said. âThe one on the mantelpiece. I remember saying that if anything were going to happen it would have to happen soon. And then the clock struck. We all listened to it without saying anything. It chimes, you know. It chimed the two quarters and then, quite suddenly, the lights went out.â

âWhat lights were on?â

âThe wall brackets in here and the further room. The standard lamp and the two small reading lamps werenât on.â

âWas there a flash first, or a noise when the lights went out?â

âI donât think so.â

âIâm sure there was a flash,â said Dora Bunner. âAnd a cracking noise. Dangerous!â

âAnd then, Miss Blacklock?â

âThe door openedââ

âWhich door? There are two in the room.â

âOh, this door in here. The one in the other room doesnât open. Itâs a dummy. The door opened and there he wasâa masked man with a revolver. It just seemed too fantastic for words, but of course at the time I just thought it was a silly joke. He said somethingâI forget whatââ

âHands up or I shoot!â supplied Miss Bunner, dramatically.

âSomething like that,â said Miss Blacklock, rather doubtfully.

âAnd you all put your hands up?â

âOh, yes,â said Miss Bunner. âWe all did. I mean, it was part of it.â

âI didnât,â said Miss Blacklock crisply. âIt seemed so utterly silly. And I was annoyed by the whole thing.â

âAnd then?â

âThe flashlight was right in my eyes. It dazzled me. And then, quite incredibly, I heard a bullet whizz past me and hit the wall by my head. Somebody shrieked and then I felt a burning pain in my ear and heard the second report.â

âIt was terrifying,â put in Miss Bunner.

âAnd what happened next, Miss Blacklock?â

âItâs difficult to sayâI was so staggered by the pain and the surprise. Theâthe figure turned away and seemed to stumble and then there was another shot and his torch went out and everybody began pushing and calling out. All banging into each other.â

âWhere were you standing, Miss Blacklock?â

âShe was over by the table. Sheâd got that vase of violets in her hand,â said Miss Bunner breathlessly.

âI was over here.â Miss Blacklock went over to the small table by the archway. âActually it was the cigarette box Iâd got in my hand.â

Inspector Craddock examined the wall behind her. The two bullet holes showed plainly. The bullets themselves had been extracted and had been sent for comparison with the revolver.

He said quietly:

âYou had a very near escape, Miss Blacklock.â

âHe did shoot at her,â said Miss Bunner. âDeliberately at her! I saw him. He turned the flash round on everybody until he found her and then he held it right at her and just fired at her. He meant to kill you, Letty.â

âDora dear, youâve just got that into your head from mulling the whole thing over and over.â

âHe shot at you,â repeated Dora stubbornly. âHe meant to shoot you and when heâd missed, he shot himself. Iâm certain thatâs the way it was!â

âI donât think he meant to shoot himself for a minute,â said Miss Blacklock. âHe wasnât the kind of man who shoots himself.â

âYou tell me, Miss Blacklock, that until the revolver was fired you thought the whole business was a joke?â

âNaturally. What else could I think it was?â

âWho do you think was the author of this joke?â

âYou thought Patrick had done it at first,â Dora Bunner reminded her.

âPatrick?â asked the Inspector sharply.

âMy young cousin, Patrick Simmons,â Miss Blacklock continued sharply, annoyed with her friend. âIt did occur to me when I saw this advertisement that it might be some attempt at humour on his part, but he denied it absolutely.â

âAnd then you were worried, Letty,â said Miss Bunner. âYou were worried, although you pretended not to be. And you were quite right to be worried. It said a murder is announcedâand it was announcedâyour murder! And if the man hadnât missed, you would have been murdered. And then where should we all be?â

Dora Bunner was trembling as she spoke. Her face was puckered up and she looked as though she were going to cry.

Miss Blacklock patted her on the shoulder.

âItâs all right, Dora dearâdonât get excited. Itâs so bad for you. Everythingâs quite all right. Weâve had a nasty experience, but itâs over now.â She added, âYou must pull yourself together for my sake, Dora. I rely on you, you know, to keep the house going. Isnât it the day for the laundry to come?â

âOh, dear me, Letty, how fortunate you reminded me! I wonder if theyâll return that missing pillowcase. I must make a note in the book about it. Iâll go and see to it at once.â

âAnd take those violets away,â said Miss Blacklock. âThereâs nothing I hate more than dead flowers.â

âWhat a pity. I picked them fresh yesterday. They havenât lasted at allâoh, dear, I must have forgotten to put any water in the vase. Fancy that! Iâm always forgetting things. Now I must go and see about the laundry. They might be here any moment.â

She bustled away, looking quite happy again.

âSheâs not very strong,â said Miss Blacklock, âand excitements are bad for her. Is there anything more you want to know, Inspector?â

âI just want to know exactly how many people make up your household here and something about them.â

âYes, well in addition to myself and Dora Bunner, I have two young cousins living here at present, Patrick and Julia Simmons.â

âCousins? Not a nephew and niece?â

âNo. They call me Aunt Letty, but actually they are distant cousins. Their mother was my second cousin.â

âHave they always made their home with you?â

âOh, dear no, only for the last two months. They lived in the South of France before the war. Patrick went into the Navy and Julia, I believe, was in one of the Ministries. She was at Llandudno. When the war was over their mother wrote and asked me if they could possibly come to me as paying guestsâJulia is training as a dispenser in Milchester General Hospital, Patrick is studying for an engineering degree at Milchester University. Milchester, as you know, is only fifty minutes by bus, and I was very glad to have them here. This house is really too large for me. They pay a small sum for board and lodging and it all works out very well.â She added with a smile, âI like having somebody young about the place.â

âThen there is a Mrs. Haymes, I believe?â

âYes. She works as an assistant gardener at Dayas Hall, Mrs. Lucasâs place. The cottage there is occupied by the old gardener and his wife and Mrs. Lucas asked if I could billet her here. Sheâs a very nice girl. Her husband was killed in Italy, and she has a boy of eight who is at a prep school and whom I have arranged to have here in the holidays.â

âAnd by way of domestic help?â

âA jobbing gardener comes in on Tuesdays and Fridays. A Mrs. Huggins from the village comes up five mornings a week and I have a foreign refugee with a most unpronouncable name as a kind of lady cook help. You will find Mitzi rather difficult, Iâm afraid. She has a kind of persecution mania.â

Craddock nodded. He was conscious in his own mind of yet another of Constable Leggâs invaluable commentaries. Having appended the word âScattyâ to Dora Bunner, and âAll rightâ to Letitia Blacklock, he had embellished Mitziâs record with the one word âLiar.â

As though she had read his mind Miss Blacklock said:

âPlease donât be too prejudiced against the poor thing because sheâs a liar. I do really believe that, like so many liars, there is a real substratum of truth behind her lies. I mean that though, to take an instance, her atrocity stories have grown and grown until every kind of unpleasant story that has ever appeared in print has happened to her or her relations personally, she did have a bad shock initially and did see one, at least, of her relations killed. I think a lot of these displaced persons feel, perhaps justly, that their claim to our notice and sympathy lies in their atrocity value and so they exaggerate and invent.â

She added: âQuite frankly, Mitzi is a maddening person. She exasperates and infuriates us all, she is suspicious and sulky, is perpetually having âfeelingsâ and thinking herself insulted. But in spite of it all, I really am sorry for her.â She smiled. âAnd also, when she wants to, she can cook very nicely.â

âIâll try not to ruffle her more than I can help,â said Craddock soothingly. âWas that Miss Julia Simmons who opened the door to me?â

âYes. Would you like to see her now? Patrick has gone out. Phillipa Haymes you will find working at Dayas Hall.â

âThank you, Miss Blacklock. Iâd like to see Miss Simmons now if I may.â

Six

JULIA, MITZI AND PATRICK

I

Julia, when she came into the room, and sat down in the chair vacated by Letitia Blacklock, had an air of composure that Craddock for some reason found annoying. She fixed a limpid gaze on him and waited for his questions.

Miss Blacklock had tactfully left the room.

âPlease tell me about last night, Miss Simmons.â

âLast night?â murmured Julia with a blank stare. âOh, we all slept like logs. Reaction, I suppose.â

âI mean last night from six oâclock onwards.â

âOh, I see. Well, a lot of tiresome people cameââ

âThey were?â

She gave him another limpid stare.

âDonât you know all this already?â

âIâm asking the questions, Miss Simmons,â said Craddock pleasantly.

âMy mistake. I always find repetitions so dreary. Apparently you donât â¦ Well, there was Colonel and Mrs. Easterbrook, Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd, Mrs. Swettenham and Edmund Swettenham, and Mrs. Harmon, the Vicarâs wife. They arrived in that order. And if you want to know what they saidâthey all said the same thing in turn. âI see youâve got your central heating onâ and âWhat lovely chrysanthemums!ââ

Craddock bit his lip. The mimicry was good.

âThe exception was Mrs. Harmon. Sheâs rather a pet. She came in with her hat falling off and her shoelaces untied and she asked straight out when the murder was going to happen. It embarrassed everybody because theyâd all been pretending theyâd dropped in by chance. Aunt Letty said in her dry way that it was due to happen quite soon. And then that clock chimed and just as it finished, the lights went out, the door was flung open and a masked figure said, âStick âem up, guys,â or something like that. It was exactly like a bad film. Really quite ridiculous. And then he fired two shots at Aunt Letty and suddenly it wasnât ridiculous any more.â

âWhere was everybody when this happened?â

âWhen the lights went out? Well, just standing about, you know. Mrs. Harmon was sitting on the sofaâHinch (thatâs Miss Hinchcliffe) had taken up a manly stance in front of the fireplace.â

âYou were all in this room, or the far room?â

âMostly, I think, in this room. Patrick had gone into the other to get the sherry. I think Colonel Easterbrook went after him, but I donât really know. We wereâwellâas I said, just standing about.â

âWhere were you yourself?â

âI think I was over by the window. Aunt Letty went to get the cigarettes.â

âOn that table by the archway?â

âYesâand then the lights went out and the bad film started.â

âThe man had a powerful torch. What did he do with it?â

âWell, he shone it on us. Horribly dazzling. It just made you blink.â

âI want you to answer this very carefully, Miss Simmons. Did he hold the torch steady, or did he move it about?â

Julia considered. Her manner was now definitely less weary.

âHe moved it,â she said slowly. âLike a spotlight in a dance hall. It was full in my eyes and then it went on round the room and then the shots came. Two shots.â

âAnd then?â

âHe whirled roundâand Mitzi began to scream like a siren from somewhere and his torch went out and there was another shot. And then the door closed (it does, you know, slowly, with a whining noiseâquite uncanny) and there we were all in the dark, not knowing what to do, and poor Bunny squealing like a rabbit and Mitzi going all out across the hall.â

âWould it be your opinion that the man shot himself deliberately, or do you think he stumbled and the revolver went off accidentally?â

âI havenât the faintest idea. The whole thing was so stagey. Actually I thought it was still some silly jokeâuntil I saw the blood from Lettyâs ear. But even if you were actually going to fire a revolver to make the thing more real, youâd be careful to fire it well above someoneâs head, wouldnât you?â

âYou would indeed. Do you think he could see clearly who he was firing at? I mean, was Miss Blacklock clearly outlined in the light of the torch?â

âIâve no idea. I wasnât looking at her. I was looking at the man.â

âWhat Iâm getting at isâdo you think the man was deliberately aiming at herâat her in particular, I mean?â

Julia seemed a little startled by the idea.

âYou mean deliberately picking on Aunt Letty? Oh, I shouldnât think so â¦ After all, if he wanted to take a pot shot at Aunt Letty, there would be heaps of more suitable opportunities. There would be no point in collecting all the friends and neighbours just to make it more difficult. He could have shot her from behind a hedge in the good old Irish fashion any day of the week, and probably got away with it.â

And that, thought Craddock, was a very complete reply to Dora Bunnerâs suggestion of a deliberate attack on Letitia Blacklock.

He said with a sigh, âThank you, Miss Simmons. Iâd better go and see Mitzi now.â

âMind her fingernails,â warned Julia. âSheâs a tartar!â

II

Craddock, with Fletcher in attendance, found Mitzi in the kitchen. She was rolling pastry and looked up suspiciously as he entered.

Her black hair hung over her eyes; she looked sullen, and the purple jumper and brilliant green skirt she wore were not becoming to her pasty complexion.

âWhat do you come in my kitchen for, Mr. Policeman? You are police, yes? Always, always there is persecutionâah! I should be used to it by now. They say it is different here in England, but no, it is just the same. You come to torture me, yes, to make me say things, but I shall say nothing. You will tear off my fingernails, and put lighted matches on my skinâoh, yes, and worse than that. But I will not speak, do you hear? I shall say nothingânothing at all. And you will send me away to a concentration camp, and I shall not care.â

Craddock looked at her thoughtfully, selecting what was likely to be the best method of attack. Finally he sighed and said:

âO.K., then, get your hat and coat.â

âWhat is that you say?â Mitzi looked startled.

âGet your hat and coat and come along. I havenât got my nail-pulling apparatus and the rest of the bag of tricks with me. We keep all that down at the station. Got the handcuffs handy, Fletcher?â

âSir!â said Sergeant Fletcher with appreciation.

âBut I do not want to come,â screeched Mitzi, backing away from him.

âThen youâll answer civil questions civilly. If you like, you can have a solicitor present.â

âA lawyer? I do not like a lawyer. I do not want a lawyer.â

She put the rolling pin down, dusted her hands on a cloth and sat down.

âWhat do you want to know?â she asked sulkily.

âI want your account of what happened here last night.â

âYou know very well what happened.â

âI want your account of it.â

âI tried to go away. Did she tell you that? When I saw that in the paper saying about murder. I wanted to go away. She would not let me. She is very hardânot at all sympathetic. She made me stay. But I knewâI knew what would happen. I knew I should be murdered.â

âWell, you werenât murdered, were you?â

âNo,â admitted Mitzi grudgingly.

âCome now, tell me what happened.â

âI was nervous. Oh, I was nervous. All that evening. I hear things. People moving about. Once I think someone is in the hall moving stealthilyâbut it is only that Mrs. Haymes coming in through the side door (so as not to dirty the front steps, she says. Much she cares!). She is a Nazi herself, that one, with her fair hair and her blue eyes, so superior and looking at me and thinking that IâI am only dirtââ

âNever mind Mrs. Haymes.â

âWho does she think she is? Has she had expensive university education like I have? Has she a degree in Economics? No, she is just a paid labourer. She digs and mows grass and is paid so much every Saturday. Who is she to call herself a lady?â

âNever mind Mrs. Haymes, I said. Go on.â

âI take the sherry and the glasses, and the little pastries that I have made so nice into the drawing room. Then the bell rings and I answer the door. Again and again I answer the door. It is degradingâbut I do it. And then I go back into the pantry and I start to polish the silver, and I think it will be very handy, that, because if someone comes to kill me, I have there close at hand the big carving knife, all sharp.â

âVery foresighted of you.â

âAnd then, suddenlyâI hear shots. I think: âIt has comeâit is happening.â I run through the dining room (the other doorâit will not open). I stand a moment to listen and then there comes another shot and a big thud, out there in the hall, and I turn the door handle, but it is locked outside. I am shut in there like a rat in a trap. And I go mad with fear. I scream and I scream and I beat upon the door. And at lastâat lastâthey turn the key and let me out. And then I bring candles, many many candlesâand the lights go on, and I see bloodâblood! Ach, Gott in Himmel, the blood! It is not the first time I have seen blood. My little brotherâI see him killed before my eyesâI see blood in the streetâpeople shot, dyingâIââ

âYes,â said Inspector Craddock. âThank you very much.â

âAnd now,â said Mitzi dramatically, âyou can arrest me and take me to prison!â

âNot today,â said Inspector Craddock.

III

As Craddock and Fletcher went through the hall to the front door it was flung open and a tall handsome young man almost collided with them.

âSleuths as I live,â cried the young man.

âMr. Patrick Simmons?â

âQuite right, Inspector. Youâre the Inspector, arenât you, and the otherâs the Sergeant?â

âYou are quite right, Mr. Simmons. Can I have a word with you, please?â

âI am innocent, Inspector. I swear I am innocent.â

âNow then, Mr. Simmons, donât play the fool. Iâve a good many other people to see and I donât want to waste time. Whatâs this room? Can we go in here?â

âItâs the so-called studyâbut nobody studies.â

âI was told that you were studying?â said Craddock.

âI found I couldnât concentrate on mathematics, so I came home.â

In a businesslike manner Inspector Craddock demanded full name, age, details of war service.

âAnd now, Mr. Simmons, will you describe what happened last night?â

âWe killed the fatted calf, Inspector. That is, Mitzi set her hand to making savoury pastries, Aunt Letty opened a new bottle of sherryââ

Craddock interrupted.

âA new bottle? Was there an old one?â

âYes. Half full. But Aunt Letty didnât seem to fancy it.â

âWas she nervous, then?â

âOh, not really. Sheâs extremely sensible. It was old Bunny, I think, who had put the wind up herâprophesying disaster all day.â

âMiss Bunner was definitely apprehensive, then?â

âOh, yes, she enjoyed herself thoroughly.â

âShe took the advertisement seriously?â

âIt scared her into fits.â

âMiss Blacklock seems to have thought, when she first read that advertisement, that you had had something to do with it. Why was that?â

âAh, sure, I get blamed for everything round here!â

âYou didnât have anything to do with it, did you, Mr. Simmons?â

âMe? Never in the world.â

âHad you ever seen or spoken to this Rudi Scherz?â

âNever seen him in my life.â

âIt was the kind of joke you might have played, though?â

âWhoâs been telling you that? Just because I once made Bunny an apple pie bedâand sent Mitzi a postcard saying the Gestapo was on her trackââ

âJust give me your account of what happened.â

âIâd just gone into the small drawing room to fetch the drinks when, Hey Presto, the lights went out. I turned round and thereâs a fellow standing in the doorway saying, âStick your hands up,â and everybody gasping and squealing, and just when Iâm thinkingâcan I rush him? he starts firing a revolver and then crash down he goes and his torch goes out and weâre in the dark again, and Colonel Easterbrook starts shouting orders in his barrack-room voice. âLights,â he says, and will my lighter go on? No, it wonât as is the way of those cussed inventions.â

âDid it seem to you that the intruder was definitely aiming at Miss Blacklock?â

âAh, how could I tell? I should say he just loosed off his revolver for the fun of the thingâand then found, maybe, heâd gone too far.â

âAnd shot himself?â

âIt could be. When I saw the face of him, he looked like the kind of little pasty thief who might easily lose his nerve.â

âAnd youâre sure you had never seen him before?â

âNever.â

âThank you, Mr. Simmons. I shall want to interview the other people who were here last night. Which would be the best order in which to take them?â

âWell, our PhillipaâMrs. Haymesâworks at Dayas Hall. The gates of it are nearly opposite this gate. After that, the Swettenhams are the nearest. Anyone will tell you.â

Seven

AMONG THOSE PRESENT

I

Dayas Hall had certainly suffered during the war years. Couch grass grew enthusiastically over what had once been an asparagus bed, as evidenced by a few waving tufts of asparagus foliage. Grounsel, bindweed and other garden pests showed every sign of vigorous growth.

A portion of the kitchen garden bore evidence of having been reduced to discipline and here Craddock found a sour-looking old man leaning pensively on a spade.

âItâs Mrs. âAymes you want? I couldnât say where youâd find âer. âAs âer own ideas, she âas, about what sheâll do. Not one to take advice. I could show herâshow âer willingâbut whatâs the good, wonât listen these young ladies wonât! Think they know everything because theyâve put on breeches and gone for a ride on a tractor. But itâs gardening thatâs needed here. And that isnât learned in a day. Gardening, thatâs what this place needs.â

âIt looks as though it does,â said Craddock.

The old man chose to take this remark as an aspersion.

âNow look here, mister, what do you suppose I can do with a place this size? Three men and a boy, thatâs what it used to âave. And thatâs what it wants. Thereâs not many men could put in the work on it that I do. âEre sometimes I am till eight oâclock at night. Eight oâclock.â

âWhat do you work by? An oil lamp?â

âNaterally I donât mean this time oâ year. Naterally. Summer evenings Iâm talking about.â

âOh,â said Craddock. âIâd better go and look for Mrs. Haymes.â

The rustic displayed some interest.

âWhat are you wanting âer for? Police, arenât you? She been in trouble, or is it the do there was up to Little Paddocks? Masked men bursting in and holding up a roomful of people with a revolver. Anâ that sort of thing wouldnât âave âappened afore the war. Deserters, thatâs what it is. Desperate men roaming the countryside. Why donât the military round âem up?â

âIâve no idea,â said Craddock. âI suppose this hold-up caused a lot of talk?â

âThat it did. Whatâs us coming to? Thatâs what Ned Barker said. Comes of going to the pictures so much, he said. But Tom Riley he says it comes of letting these furriners run about loose. And depend on it, he says, that girl as cooks up there for Miss Blacklock and âas such a nasty temperâsheâs in it, he said. Sheâs a communist or worse, he says, and we donât like that sort âere. And Marlene, whoâs behind the bar, you understand, she will âave it that there must be something very valuable up at Miss Blacklockâs. Not that youâd think it, she says, for Iâm sure Miss Blacklock goes about as plain as plain, except for them great rows of false pearls she wears. And then she saysâSupposinâ as them pearls is real, and Florrie (whatâs old Bellamyâs daughter) she says, âNonsense,â she saysâânoovo arâthatâs what they areâcostume jewellery,â she says. Costume jewelleryâthatâs a fine way of labelling a string of false pearls. Roman pearls, the gentry used to call âem onceâand Parisian diamondsâmy wife was a ladyâs maid and I know. But what does it all meanâjust glass! I suppose itâs âcostume jewelleryâ that young Miss Simmons wearsâgold ivy leaves and dogs and such like. âTisnât often you see a real bit of gold nowadaysâeven wedding rings they make of this grey plattinghum stuff. Shabby, I call itâfor all that it costs the earth.â

Old Ashe paused for breath and then continued:

ââMiss Blacklock donât keep much money in the âouse, that I do know,â says Jim âUggins, speaking up. âE should know, for itâs âis wife as goes up and does for âem at Little Paddocks, and sheâs a woman as knows most of whatâs going on. Nosey, if you take me.â

âDid he say what Mrs. Hugginsâ view was?â

âThat Mitziâs mixed up in it, thatâs what she thinks. Awful temper she âas, and the airs she gives âerself! Called Mrs. âUggins a working woman to âer face the other morning.â

Craddock stood a moment, checking over in his orderly mind the substance of the old gardenerâs remarks. It gave him a good cross-section of rural opinion in Chipping Cleghorn, but he didnât think there was anything to help him in his task. He turned away and the old man called after him grudgingly:

âMaybe youâd find her in the apple orchard. Sheâs younger than I am for getting the apples down.â

And sure enough in the apple orchard Craddock found Phillipa Haymes. His first view was a pair of nice legs encased in breeches sliding easily down the trunk of a tree. Then Phillipa, her face flushed, her fair hair ruffled by the branches, stood looking at him in a startled fashion.

âMake a good Rosalind,â Craddock thought automatically, for Detective-Inspector Craddock was a Shakespeare enthusiast and had played the part of the melancholy Jaques with great success in a performance of As You Like It for the Police Orphanage.

A moment later he amended his views. Phillipa Haymes was too wooden for Rosalind, her fairness and her impassivity were intensely English, but English of the twentieth rather than of the sixteenth century. Well-bred, unemotional English, without a spark of mischief.

âGood morning, Mrs. Haymes. Iâm sorry if I startled you. Iâm Detective-Inspector Craddock of the Middleshire Police. I wanted to have a word with you.â

âAbout last night?â

âYes.â

âWill it take long? Shall weâ?â

She looked about her rather doubtfully.

Craddock indicated a fallen tree trunk.

âRather informal,â he said pleasantly, âbut I donât want to interrupt your work longer than necessary.â

âThank you.â

âItâs just for the record. You came in from work at what time last night?â

âAt about half past five. Iâd stayed about twenty minutes later in order to finish some watering in the greenhouse.â

âYou came in by which door?â

âThe side door. One cuts across by the ducks and the hen-house from the drive. It saves you going round, and besides it avoids dirtying up the front porch. Iâm in rather a mucky state sometimes.â

âYou always come in that way?â

âYes.â

âThe door was unlocked?â

âYes. During the summer itâs usually wide open. This time of the year itâs shut but not locked. We all go out and in a good deal that way. I locked it when I came in.â

âDo you always do that?â

âIâve been doing it for the last week. You see, it gets dark at six. Miss Blacklocks goes out to shut up the ducks and the hens sometimes in the evening, but she very often goes out through the kitchen door.â

âAnd you are quite sure you did lock the side door this time?â

âI really am quite sure about that.â

âQuite so, Mrs. Haymes. And what did you do when you came in?â

âKicked off my muddy footwear and went upstairs and had a bath and changed. Then I came down and found that a kind of party was in progress. I hadnât known anything about this funny advertisement until then.â

âNow please describe just what occurred when the hold-up happened.â

âWell, the lights went out suddenlyââ

âWhere were you?â

âBy the mantelpiece. I was searching for my lighter which I thought I had put down there. The lights went outâand everybody giggled. Then the door was flung open and this man shone a torch on us and flourished a revolver and told us to put our hands up.â

âWhich you proceeded to do?â

âWell, I didnât actually. I thought it was just fun, and I was tired and I didnât think I needed really to put them up.â

âIn fact, you were bored by the whole thing?â

âI was, rather. And then the revolver went off. The shots sounded deafening and I was really frightened. The torch went whirling round and dropped and went out, and then Mitzi started screaming. It was just like a pig being killed.â

âDid you find the torch very dazzling?â

âNo, not particularly. It was quite a strong one, though. It lit up Miss Bunner for a moment and she looked quite like a turnip ghostâyou know, all white and staring with her mouth open and her eyes starting out of her head.â

âThe man moved the torch?â

âOh, yes, he played it all round the room.â

âAs though he were looking for someone?â

âNot particularly, I should say.â

âAnd after that, Mrs. Haymes?â

Phillipa Haymes frowned.

âOh, it was all a terrible muddle and confusion. Edmund Swettenham and Patrick Simmons switched on their lighters and they went out into the hall and we followed, and someone opened the dining room doorâthe lights hadnât fused thereâand Edmund Swettenham gave Mitzi a terrific slap on the cheek and brought her out of her screaming fit, and after that it wasnât so bad.â

âYou saw the body of the dead man?â

âYes.â

âWas he known to you? Had you ever seen him before?â

âNever.â

âHave you any opinion as to whether his death was accidental, or do you think he shot himself deliberately?â

âI havenât the faintest idea.â

âYou didnât see him when he came to the house previously?â

âNo. I believe it was in the middle of the morning and I shouldnât have been there. Iâm out all day.â

âThank you, Mrs. Haymes. One thing more. You havenât any valuable jewellery? Rings, bracelets, anything of that kind?â

Phillipa shook her head.

âMy engagement ringâa couple of brooches.â

âAnd as far as you know, there was nothing of particular value in the house?â

âNo. I mean there is some quite nice silverâbut nothing out of the ordinary.â

âThank you, Mrs. Haymes.â

II

As Craddock retraced his steps through the kitchen garden he came face to face with a large red-faced lady, carefully corseted.

âGood morning,â she said belligerently. âWhat do you want here?â

âMrs. Lucas? I am Detective-Inspector Craddock.â

âOh, thatâs who you are? I beg your pardon. I donât like strangers forcing their way into my garden wasting the gardenersâ time. But I quite understand you have to do your duty.â

âQuite so.â

âMay I ask if we are to expect a repetition of that outrage last night at Miss Blacklockâs? Is it a gang?â

âWe are satisfied, Mrs. Lucas, that it was not the work of a gang.â

âThere are far too many robberies nowadays. The police are getting slack.â Craddock did not reply. âI suppose youâve been talking to Phillipa Haymes?â

âI wanted her account as an eyewitness.â

âYou couldnât have waited until one oâclock, I suppose? After all, it would be fairer to question her in her time, rather than in mine. â¦â

âIâm anxious to get back to headquarters.â

âNot that one expects consideration nowadays. Or a decent dayâs work. On duty late, half an hourâs pottering. A break for elevenses at ten oâclock. No work done at all the moment the rain starts. When you want the lawn mown thereâs always something wrong with the mower. And off duty five or ten minutes before the proper time.â

âI understood from Mrs. Haymes that she left here at twenty minutes past five yesterday instead of five oâclock.â

âOh, I dare say she did. Give her her due, Mrs. Haymes is quite keen on her work, though there have been days when I have come out here and not been able to find her anywhere. She is a lady by birth, of course, and one feels itâs oneâs duty to do something for these poor young war widows. Not that it isnât very inconvenient. Those long school holidays and the arrangement is that she has extra time off then. I told her that there are really excellent camps nowadays where children can be sent and where they have a delightful time and enjoy it far more than wandering about with their parents. They need practically not come home at all in the summer holidays.â

âBut Mrs. Haymes didnât take kindly to that idea?â

âSheâs as obstinate as a mule, that girl. Just the time of year when I want the tennis court mowed and marked nearly every day. Old Ashe gets the lines crooked. But my convenience is never considered!â

âI presume Mrs. Haymes takes a smaller salary than is usual?â

âNaturally. What else could she expect?â

âNothing, Iâm sure,â said Craddock. âGood morning, Mrs. Lucas.â

III

âIt was dreadful,â said Mrs. Swettenham happily. âQuiteâquiteâdreadful, and what I say is that they ought to be far more careful what advertisements they accept at the Gazette office. At the time, when I read it, I thought it was very odd. I said so, didnât I, Edmund?â

âDo you remember just what you were doing when the lights went out, Mrs. Swettenham?â asked the Inspector.

âHow that reminds me of my old Nannie! Where was Moses when the light went out? The answer, of course, was âIn the Dark.â Just like us yesterday evening. All standing about and wondering what was going to happen. And then, you know, the thrill when it suddenly went pitch black. And the door openingâjust a dim figure standing there with a revolver and that blinding light and a menacing voice saying âYour money or your life!â Oh, Iâve never enjoyed anything so much. And then a minute later, of course, it was all dreadful. Real bullets, just whistling past our ears! It must have been just like the Commandos in the war.â

âWhereabouts were you standing or sitting at the time, Mrs. Swettenham?â

âNow let me see, where was I? Who was I talking to, Edmund?â

âI really havenât the least idea, Mother.â

âWas it Miss Hinchcliffe I was asking about giving the hens cod liver oil in the cold weather? Or was it Mrs. Harmonâno, sheâd only just arrived. I think I was just saying to Colonel Easterbrook that I thought it was really very dangerous to have an atom research station in England. It ought to be on some lonely island in case the radio activity gets loose.â

âYou donât remember if you were sitting or standing?â

âDoes it really matter, Inspector? I was somewhere over by the window or near the mantelpiece, because I know I was quite near the clock when it struck. Such a thrilling moment! Waiting to see if anything might be going to happen.â

âYou describe the light from the torch as blinding. Was it turned full on to you?â

âIt was right in my eyes. I couldnât see a thing.â

âDid the man hold it still, or did he move it about, from person to person?â

âOh, I donât really know. Which did he do, Edmund?â

âIt moved rather slowly over us all, so as to see what we were all doing, I suppose, in case we should try and rush him.â

âAnd where exactly in the room were you, Mr. Swettenham?â

âIâd been talking to Julia Simmons. We were both standing up in the middle of the roomâthe long room.â

âWas everyone in that room, or was there anyone in the far room?â

âPhillipa Haymes had moved in there, I think. She was over by that far mantelpiece. I think she was looking for something.â

âHave you any idea as to whether the third shot was suicide or an accident?â

âIâve no idea at all. The man seemed to swerve round very suddenly and then crumple up and fallâbut it was all very confused. You must realise that you couldnât really see anything. And then that refugee girl started yelling the place down.â

âI understand it was you who unlocked the dining room door and let her out?â

âYes.â

âThe door was definitely locked on the outside?â

Edmund looked at him curiously.

âCertainly it was. Why, you donât imagineâ?â

âI just like to get my facts quite clear. Thank you, Mr. Swettenham.â

IV

Inspector Craddock was forced to spend quite a long time with Colonel and Mrs. Easterbrook. He had to listen to a long disquisition on the psychological aspect of the case.

âThe psychological approachâthatâs the only thing nowadays,â the Colonel told him. âYouâve got to understand your criminal. Now the whole setup here is quite plain to a man whoâs had the wide experience that I have. Why does this fellow put that advert in? Psychology. He wants to advertise himselfâto focus attention on himself. Heâs been passed over, perhaps despised as a foreigner by the other employees at the Spa Hotel. A girl has turned him down, perhaps. He wants to rivet her attention on him. Who is the idol of the cinema nowadaysâthe gangsterâthe tough guy? Very well, he will be a tough guy. Robbery with violence. A mask? A revolver? But he wants an audienceâhe must have an audience. So he arranges for an audience. And then, at the supreme moment, his part runs away with himâheâs more than a burglar. Heâs a killer. He shootsâblindlyââ

Inspector Craddock caught gladly at a word:

âYou say âblindly,â Colonel Easterbrook. You didnât think that he was firing deliberately at one particular objectâat Miss Blacklock, that is to say?â

âNo, no. He just loosed off, as I say, blindly. And thatâs what brought him to himself. The bullet hit someoneâactually it was only a graze, but he didnât know that. He comes to himself with a bang. All thisâthis make-believe heâs been indulging inâis real. Heâs shot at someoneâperhaps killed someone â¦ Itâs all up with him. And so in blind panic he turns the revolver on himself.â

Colonel Easterbrook paused, cleared his throat appreciatively and said in a satisfied voice, âPlain as a pikestaff, thatâs what it is, plain as a pikestaff.â

âIt really is wonderful,â said Mrs. Easterbrook, âthe way you know exactly what happened, Archie.â

Her voice was warm with admiration.

Inspector Craddock thought it was wonderful, too, but he was not quite so warmly appreciative.

âExactly where were you in the room, Colonel Easterbrook, when the actual shooting business took place?â

âI was standing with my wifeânear a centre table with some flowers on it.â

âI caught hold of your arm, didnât I, Archie, when it happened? I was simply scared to death. I just had to hold on to you.â

âPoor little kitten,â said the Colonel playfully.

V

The Inspector ran Miss Hinchcliffe to earth by a pigsty.

âNice creatures, pigs,â said Miss Hinchcliffe, scratching a wrinkled pink back. âComing on well, isnât he? Good bacon round about Christmas time. Well, what do you want to see me about? I told your people last night I hadnât the least idea who the man was. Never seen him anywhere in the neighbourhood snooping about or anything of that sort. Our Mrs. Mopp says he came from one of the big hotels in Medenham Wells. Why didnât he hold up someone there if he wanted to? Get a much better haul.â

That was undeniableâCraddock proceeded with his inquiries.

âWhere were you exactly when the incident took place?â

âIncident! Reminds me of my A.R.P. days. Saw some incidents then, I can tell you. Where was I when the shooting started? That what you want to know?â

âYes.â

âLeaning up against the mantelpiece hoping to God someone would offer me a drink soon,â replied Miss Hinchcliffe promptly.

âDo you think that the shots were fired blindly, or aimed carefully at one particular person?â

âYou mean aimed at Letty Blacklock? How the devil should I know? Damned hard to sort out what your impressions really were or what really happened after itâs all over. All I know is the lights went out, and that torch went whirling round dazzling us all, and then the shots were fired and I thought to myself, âIf that damned young fool Patrick Simmons is playing his jokes with a loaded revolver somebody will get hurt.ââ

âYou thought it was Patrick Simmons?â

âWell, it seemed likely. Edmund Swettenham is intellectual and writes books and doesnât care for horseplay, and old Colonel Easterbrook wouldnât think that sort of thing funny. But Patrickâs a wild boy. However, I apologize to him for the idea.â

âDid your friend think it might be Patrick Simmons?â

âMurgatroyd? Youâd better talk to her yourself. Not that youâll get any sense out of her. Sheâs down the orchard. Iâll yell for her if you like.â

Miss Hinchcliffe raised her stentorian voice in a powerful bellow:

âHi-youp, Murgatroydâ¦.â

âComing â¦â floated back a thin cry.

âHurry upâPolieece,â bellowed Miss Hinchcliffe.

Miss Murgatroyd arrived at a brisk trot very much out of breath. Her skirt was down at the hem and her hair was escaping from an inadequate hair net. Her round, good-natured face beamed.

âIs it Scotland Yard?â she asked breathlessly. âIâd no idea. Or I wouldnât have left the house.â

âWe havenât called in Scotland Yard yet, Miss Murgatroyd. Iâm Inspector Craddock from Milchester.â

âWell, thatâs very nice, Iâm sure,â said Miss Murgatroyd vaguely. âHave you found any clues?â

âWhere were you at the time of the crime, thatâs what he wants to know, Murgatroyd?â said Miss Hinchcliffe. She winked at Craddock.

âOh, dear,â gasped Miss Murgatroyd. âOf course. I ought to have been prepared. Alibis, of course. Now, let me see, I was just with everybody else.â

âYou werenât with me,â said Miss Hinchcliffe.

âOh, dear, Hinch, wasnât I? No, of course, Iâd been admiring the chrysanthemums. Very poor specimens, really. And then it all happenedâonly I didnât really know it had happenedâI mean I didnât know that anything like that had happened. I didnât imagine for a moment that it was a real revolverâand all so awkward in the dark, and that dreadful screaming. I got it all wrong, you know. I thought she was being murderedâI mean the refugee girl. I thought she was having her throat cut across the hall somewhere. I didnât know it was himâI mean, I didnât even know there was a man. It was really just a voice, you know, saying, âPut them up, please.ââ

ââStick âem up!ââ Miss Hinchcliffe corrected. âAnd no suggestion of âpleaseâ about it.â

âItâs so terrible to think that until that girl started screaming I was actually enjoying myself. Only being in the dark was very awkward and I got a knock on my corn. Agony, it was. Is there anything more you want to know, Inspector?â

âNo,â said Inspector Craddock, eyeing Miss Murgatroyd speculatively. âI donât really think there is.â

Her friend gave a short bark of laughter.

âHeâs got you taped, Murgatroyd.â

âIâm sure, Hinch,â said Miss Murgatroyd, âthat Iâm only too willing to say anything I can.â

âHe doesnât want that,â said Miss Hinchcliffe.

She looked at the Inspector. âIf youâre doing this geographically I suppose youâll go to the Vicarage next. You might get something there. Mrs. Harmon looks as vague as they make themâbut I sometimes think sheâs got brains. Anyway, sheâs got something.â

As they watched the Inspector and Sergeant Fletcher stalk away, Amy Murgatroyd said breathlessly:

âOh, Hinch, was I very awful? I do get so flustered!â

âNot at all,â Miss Hinchcliffe smiled. âOn the whole, I should say you did very well.â

VI

Inspector Craddock looked round the big shabby room with a sense of pleasure. It reminded him a little of his own Cumberland home. Faded chintz, big shabby chairs, flowers and books strewn about, and a spaniel in a basket. Mrs. Harmon, too, with her distraught air, and her general disarray and her eager face he found sympathetic.

But she said at once, frankly, âI shanât be any help to you. Because I shut my eyes. I hate being dazzled. And then there were shots and I screwed them up tighter than ever. And I did wish, oh, I did wish, that it had been a quiet murder. I donât like bangs.â

âSo you didnât see anything.â The Inspector smiled at her. âBut you heardâ?â

âOh, my goodness, yes, there was plenty to hear. Doors opening and shutting, and people saying silly things and gasping and old Mitzi screaming like a steam engineâand poor Bunny squealing like a trapped rabbit. And everyone pushing and falling over everyone else. However, when there really didnât seem to be any more bangs coming, I opened my eyes. Everyone was out in the hall then, with candles. And then the lights came on and suddenly it was all as usualâI donât mean really as usual, but we were ourselves again, not justâpeople in the dark. People in the dark are quite different, arenât they?â

âI think I know what you mean, Mrs. Harmon.â

Mrs. Harmon smiled at him.

âAnd there he was,â she said. âA rather weaselly-looking foreignerâall pink and surprised-lookingâlying there deadâwith a revolver beside him. It didnâtâoh, it didnât seem to make sense, somehow.â

It did not make sense to the Inspector, either.

The whole business worried him.

Eight

ENTER MISS MARPLE

I

Craddock laid the typed transcript of the various interviews before the Chief Constable. The latter had just finished reading the wire received from the Swiss Police.

âSo he had a police record all right,â said Rydesdale. âHâmâvery much as one thought.â

âYes, sir.â

âJewellery â¦ hâm, yes â¦ falsified entries â¦ yes â¦ cheque â¦ Definitely a dishonest fellow.â

âYes, sirâin a small way.â

âQuite so. And small things lead to large things.â

âI wonder, sir.â

The Chief Constable looked up.

âWorried, Craddock?â

âYes, sir.â

âWhy? Itâs a straightforward story. Or isnât it? Letâs see what all these people youâve been talking to have to say.â

He drew the report towards him and read it through rapidly.

âThe usual thingâplenty of inconsistencies and contradictions. Different peopleâs accounts of a few moments of stress never agree. But the main picture seems clear enough.â

âI know, sirâbut itâs an unsatisfactory picture. If you know what I meanâitâs the wrong picture.â

âWell, letâs take the facts. Rudi Scherz took the 5:20 bus from Medenham to Chipping Cleghorn arriving there at six oâclock. Evidence of conductor and two passengers. From the bus stop he walked away in the direction of Little Paddocks. He got into the house with no particular difficultyâprobably through the front door. He held up the company with a revolver, he fired two shots, one of which slightly wounded Miss Blacklock, then he killed himself with a third shot, whether accidentally or deliberately there is not sufficient evidence to show. The reasons why he did all this are profoundly unsatisfactory, I agree. But why isnât really a question we are called upon to answer. A Coronerâs jury may bring it in suicideâor accidental death. Whichever verdict it is, itâs the same as far as weâre concerned. We can write finis.â

âYou mean we can always fall back upon Colonel Easterbrookâs psychology,â said Craddock gloomily.

Rydesdale smiled.

âAfter all, the Colonelâs probably had a good deal of experience,â he said. âIâm pretty sick of the psychological jargon thatâs used so glibly about everything nowadaysâbut we canât really rule it out.â

âI still feel the pictureâs all wrong, sir.â

âAny reason to believe that somebody in the setup at Chipping Cleghorn is lying to you?â

Craddock hesitated.

âI think the foreign girl knows more than she lets on. But that may be just prejudice on my part.â

âYou think she might possibly have been in it with this fellow? Let him into the house? Put him up to it?â

âSomething of the kind. I wouldnât put it past her. But that surely indicates that there really was something valuable, money or jewellery, in the house, and that doesnât seem to have been the case. Miss Blacklock negatived it quite decidedly. So did the others. That leaves us with the proposition that there was something valuable in the house that nobody knew aboutââ

âQuite a best-seller plot.â

âI agree itâs ridiculous, sir. The only other point is Miss Bunnerâs certainty that it was a definite attempt by Scherz to murder Miss Blacklock.â

âWell, from what you sayâand from her statement, this Miss Bunnerââ

âOh, I agree, sir,â Craddock put in quickly, âsheâs an utterly unreliable witness. Highly suggestible. Anyone could put a thing into her headâbut the interesting thing is that this is quite her own theoryâno one has suggested it to her. Everybody else negatives it. For once sheâs not swimming with the tide. It definitely is her own impression.â

âAnd why should Rudi Scherz want to kill Miss Blacklock?â

âThere you are, sir. I donât know. Miss Blacklock doesnât knowâunless sheâs a much better liar than I think she is. Nobody knows. So presumably it isnât true.â

He sighed.

âCheer up, Craddock,â said the Chief Constable. âIâm taking you off to lunch with Sir Henry and myself. The best that the Royal Spa Hotel in Medenham Wells can provide.â

âThank you, sir.â Craddock looked slightly surprised.

âYou see, we received a letterââ He broke off as Sir Henry Clithering entered the room. âAh, there you are, Henry.â

Sir Henry, informal this time, said, âMorning, Dermot.â

âIâve got something for you, Henry,â said the Chief Constable.

âWhatâs that?â

âAuthentic letter from an old Pussy. Staying at the Royal Spa Hotel. Something she thinks we might like to know in connection with this Chipping Cleghorn business.â

âThe old Pussies,â said Sir Henry triumphantly. âWhat did I tell you? They hear everything. They see everything. And, unlike the famous adage, they speak all evil. Whatâs this particular one got hold of?â

Rydesdale consulted the letter.

âWrites just like my old grandmother,â he complained. âSpiky. Like a spider in the ink bottle, and all underlined. A good deal about how she hopes it wonât be taking up our valuable time, but might possibly be of some slight assistance, etc., etc. Whatâs her name? JaneâsomethingâMurpleâno, Marple, Jane Marple.â

âYe Gods and Little Fishes,â said Sir Henry, âcan it be? George, itâs my own particular, one and only, four-starred Pussy. The super Pussy of all old Pussies. And she has managed somehow to be at Medenham Wells, instead of peacefully at home in St. Mary Mead, just at the right time to be mixed up in a murder. Once more a murder is announcedâfor the benefit and enjoyment of Miss Marple.â

âWell, Henry,â said Rydesdale sardonically, âIâll be glad to see your paragon. Come on! Weâll lunch at the Royal Spa and weâll interview the lady. Craddock, here, is looking highly sceptical.â

âNot at all, sir,â said Craddock politely.

He thought to himself that sometimes his godfather carried things a bit far.

II

Miss Jane Marple was very nearly, if not quite, as Craddock had pictured her. She was far more benignant than he had imagined and a good deal older. She seemed indeed very old. She had snow-white hair and a pink crinkled face and very soft innocent blue eyes, and she was heavily enmeshed in fleecy wool. Wool round her shoulders in the form of a lacy cape and wool that she was knitting and which turned out to be a babyâs shawl.

She was all incoherent delight and pleasure at seeing Sir Henry, and became quite flustered when introduced to the Chief Constable and Detective-Inspector Craddock.

âBut really, Sir Henry, how fortunate â¦ how very fortunate. So long since I have seen you â¦ Yes, my rheumatism. Very bad of late. Of course I couldnât have afforded this hotel (really fantastic what they charge nowadays) but Raymondâmy nephew, Raymond West, you may remember himââ

âEveryone knows his name.â

âYes, the dear boy has been so successful with his clever booksâhe prides himself upon never writing about anything pleasant. The dear boy insisted on paying all my expenses. And his dear wife is making a name for herself too, as an artist. Mostly jugs of dying flowers and broken combs on windowsills. I never dare tell her, but I still admire Blair Leighton and Alma Tadema. Oh, but Iâm chattering. And the Chief Constable himselfâindeed I never expectedâso afraid I shall be taking up his timeââ

âCompletely ga-ga,â thought the disgusted Detective-Inspector Craddock.

âCome into the Managerâs private room,â said Rydesdale. âWe can talk better there.â

When Miss Marple had been disentangled from her wool, and her spare knitting pins collected, she accompanied them, fluttering and protesting, to Mr. Rowlandsonâs comfortable sitting-room.

âNow, Miss Marple, letâs hear what you have to tell us,â said the Chief Constable.

Miss Marple came to the point with unexpected brevity.

âIt was a cheque,â she said. âHe altered it.â

âHe?â

âThe young man at the desk here, the one who is supposed to have staged that hold-up and shot himself.â

âHe altered a cheque, you say?â

Miss Marple nodded.

âYes. I have it here.â She extracted it from her bag and laid it on the table. âIt came this morning with my others from the Bank. You can see, it was for seven pounds, and he altered it to seventeen. A stroke in front of the 7, and teen added after the word seven with a nice artistic little blot just blurring the whole word. Really very nicely done. A certain amount of practice, I should say. Itâs the same ink, because I wrote the cheque actually at the desk. I should think heâd done it quite often before, wouldnât you?â

âHe picked the wrong person to do it to, this time,â remarked Sir Henry.

Miss Marple nodded agreement.

âYes. Iâm afraid he would never have gone very far in crime. I was quite the wrong person. Some busy young married woman, or some girl having a love affairâthatâs the kind who write cheques for all sorts of different sums and donât really look through their passbooks carefully. But an old woman who has to be careful of the pennies, and who has formed habitsâthatâs quite the wrong person to choose. Seventeen pounds is a sum I never write a cheque for. Twenty pounds, a round sum, for the monthly wages and books. And as for my personal expenditure, I usually cash sevenâit used to be five, but everything has gone up so.â

âAnd perhaps he reminded you of someone?â prompted Sir Henry, mischief in his eye.

Miss Marple smiled and shook her head at him.

âYou are very naughty, Sir Henry. As a matter of fact he did. Fred Tyler, at the fish shop. Always slipped an extra 1 in the shillings column. Eating so much fish as we do nowadays, it made a long bill, and lots of people never added it up. Just ten shillings in his pocket every time, not much but enough to get himself a few neckties and take Jessie Spragge (the girl in the draperâs) to the pictures. Cut a splash, thatâs what these young fellows want to do. Well, the very first week I was here, there was a mistake in my bill. I pointed it out to the young man and he apologized very nicely and looked very much upset, but I thought to myself then: âYouâve got a shifty eye, young man.â

âWhat I mean by a shifty eye,â continued Miss Marple, âis the kind that looks very straight at you and never looks away or blinks.â

Craddock gave a sudden movement of appreciation. He thought to himself âJim Kelly to the life,â remembering a notorious swindler he had helped to put behind bars not long ago.

âRudi Scherz was a thoroughly unsatisfactory character,â said Rydesdale. âHeâs got a police record in Switzerland, we find.â

âMade the place too hot for him, I suppose, and came over here with forged papers?â said Miss Marple.

âExactly,â said Rydesdale.

âHe was going about with the little red-haired waitress from the dining room,â said Miss Marple. âFortunately I donât think her heartâs affected at all. She just liked to have someone a bit âdifferent,â and he used to give her flowers and chocolates which the English boys donât do much. Has she told you all she knows?â she asked, turning suddenly to Craddock. âOr not quite all yet?â

âIâm not absolutely sure,â said Craddock cautiously.

âI think thereâs a little to come,â said Miss Marple. âSheâs looking very worried. Brought me kippers instead of herrings this morning, and forgot the milk jug. Usually sheâs an excellent waitress. Yes, sheâs worried. Afraid she might have to give evidence or something like that. But I expectââher candid blue eyes swept over the manly proportions and handsome face of Detective-Inspector Craddock with truly feminine Victorian appreciationââthat you will be able to persuade her to tell you all she knows.â

Detective-Inspector Craddock blushed and Sir Henry chuckled.

âIt might be important,â said Miss Marple. âHe may have told her who it was.â

Rydesdale stared at her.

âWho what was?â

âI express myself so badly. Who it was who put him up to it, I mean.â

âSo you think someone put him up to it?â

Miss Marpleâs eyes widened in surprise.

âOh, but surelyâI mean â¦ Hereâs a personable young manâwho filches a little bit here and a little bit thereâalters a small cheque, perhaps helps himself to a small piece of jewellery if itâs left lying around, or takes a little money from the tillâall sorts of small petty thefts. Keeps himself going in ready money so that he can dress well, and take a girl aboutâall that sort of thing. And then suddenly he goes off, with a revolver, and holds up a room full of people, and shoots at someone. Heâd never have done a thing like thatânot for a moment! He wasnât that kind of person. It doesnât make sense.â

Craddock drew in his breath sharply. That was what Letitia Blacklock had said. What the Vicarâs wife had said. What he himself felt with increasing force. It didnât make sense. And now Sir Henryâs old Pussy was saying it, too, with complete certainty in her fluting old ladyâs voice.

âPerhaps youâll tell us, Miss Marple,â he said, and his voice was suddenly aggressive, âwhat did happen, then?â

She turned on him in surprise.

âBut how should I know what happened? There was an account in the paperâbut it says so little. One can make conjectures, of course, but one has no accurate information.â

âGeorge,â said Sir Henry, âwould it be very unorthodox if Miss Marple were allowed to read the notes of the interviews Craddock had with these people at Chipping Cleghorn?â

âIt may be unorthodox,â said Rydesdale, âbut Iâve not got where I am by being orthodox. She can read them. Iâd be curious to hear what she has to say.â

Miss Marple was all embarrassment.

âIâm afraid youâve been listening to Sir Henry. Sir Henry is always too kind. He thinks too much of any little observations I may have made in the past. Really, I have no giftsâno gifts at allâexcept perhaps a certain knowledge of human nature. People, I find, are apt to be far too trustful. Iâm afraid that I have a tendency always to believe the worst. Not a nice trait. But so often justified by subsequent events.â

âRead these,â said Rydesdale, thrusting the typewritten sheets upon her. âThey wonât take you long. After all, these people are your kindâyou must know a lot of people like them. You may be able to spot something that we havenât. The case is just going to be closed. Letâs have an amateurâs opinion on it before we shut up the files. I donât mind telling you that Craddock here isnât satisfied. He says, like you, that it doesnât make sense.â

There was silence whilst Miss Marple read. She put the typewritten sheets down at last.

âItâs very interesting,â she said with a sigh. âAll the different things that people sayâand think. The things they seeâor think that they see. And all so complex, nearly all so trivial and if one thing isnât trivial, itâs so hard to spot which oneâlike a needle in a haystack.â

Craddock felt a twinge of disappointment. Just for a moment or two, he wondered if Sir Henry might be right about this funny old lady. She might have put her finger on somethingâold people were often very sharp. Heâd never, for instance, been able to conceal anything from his own great aunt Emma. She had finally told him that his nose twitched when he was about to tell a lie.

But just a few fluffy generalities, that was all that Sir Henryâs famous Miss Marple could produce. He felt annoyed with her and said rather curtly:

âThe truth of the matter is that the facts are indisputable. Whatever conflicting details these people give, they all saw one thing. They saw a masked man with a revolver and a torch open the door and hold them up, and whether they think he said âStick âem upâ or âYour money or your life,â or whatever phrase is associated with a hold-up in their minds, they saw him.â

âBut surely,â said Miss Marple gently. âThey couldnâtâactuallyâhave seen anything at allâ¦.â

Craddock caught his breath. Sheâd got it! She was sharp, after all. He was testing her by that speech of his, but she hadnât fallen for it. It didnât actually make any difference to the facts, or to what happened, but sheâd realized, as heâd realized, that those people who had seen a masked man holding them up couldnât really have seen him at all.

âIf I understand rightly,â Miss Marple had a pink flush on her cheeks, her eyes were bright and pleased as a childâs, âthere wasnât any light in the hall outsideâand not on the landing upstairs either?â

âThatâs right,â said Craddock.

âAnd so, if a man stood in the doorway and flashed a powerful torch into the room, nobody could see anything but the torch, could they?â

âNo, they couldnât. I tried it out.â

âAnd so when some of them say they saw a masked man, etc., they are really, though they donât realize it, recapitulating from what they saw afterwardsâwhen the lights came on. So it really all fits in very well, doesnât it, on the assumption that Rudi Scherz was theâI think, âfall guyâ is the expression I mean?â

Rydesdale stared at her in such surprise that she grew pinker still. âI may have got the term wrong,â she murmured.

âI am not very clever about Americanismsâand I understand they change very quickly. I got it from one of Mr. Dashiel Hammettâs stories. (I understand from my nephew Raymond that he is considered at the top of the tree in what is called the âtoughâ style of literature.) A âfall guy,â if I understand it rightly, means someone who will be blamed for a crime really committed by someone else. This Rudi Scherz seems to me exactly the right type for that. Rather stupid really, you know, but full of cupidity and probably extremely credulous.â

Rydesdale said, smiling tolerantly:

âAre you suggesting that he was persuaded by someone to go out and take pot shots at a room full of people? Rather a tall order.â

âI think he was told that it was a joke,â said Miss Marple. âHe was paid for doing it, of course. Paid, that is, to put an advertisement in the newspaper, to go out and spy out the household premises, and then, on the night in question, he was to go there, assume a mask and a black cloak and throw open a door, brandishing a torch, and cry âHands up!ââ

âAnd fire off a revolver?â

âNo, no,â said Miss Marple. âHe never had a revolver.â

âBut everyone saysââ began Rydesdale, and stopped.

âExactly,â said Miss Marple. âNobody could possibly have seen a revolver even if he had one. And I donât think he had. I think that after heâd called âHands upâ somebody came up quietly behind him in the darkness and fired those two shots over his shoulder. It frightened him to death. He swung round and as he did so, that other person shot him and then let the revolver drop beside himâ¦.â

The three men looked at her. Sir Henry said softly:

âItâs a possible theory.â

âBut who is Mr. X who came up in the darkness?â asked the Chief Constable.

Miss Marple coughed.

âYouâll have to find out from Miss Blacklock who wanted to kill her.â

Good for old Dora Bunner, thought Craddock. Instinct against intelligence every time.

âSo you think it was a deliberate attempt on Miss Blacklockâs life,â asked Rydesdale.

âIt certainly has that appearance,â said Miss Marple. âThough there are one or two difficulties. But what I was really wondering about was whether there mightnât be a short cut. Iâve no doubt that whoever arranged this with Rudi Scherz took pains to tell him to keep his mouth shut, but if he talked to anybody it would probably be to that girl, Myrna Harris. And he mayâhe just mayâhave dropped some hint as to the kind of person whoâd suggested the whole thing.â

âIâll see her now,â said Craddock, rising.

Miss Marple nodded.

âYes, do, Inspector Craddock. Iâll feel happier when you have. Because once sheâs told you anything she knows sheâll be much safer.â

âSafer?â¦ Yes, I see.â

He left the room. The Chief Constable said doubtfully, but tactfully:

âWell, Miss Marple, youâve certainly given us something to think about.â

III

âIâm sorry about it, I am really,â said Myrna Harris. âItâs ever so nice of you not to be ratty about it. But you see Mumâs the sort of person who fusses like anything. And it did look as though Iâdâwhatâs the phrase?âbeen an accessory before the factâ (the words ran glibly off her tongue). âI mean, I was afraid youâd never take my word for it that I only thought it was just a bit of fun.â

Inspector Craddock repeated the reassuring phrase with which he had broken down Myrnaâs resistance.

âI will. Iâll tell you all about it. But you will keep me out of it if you can because of Mum? It all started with Rudi breaking a date with me. We were going to the pictures that evening and then he said he wouldnât be able to come and I was a bit standoffish with him about itâbecause after all, it had been his idea and I donât fancy being stood up by a foreigner. And he said it wasnât his fault, and I said that was a likely story, and then he said heâd got a bit of a lark on that nightâand that he wasnât going to be out of pocket by it and how would I fancy a wristwatch? So I said, what do you mean by a lark? And he said not to tell anyone, but there was to be a party somewhere and he was to stage a sham hold-up. Then he showed me the advertisement heâd put in and I had to laugh. He was a bit scornful about it all. Said it was kidâs stuff, reallyâbut that was just like the English. They never really grew upâand of course, I said what did he mean by talking like that about Usâand we had a bit of an argument, but we made it up. Only you can understand, canât you, sir, that when I read all about it, and it hadnât been a joke at all and Rudi had shot someone and then shot himselfâwhy, I didnât know what to do. I thought if I said I knew about it beforehand, it would look as though I were in on the whole thing. But it really did seem like a joke when he told me about it. Iâd have sworn he meant it that way. I didnât even know heâd got a revolver. He never said anything about taking a revolver with him.â

Craddock comforted her and then asked the most important question.

âWho did he say it was who had arranged this party?â

But there he drew a blank.

âHe never said who it was that was getting him to do it. I suppose nobody was, really. It was all his own doing.â

âHe didnât mention a name? Did he say heâor she?â

âHe didnât say anything except that it was going to be a scream. âI shall laugh to see all their faces.â Thatâs what he said.â

He hadnât had long to laugh, Craddock thought.

IV

âItâs only a theory,â said Rydesdale as they drove back to Medenham. âNothing to support it, nothing at all. Put it down as old maidâs vapourings and let it go, eh?â

âIâd rather not do that, sir.â

âItâs all very improbable. A mysterious X appearing suddenly in the darkness behind our Swiss friend. Where did he come from? Who was he? Where had he been?â

âHe could have come in through the side door,â said Craddock, âjust as Scherz came. Or,â he added slowly, âhe could have come from the kitchen.â

âShe could have come from the kitchen, you mean?â

âYes, sir, itâs a possibility. Iâve not been satisfied about that girl all along. She strikes me as a nasty bit of goods. All that screaming and hystericsâit could have been put on. She could have worked on this young fellow, let him in at the right moment, rigged the whole thing, shot him, bolted back into the dining room, caught up her bit of silver and her chamois and started her screaming act.â

âAgainst that we have the fact thatâerâwhatâs his nameâoh, yes, Edmund Swettenham, definitely says the key was turned on the outside of the door, and that he turned it to release her. Any other door into that part of the house?â

âYes, thereâs a door to the back stairs and kitchen just under the stairs, but it seems the handle came off three weeks ago and nobodyâs come to put it on yet. In the meantime you canât open the door. Iâm bound to say that story seems correct. The spindle and the two handles were on a shelf outside the door in the hall and they were thickly coated with dust, but of course a professional would have ways of opening that door all right.â

âBetter look up the girlâs record. See if her papers are in order. But it seems to me the whole thing is very theoretical.â

Again the Chief Constable looked inquiringly at his subordinate. Craddock replied quietly:

âI know, sir, and of course if you think the case ought to be closed, it must be. But Iâd appreciate it if I could work on it for just a little longer.â

Rather to his surprise the Chief Constable said quietly and approvingly:

âGood lad.â

âThereâs the revolver to work on. If this theory is correct, it wasnât Scherzâs revolver and certainly nobody so far has been able to say that Scherz ever had a revolver.â

âItâs a German make.â

âI know, sir. But this countryâs absolutely full of Continental makes of guns. All the Americans brought them back and so did our chaps. You canât go by that.â

âTrue enough. Any other lines of inquiry?â

âThereâs got to be a motive. If thereâs anything in this theory at all, it means that last Fridayâs business wasnât a mere joke, and wasnât an ordinary hold-up, it was a cold-blooded attempt at murder. Somebody tried to murder Miss Blacklock. Now why? It seems to me that if anyone knows the answer to that it must be Miss Blacklock herself.â

âI understand she rather poured cold water on that idea?â

âShe poured cold water on the idea that Rudi Scherz wanted to murder her. And she was quite right. And thereâs another thing, sir.â

âYes?â

âSomebody might try again.â

âThat would certainly prove the truth of the theory,â said the Chief Constable dryly. âBy the way, look after Miss Marple, wonât you?â

âMiss Marple? Why?â

âI gather she is taking up residence at the Vicarage in Chipping Cleghorn and coming into Medenham Wells twice a week for her treatments. It seems that Mrs. Whatâshername is the daughter of an old friend of Miss Marpleâs. Good sporting instincts, that old bean. Oh, well, I suppose she hasnât much excitement in her life and sniffing round after possible murderers gives her a kick.â

âI wish she wasnât coming,â said Craddock seriously.

âGoing to get under your feet?â

âNot that, sir, but sheâs a nice old thing. I shouldnât like anything to happen to her â¦ always supposing, I mean, that thereâs anything in this theory.â

Nine

CONCERNING A DOOR

I

âIâm sorry to bother you again, Miss Blacklockââ

âOh, it doesnât matter. I suppose, as the inquest was adjourned for a week, youâre hoping to get more evidence?â

Detective-Inspector Craddock nodded.

âTo begin with, Miss Blacklock, Rudi Scherz was not the son of the proprietor of the Hotel des Alpes at Montreux. He seems to have started his career as an orderly in a hospital at Berne. A good many of the patients missed small pieces of jewellery. Under another name he was a waiter at one of the small winter sports places. His speciality there was making out duplicate bills in the restaurant with items on one that didnât appear on the other. The difference, of course, went into his pocket. After that he was in a department store in ZÃ¼rich. There losses from shoplifting were rather above the average whilst he was with them. It seems likely that the shoplifting wasnât entirely due to customers.â

âHe was a picker up of unconsidered trifles, in fact?â said Miss Blacklock dryly. âThen I was right in thinking that I had not seen him before?â

âYou were quite rightâno doubt you were pointed out to him at the Royal Spa Hotel and he pretended to recognize you. The Swiss police had begun to make his own country rather too hot for him, and he came over here with a very nice set of forged papers and took a job at the Royal Spa.â

âQuite a good hunting ground,â said Miss Blacklock dryly. âItâs extremely expensive and very well-off people stay there. Some of them are careless about their bills, I expect.â

âYes,â said Craddock. âThere were prospects of a satisfactory harvest.â

Miss Blacklock was frowning.

âI see all that,â she said. âBut why come to Chipping Cleghorn? What does he think weâve got here that could possibly be better than the rich Royal Spa Hotel?â

âYou stick to your statement that thereâs nothing of especial value in the house?â

âOf course there isnât. I should know. I can assure you Inspector, weâve not got an unrecognized Rembrandt or anything like that.â

âThen it looks, doesnât it, as though your friend Miss Bunner was right? He came here to attack you.â

(âThere, Letty, what did I tell you!â

âOh, nonsense, Bunny.â)

âBut is it nonsense?â said Craddock. âI think, you know, that itâs true.â

Miss Blacklock stared very hard at him.

âNow, letâs get this straight. You really believe that this young man came out hereâhaving previously arranged by means of an advertisement that half the village would turn up agog at that particular timeââ

âBut he maynât have meant that to happen,â interrupted Miss Bunner eagerly. âIt may have been just a horrid sort of warningâto you, Lettyâthatâs how I read it at the timeââA murder is announcedââI felt in my bones that it was sinisterâif it had all gone as planned he would have shot you and got awayâand how would anyone have ever known who it was?â

âThatâs true enough,â said Miss Blacklock. âButââ

âI knew that advertisement wasnât a joke, Letty. I said so. And look at Mitziâshe was frightened, too!â

âAh,â said Craddock, âMitzi. Iâd like to know rather more about that young woman.â

âHer permit and papers are quite in order.â

âI donât doubt that,â said Craddock dryly. âScherzâs papers appeared to be quite correct, too.â

âBut why should this Rudi Scherz want to murder me? Thatâs what you donât attempt to explain, Inspector Craddock.â

âThere may have been someone behind Scherz,â said Craddock slowly. âHave you thought of that?â

He used the words metaphorically though it flashed across his mind that if Miss Marpleâs theory was correct, the words would also be true in a literal sense. In any case they made little impression on Miss Blacklock, who still looked sceptical.

âThe point remains the same,â she said. âWhy on earth should anyone want to murder me?â

âItâs the answer to that that I want you to give me, Miss Blacklock.â

âWell, I canât! Thatâs flat. Iâve no enemies. As far as Iâm aware Iâve always lived on perfectly good terms with my neighbours. I donât know any guilty secrets about anyone. The whole idea is ridiculous! And if what youâre hinting is that Mitzi has something to do with this, thatâs absurd, too. As Miss Bunner has just told you she was frightened to death when she saw that advertisement in the Gazette. She actually wanted to pack up and leave the house then and there.â

âThat may have been a clever move on her part. She may have known youâd press her to stay.â

âOf course, if youâve made up your mind about it, youâll find an answer to everything. But I can assure you that if Mitzi had taken an unreasoning dislike to me, she might conceivably poison my food, but Iâm sure she wouldnât go in for all this elaborate rigmarole.

âThe whole ideaâs absurd. I believe you police have got an anti-foreigner complex. Mitzi may be a liar but sheâs not a cold-blooded murderer. Go and bully her if you must. But when sheâs departed in a whirl of indignation, or shut herself up howling in her room, Iâve a good mind to make you cook the dinner. Mrs. Harmon is bringing some old lady who is staying with her to tea this afternoon and I wanted Mitzi to make some little cakesâbut I suppose youâll upset her completely. Canât you possibly go and suspect somebody else?â

II

Craddock went out to the kitchen. He asked Mitzi questions that he had asked her before and received the same answers.

Yes, she had locked the front door soon after four oâclock. No, she did not always do so, but that afternoon she had been nervous because of âthat dreadful advertisement.â It was no good locking the side door because Miss Blacklock and Miss Bunner went out that way to shut up the ducks and feed the chickens and Mrs. Haymes usually came in that way from work.

âMrs. Haymes says she locked the door when she came in at 5:30.â

âAh, and you believe herâoh, yes, you believe herâ¦.â

âDo you think we shouldnât believe her?â

âWhat does it matter what I think? You will not believe me.â

âSupposing you give us a chance. You think Mrs. Haymes didnât lock that door?â

âI am thinking she was very careful not to lock it.â

âWhat do you mean by that?â asked Craddock.

âThat young man, he does not work alone. No, he knows where to come, he knows that when he comes a door will be left open for himâoh, very conveniently open!â

âWhat are you trying to say?â

âWhat is the use of what I say? You will not listen. You say I am a poor refugee girl who tells lies. You say that a fair-haired English lady, oh, no, she does not tell liesâshe is so Britishâso honest. So you believe her and not me. But I could tell you. Oh, yes, I could tell you!â

She banged down a saucepan on the stove.

Craddock was in two minds whether to take notice of what might be only a stream of spite.

âWe note everything we are told,â he said.

âI shall not tell you anything at all. Why should I? You are all alike. You persecute and despise poor refugees. If I say to you that when, a week before, that young man come to ask Miss Blacklock for money and she sends him away, as you say, with a flea in the earâif I tell you that after that I hear him talking with Mrs. Haymesâyes, out there in the summerhouseâall you say is that I make it up!â

And so you probably are making it up, thought Craddock. But he said aloud:

âYou couldnât hear what was said out in the summerhouse.â

âThere you are wrong,â screamed Mitzi triumphantly. âI go out to get nettlesâit makes very nice vegetables, nettles. They do not think so, but I cook it and not tell them. And I hear them talking in there. He say to her âBut where can I hide?â And she say âI will show youââand then she say, âAt a quarter past six,â and I think, âAch so! That is how you behave, my fine lady! After you come back from work, you go out to meet a man. You bring him into the house.â Miss Blacklock, I think, she will not like that. She will turn you out. I will watch, I think, and listen and then I will tell Miss Blacklock. But I understand now I was wrong. It was not love she planned with him, it was to rob and to murder. But you will say I make all this up. Wicked Mitzi, you will say. I will take her to prison.â

Craddock wondered. She might be making it up. But possibly she might not. He asked cautiously:

âYou are sure it was this Rudi Scherz she was talking to?â

âOf course I am sure. He just leave and I see him go from the drive across to the summerhouse. And presently,â said Mitzi defiantly, âI go out to see if there are any nice young green nettles.â

Would there, the Inspector wondered, be any nice young green nettles in October? But he appreciated that Mitzi had had to produce a hurried reason for what had undoubtedly been nothing more than plain snooping.

âYou didnât hear any more than what you have told me?â

Mitzi looked aggrieved.

âThat Miss Bunner, the one with the long nose, she call and call me. Mitzi! Mitzi! So I have to go. Oh, she is irritating. Always interfering. Says she will teach me to cook. Her cooking! It tastes, yes, everything she does, of water, water, water!â

âWhy didnât you tell me this the other day?â asked Craddock sternly.

âBecause I did not rememberâI did not think â¦ Only afterwards do I say to myself, it was planned thenâplanned with her.â

âYou are quite sure it was Mrs. Haymes?â

âOh, yes, I am sure. Oh, yes, I am very sure. She is a thief, that Mrs. Haymes. A thief and the associate of thieves. What she gets for working in the garden, it is not enough for such a fine lady, no. She has to rob Miss Blacklock who has been kind to her. Oh, she is bad, bad, bad, that one!â

âSupposing,â said the Inspector, watching her closely, âthat someone was to say that you had been seen talking to Rudi Scherz?â

The suggestion had less effect than he had hoped for. Mitzi merely snorted and tossed her head.

âIf anyone say they see me talking to him, that is lies, lies, lies, lies,â she said contemptuously. âTo tell lies about anyone, that is easy, but in England you have to prove them true. Miss Blacklock tells me that, and it is true, is it not? I do not speak with murderers and thieves. And no English policeman shall say I do. And how can I do cooking for lunch if you are here, talk, talk, talk? Go out of my kitchens, please. I want now to make a very careful sauce.â

Craddock went obediently. He was a little shaken in his suspicions of Mitzi. Her story about Phillipa Haymes had been told with great conviction. Mitzi might be a liar (he thought she was), but he fancied that there might be some substratum of truth in this particular tale. He resolved to speak to Phillipa on the subject. She had seemed to him when he questioned her a quiet, well-bred young woman. He had had no suspicion of her.

Crossing the hall, in his abstraction, he tried to open the wrong door. Miss Bunner, descending the staircase, hastily put him right.

âNot that door,â she said. âIt doesnât open. The next one to the left. Very confusing, isnât it? So many doors.â

âThere are a good many,â said Craddock, looking up and down the narrow hall.

Miss Bunner amiably enumerated them for him.

âFirst the door to the cloakroom, and then the cloaks cupboard door and then the dining roomâthatâs on that side. And on this side, the dummy door that you were trying to get through and then thereâs the drawing room door proper, and then the china cupboard and the door of the little flower room, and at the end the side door. Most confusing. Especially these two being so near together. Iâve often tried the wrong one by mistake. We used to have the hall table against it, as a matter of fact, but then we moved it along against the wall there.â

Craddock had noted, almost mechanically, a thin line horizontally across the panels of the door he had been trying to open. He realized now it was the mark where the table had been. Something stirred vaguely in his mind as he asked, âMoved? How long ago?â

In questioning Dora Bunner there was fortunately no need to give a reason for any question. Any query on any subject seemed perfectly natural to the garrulous Miss Bunner who delighted in the giving of information, however trivial.

âNow let me see, really quite recentlyâten days or a fortnight ago.â

âWhy was it moved?â

âI really canât remember. Something to do with the flowers. I think Phillipa did a big vaseâshe arranges flowers quite beautifullyâall autumn colouring and twigs and branches, and it was so big it caught your hair as you went past, and so Phillipa said, âWhy not move the table along and anyway the flowers would look much better against the bare wall than against the panels of the door.â Only we had to take down Wellington at Waterloo. Not a print Iâm really very fond of. We put it under the stairs.â

âItâs not really a dummy, then?â Craddock asked, looking at the door.â

âOh, no, itâs a real door, if thatâs what you mean. Itâs the door of the small drawing room, but when the rooms were thrown into one, one didnât need two doors, so this one was fastened up.â

âFastened up?â Craddock tried it again, gently. âYou mean itâs nailed up? Or just locked?â

âOh, locked, I think, and bolted too.â

He saw the bolt at the top and tried it. The bolt slid back easilyâtoo easilyâ¦.

âWhen was it last open?â he asked Miss Bunner.

âOh, years and years ago, I imagine. Itâs never been opened since Iâve been here, I know that.â

âYou donât know where the key is?â

âThere are a lot of keys in the hall drawer. Itâs probably among those.â

Craddock followed her and looked at a rusty assortment of old keys pushed far back in the drawer. He scanned them and selected one that looked different from the rest and went back to the door. The key fitted and turned easily. He pushed and the door slid open noiselessly.

âOh, do be careful,â cried Miss Bunner. âThere may be something resting against it inside. We never open it.â

âDonât you?â said the Inspector.

His face now was grim. He said with emphasis:

âThis doorâs been opened quite recently, Miss Bunner. The lockâs been oiled and the hinges.â

She stared at him, her foolish face agape.

âBut who could have done that?â she asked.

âThatâs what I mean to find out,â said Craddock grimly. He thoughtââX from outside? NoâX was hereâin this houseâX was in the drawing room that nightâ¦.â

Ten

PIP AND EMMA

I

Miss Blacklock listened to him this time with more attention. She was an intelligent woman, as he had known, and she grasped the implications of what he had to tell her.

âYes,â she said quietly. âThat does alter things â¦ No one had any right to meddle with that door. Nobody has meddled with it to my knowledge.â

âYou see what it means,â the Inspector urged. âWhen the lights went out, anybody in this room the other night could have slipped out of that door, come up behind Rudi Scherz and fired at you.â

âWithout being seen or heard or noticed?â

âWithout being seen or heard or noticed. Remember when the lights went out people moved, exclaimed, bumped into each other. And after that all that could be seen was the blinding light of the electric torch.â

Miss Blacklock said slowly, âAnd you believe that one of those peopleâone of my nice commonplace neighboursâslipped out and tried to murder me? Me? But why? For goodnessâ sake, why?â

âIâve a feeling that you must know the answer to that question, Miss Blacklock.â

âBut I donât, Inspector. I can assure you, I donât.â

âWell, letâs make a start. Who gets your money if you were to die?â

Miss Blacklock said rather reluctantly:

âPatrick and Julia. Iâve left the furniture in this house and a small annuity to Bunny. Really, Iâve not much to leave. I had holdings in German and Italian securities which became worthless, and what with taxation, and the lower percentages that are now paid on invested capital, I can assure you Iâm not worth murderingâI put most of my money into an annuity about a year ago.â

âStill, you have some income, Miss Blacklock, and your nephew and niece would come into it.â

âAnd so Patrick and Julia would plan to murder me? I simply donât believe it. Theyâre not desperately hard up or anything like that.â

âDo you know that for a fact?â

âNo. I suppose I only know it from what theyâve told me â¦ But I really refuse to suspect them. Some day I might be worth murdering, but not now.â

âWhat do you mean by some day you might be worth murdering, Miss Blacklock?â Inspector Craddock pounced on the statement.

âSimply that one dayâpossibly quite soonâI may be a very rich woman.â

âThat sounds interesting. Will you explain?â

âCertainly. You may not know it, but for more than twenty years I was secretary to and closely associated with Randall Goedler.â

Craddock was interested. Randall Goedler had been a big name in the world of finance. His daring speculations and the rather theatrical publicity with which he surrounded himself had made him a personality not quickly forgotten. He had died, if Craddock remembered rightly, in 1937 or 1938.

âHeâs rather before your time, I expect,â said Miss Blacklock. âBut youâve probably heard of him.â

âOh, yes. He was a millionaire, wasnât he?â

âOh, several times overâthough his finances fluctuated. He always risked most of what he made on some new coup.â

She spoke with a certain animation, her eyes brightened by memory.

âAnyway he died a very rich man. He had no children. He left his fortune in trust for his wife during her lifetime and after death to me absolutely.â

A vague memory stirred in the Inspectorâs mind.

IMMENSE FORTUNE TO COME TO FAITHFUL SECRETARY

âsomething of that kind.

âFor the last twelve years or so,â said Miss Blacklock with a slight twinkle, âIâve had an excellent motive for murdering Mrs. Goedlerâbut that doesnât help you, does it?â

âDidâexcuse me for asking thisâdid Mrs. Goedler resent her husbandâs disposition of his fortune?â

Miss Blacklock was now looking frankly amused.

âYou neednât be so very discreet. What you really mean is, was I Randall Goedlerâs mistress? No, I wasnât. I donât think Randall ever gave me a sentimental thought, and I certainly didnât give him one. He was in love with Belle (his wife), and remained in love with her until he died. I think in all probability it was gratitude on his part that prompted his making his will. You see, Inspector, in the very early days, when Randall was still on an insecure footing, he came very near to disaster. It was a question of just a few thousands of actual cash. It was a big coup, and a very exciting one; daring, as all his schemes were; but he just hadnât got that little bit of cash to tide him over. I came to the rescue. I had a little money of my own. I believed in Randall. I sold every penny I had out and gave it to him. It did the trick. A week later he was an immensely wealthy man.

âAfter that, he treated me more or less as a junior partner. Oh! they were exciting days.â She sighed. âI enjoyed it all thoroughly. Then my father died, and my only sister was left a hopeless invalid. I had to give it all up and go and look after her. Randall died a couple of years later. I had made quite a lot of money during our association and I didnât really expect him to leave me anything, but I was very touched, yes, and very proud to find that if Belle predeceased me (and she was one of those delicate creatures whom everyone always says wonât live long) I was to inherit his entire fortune. I think really the poor man didnât know who to leave it to. Belleâs a dear, and she was delighted about it. Sheâs really a very sweet person. She lives up in Scotland. I havenât seen her for yearsâwe just write at Christmas. You see, I went with my sister to a sanatorium in Switzerland just before the war. She died of consumption out there.â

She was silent for a moment or two, then said:

âI only came back to England just over a year ago.â

âYou said you might be a rich woman very soon â¦ How soon?â

âI heard from the nurse attendant who looks after Belle Goedler that Belle is sinking rapidly. It may beâonly a few weeks.â

She added sadly:

âThe money wonât mean much to me now. Iâve got quite enough for my rather simple needs. Once I should have enjoyed playing the markets againâbut now â¦ Oh, well, one grows old. Still, you do see, Inspector, donât you, that if Patrick and Julia wanted to kill me for a financial reason theyâd be crazy not to wait for another few weeks.â

âYes, Miss Blacklock, but what happens if you should predecease Mrs. Goedler? Who does the money go to then?â

âDâyou know, Iâve never really thought. Pip and Emma, I supposeâ¦.â

Craddock stared and Miss Blacklock smiled.

âDoes that sound rather crazy? I believe, if I predecease Belle, the money would go to the legal offspringâor whatever the term isâof Randallâs only sister, Sonia. Randall had quarrelled with his sister. She married a man whom he considered a crook and worse.â

âAnd was he a crook?â

âOh, definitely, I should say. But I believe a very attractive person to women. He was a Greek or a Roumanian or somethingâwhat was his name nowâStamfordis, Dmitri Stamfordis.â

âRandall Goedler cut his sister out of his will when she married this man?â

âOh, Sonia was a very wealthy woman in her own right. Randall had already settled packets of money on her, as far as possible in a way so that her husband couldnât touch it. But I believe that when the lawyers urged him to put in someone in case I predeceased Belle, he reluctantly put down Soniaâs offspring, simply because he couldnât think of anyone else and he wasnât the sort of man to leave money to charities.â

âAnd there were children of the marriage?â

âWell, there are Pip and Emma.â She laughed. âI know it sounds ridiculous. All I know is that Sonia wrote once to Belle after her marriage, telling her to tell Randall that she was extremely happy and that she had just had twins and was calling them Pip and Emma. As far as I know she never wrote again. But Belle, of course, may be able to tell you more.â

Miss Blacklock had been amused by her own recital. The Inspector did not look amused.

âIt comes to this,â he said. âIf you had been killed the other night, there are presumably at least two people in the world who would have come into a very large fortune. You are wrong, Miss Blacklock, when you say that there is no one who has a motive for desiring your death. There are two people, at least, who are vitally interested. How old would this brother and sister be?â

Miss Blacklock frowned.

âLet me see â¦ 1922â¦ noâitâs difficult to remember â¦ I suppose about twenty-five or twenty-six.â Her face had sobered. âBut you surely donât thinkâ?â

âI think somebody shot at you with the intent to kill you. I think it possible that that same person or persons might try again. I would like you, if you will, to be very very careful, Miss Blacklock. One murder has been arranged and did not come off. I think it possible that another murder may be arranged very soon.â

II

Phillipa Haymes straightened her back and pushed back a tendril of hair from her damp forehead. She was cleaning a flower border.

âYes, Inspector?â

She looked at him inquiringly. In return he gave her a rather closer scrutiny than he had done before. Yes, a good-looking girl, a very English type with her pale ash-blonde hair and her rather long face. An obstinate chin and mouth. Something of repressionâof tautness about her. The eyes were blue, very steady in their glance, and told you nothing at all. The sort of girl, he thought, who would keep a secret well.

âIâm sorry always to bother you when youâre at work, Mrs. Haymes,â he said, âbut I didnât want to wait until you came back for lunch. Besides, I thought it might be easier to talk to you here, away from Little Paddocks.â

âYes, Inspector?â

No emotion and little interest in her voice. But was there a note of warinessâor did he imagine it?

âA certain statement has been made to me this morning. This statement concerns you.â

Phillipa raised her eyebrows very slightly.

âYou told me, Mrs. Haymes, that this man, Rudi Scherz, was quite unknown to you?â

âYes.â

âThat when you saw him there, dead, it was the first time you had set eyes on him. Is that so?â

âCertainly. I had never seen him before.â

âYou did not, for instance, have a conversation with him in the summerhouse of Little Paddocks?â

âIn the summerhouse?â

He was almost sure he caught a note of fear in her voice.

âYes, Mrs. Haymes.â

âWho says so?â

âI am told that you had a conversation with this man, Rudi Scherz, and that he asked you where he could hide and you replied that you would show him, and that a time, a quarter past six, was definitely mentioned. It would be a quarter past six, roughly, when Scherz would get here from the bus stop on the evening of the hold-up.â

There was a momentâs silence. Then Phillipa gave a short scornful laugh. She looked amused.

âI donât know who told you that,â she said. âAt least I can guess. Itâs a very silly, clumsy storyâspiteful, of course. For some reason Mitzi dislikes me even more than she dislikes the rest of us.â

âYou deny it?â

âOf course itâs not true â¦ I never met or saw Rudi Scherz in my life, and I was nowhere near the house that morning. I was over here, working.â

Inspector Craddock said very gently:

âWhich morning?â

There was a momentary pause. Her eyelids flickered.

âEvery morning. Iâm here every morning. I donât get away until one oâclock.â

She added scornfully:

âItâs no good listening to what Mitzi tells you. She tells lies all the time.â

III

âAnd thatâs that,â said Craddock when he was walking away with Sergeant Fletcher. âTwo young women whose stories flatly contradict each other. Which one am I to believe?â

âEveryone seems to agree that this foreign girl tells whoppers,â said Fletcher. âItâs been my experience in dealing with aliens that lying comes more easy than truth-telling. Seems to be clear sheâs got a spite against this Mrs. Haymes.â

âSo, if you were me, youâd believe Mrs. Haymes?â

âUnless youâve got reason to think otherwise, sir.â

And Craddock hadnât, not reallyâonly the remembrance of a pair of oversteady blue eyes and the glib enunciation of the words that morning. For to the best of his recollection he hadnât said whether the interview in the summerhouse had taken place in the morning or the afternoon.

Still, Miss Blacklock, or if not Miss Blacklock, certainly Miss Bunner, might have mentioned the visit of the young foreigner who had come to cadge his fare back to Switzerland. And Phillipa Haymes might have therefore assumed that the conversation was supposed to have taken place on that particular morning.

But Craddock still thought that there had been a note of fear in her voice as she asked:

âIn the summerhouse?â

He decided to keep an open mind on the subject.

IV

It was very pleasant in the Vicarage garden. One of those sudden spells of autumn warmth had descended upon England. Inspector Craddock could never remember if it was St. Martinâs or St. Lukeâs Summer, but he knew that it was very pleasantâand also very enervating. He sat in a deck chair provided for him by an energetic Bunch, just on her way to a Mothersâ Meeting, and, well protected with shawls and a large rug round her knees, Miss Marple sat knitting beside him. The sunshine, the peace, the steady click of Miss Marpleâs knitting needles, all combined to produce a soporific feeling in the Inspector. And yet, at the same time, there was a nightmarish feeling at the back of his mind. It was like a familiar dream where an undertone of menace grows and finally turns Ease into Terrorâ¦.

He said abruptly, âYou oughtnât to be here.â

Miss Marpleâs needles stopped clicking for a moment. Her placid china-blue eyes regarded him thoughtfully.

She said, âI know what you mean. Youâre a very conscientious boy. But itâs perfectly all right. Bunchâs father (he was vicar of our parish, a very fine scholar) and her mother (who is a most remarkable womanâreal spiritual power) are very old friends of mine. Itâs the most natural thing in the world that when Iâm at Medenham I should come on here to stay with Bunch for a little.â

âOh, perhaps,â said Craddock. âButâbut donât snoop around â¦ Iâve a feelingâI have reallyâthat it isnât safe.â

Miss Marple smiled a little.

âBut Iâm afraid,â she said, âthat we old women always do snoop. It would be very odd and much more noticeable if I didnât. Questions about mutual friends in different parts of the world and whether they remember so and so, and do they remember who it was that Lady Somebodyâs daughter married? All that helps, doesnât it?â

âHelps?â said the Inspector, rather stupidly.

âHelps to find out if people are who they say they are,â said Miss Marple.

She went on:

âBecause thatâs whatâs worrying you, isnât it? And thatâs really the particular way the world has changed since the war. Take this place, Chipping Cleghorn, for instance. Itâs very much like St. Mary Mead where I live. Fifteen years ago one knew who everybody was. The Bantrys in the big houseâand the Hartnells and the Price Ridleys and the Weatherbys â¦ They were people whose fathers and mothers and grandfathers and grandmothers, or whose aunts and uncles, had lived there before them. If somebody new came to live there, they brought letters of introduction, or theyâd been in the same regiment or served in the same ship as someone there already. If anybody newâreally newâreally a strangerâcame, well, they stuck outâeverybody wondered about them and didnât rest till they found out.â

She nodded her head gently.

âBut itâs not like that any more. Every village and small country place is full of people whoâve just come and settled there without any ties to bring them. The big houses have been sold, and the cottages have been converted and changed. And people just comeâand all you know about them is what they say of themselves. Theyâve come, you see, from all over the world. People from India and Hong Kong and China, and people who used to live in France and Italy in little cheap places and odd islands. And people whoâve made a little money and can afford to retire. But nobody knows any more who anyone is. You can have Benares brassware in your house and talk about tiffin and chota Hazriâand you can have pictures of Taormina and talk about the English church and the libraryâlike Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd. You can come from the South of France, or have spent your life in the East. People take you at your own valuation. They donât wait to call until theyâve had a letter from a friend saying that the So-and-Soâs are delightful people and sheâs known them all their lives.â

And that, thought Craddock, was exactly what was oppressing him. He didnât know. There were just faces and personalities and they were backed up by ration books and identity cardsânice neat identity cards with numbers on them, without photographs or fingerprints. Anybody who took the trouble could have a suitable identity cardâand partly because of that, the subtler links that had held together English social rural life had fallen apart. In a town nobody expected to know his neighbour. In the country now nobody knew his neighbour either, though possibly he still thought he didâ¦.

Because of the oiled door, Craddock knew that there had been somebody in Letitia Blacklockâs drawing room who was not the pleasant friendly country neighbour he or she pretended to beâ¦.

And because of that he was afraid for Miss Marple who was frail and old and who noticed thingsâ¦.

He said: âWe can, to a certain extent, check up on these people â¦â But he knew that that wasnât so easy. India and China and Hong Kong and the South of France â¦ It wasnât as easy as it would have been fifteen years ago. There were people, as he knew only too well, who were going about the country with borrowed identitiesâborrowed from people who had met sudden death by âincidentsâ in the cities. There were organizations who bought up identities, who faked identity and ration cardsâthere were a hundred small rackets springing into being. You could check upâbut it would take timeâand time was what he hadnât got, because Randall Goedlerâs widow was very near death.

It was then that, worried and tired, lulled by the sunshine, he told Miss Marple about Randall Goedler and about Pip and Emma.

âJust a couple of names,â he said. âNicknames at that! They maynât exist. They may be respectable citizens living in Europe somewhere. On the other hand one, or both, of them may be here in Chipping Cleghorn.â

Twenty-five years old approximatelyâWho filled that description? He said, thinking aloud:

âThat nephew and niece of hersâor cousins or whatever they are â¦ I wonder when she saw them lastââ

Miss Marple said gently: âIâll find out for you, shall I?â

âNow, please, Miss Marple, donâtââ

âIt will be quite simple, Inspector, you really need not worry. And it wonât be noticeable if I do it, because, you see, it wonât be official. If there is anything wrong you donât want to put them on their guard.â

Pip and Emma, thought Craddock, Pip and Emma? He was getting obsessed by Pip and Emma. That attractive dare-devil young man, the good-looking girl with the cool stareâ¦.

He said: âI may find out more about them in the next forty-eight hours. Iâm going up to Scotland. Mrs. Goedler, if sheâs able to talk, may know a good deal more about them.â

âI think thatâs a very wise move.â Miss Marple hesitated. âI hope,â she murmured, âthat you have warned Miss Blacklock to be careful?â

âIâve warned her, yes. And I shall leave a man here to keep an unobtrusive eye on things.â

He avoided Miss Marpleâs eye which said plainly enough that a policeman keeping an eye on things would be little good if the danger was in the family circleâ¦.

âAnd remember,â said Craddock, looking squarely at her, âIâve warned you.â

âI assure you, Inspector,â said Miss Marple, âthat I can take care of myself.â

Eleven

MISS MARPLE COMES TO TEA

I

If Letitia Blacklock seemed slightly absentminded when Mrs. Harmon came to tea and brought a guest who was staying with her, Miss Marple, the guest in question, was hardly likely to notice the fact since it was the first time she had met her.

The old lady was very charming in her gentle gossipy fashion. She revealed herself almost at once to be one of those old ladies who have a constant preoccupation with burglars.

âThey can get in anywhere, my dear,â she assured her hostess, âabsolutely anywhere nowadays. So many new American methods. I myself pin my faith to a very old-fashioned device. A cabin hook and eye. They can pick locks and draw back bolts but a brass hook and eye defeats them. Have you ever tried that?â

âIâm afraid weâre not very good at bolts and bars,â said Miss Blacklock cheerfully. âThereâs really nothing much to burgle.â

âA chain on the front door,â Miss Marple advised. âThen the maid need only open it a crack and see who is there and they canât force their way in.â

âI expect Mitzi, our Mittel European, would love that.â

âThe hold-up you had must have been very, very frightening,â said Miss Marple. âBunch has been telling me all about it.â

âI was scared stiff,â said Bunch.

âIt was an alarming experience,â admitted Miss Blacklock.

âIt really seems like Providence that the man tripped himself up and shot himself. These burglars are so violent nowadays. How did he get in?â

âWell, Iâm afraid we donât lock our doors much.â

âOh, Letty,â exclaimed Miss Bunner. âI forgot to tell you the Inspector was most peculiar this morning. He insisted on opening the second doorâyou knowâthe one thatâs never been openedâthe one over there. He hunted for the key and everything and said the door had been oiled. But I canât see why becauseââ

Too late she got Miss Blacklockâs signal to be quiet, and paused openmouthed.

âOh, Lotty, Iâm soâsorryâI mean, oh, I do beg your pardon, Lettyâoh, dear, how stupid I am.â

âIt doesnât matter,â said Miss Blacklock, but she was annoyed. âOnly I donât think Inspector Craddock wants that talked about. I didnât know you had been there when he was experimenting, Dora. You do understand, donât you, Mrs. Harmon?â

âOh, yes,â said Bunch. âWe wonât breathe a word, will we, Aunt Jane. But I wonder why heââ

She relapsed into thought. Miss Bunner fidgeted and looked miserable, bursting out at last: âI always say the wrong thingâOh, dear, Iâm nothing but a trial to you, Letty.â

Miss Blacklock said quickly, âYouâre my great comfort, Dora. And anyway in a small place like Chipping Cleghorn there arenât really any secrets.â

âNow that is very true,â said Miss Marple. âIâm afraid, you know, that things do get round in the most extraordinary way. Servants, of course, and yet it canât only be that, because one has so few servants nowadays. Still, there are the daily women and perhaps they are worse, because they go to everybody in turn and pass the news round.â

âOh!â said Bunch Harmon suddenly. âIâve got it! Of course, if that door could open too, someone might have gone out of here in the dark and done the hold-upâonly of course they didnâtâbecause it was the man from the Royal Spa Hotel. Or wasnât it?â¦ No, I donât see after all â¦â She frowned.

âDid it all happen in this room then?â asked Miss Marple, adding apologetically: âIâm afraid you must think me sadly curious, Miss Blacklockâbut it really is so very excitingâjust like something one reads about in the paperâIâm just longing to hear all about it and to picture it all, if you know what I meanââ

Immediately Miss Marple received a confused and voluble account from Bunch and Miss Bunnerâwith occasional emendations and corrections from Miss Blacklock.

In the middle of it Patrick came in and good-naturedly entered into the spirit of the recitalâgoing so far as to enact himself the part of Rudi Scherz.

âAnd Aunt Letty was thereâin the corner by the archway â¦ Go and stand there, Aunt Letty.â

Miss Blacklock obeyed, and then Miss Marple was shown the actual bullet holes.

âWhat a marvellousâwhat a providential escape,â she gasped.

âI was just going to offer my guests cigarettesââ Miss Blacklock indicated the big silver box on the table.

âPeople are so careless when they smoke,â said Miss Bunner disapprovingly. âNobody really respects good furniture as they used to do. Look at the horrid burn somebody made on this beautiful table by putting a cigarette down on it. Disgraceful.â

Miss Blacklock sighed.

âSometimes, Iâm afraid, one thinks too much of oneâs possessions.â

âBut itâs such a lovely table, Letty.â

Miss Bunner loved her friendâs possessions with as much fervour as though they had been her own. Bunch Harmon had always thought it was a very endearing trait in her. She showed no sign of envy.

âIt is a lovely table,â said Miss Marple politely. âAnd what a very pretty china lamp on it.â

Again it was Miss Bunner who accepted the compliment as though she and not Miss Blacklock was the owner of the lamp.

âIsnât it delightful? Dresden. There is a pair of them. The otherâs in the spare room, I think.â

âYou know where everything in this house is, Doraâor you think you do,â said Miss Blacklock, good-humouredly. âYou care far more about my things than I do.â

Miss Bunner flushed.

âI do like nice things,â she said. Her voice was half defiantâhalf wistful.

âI must confess,â said Miss Marple, âthat my own few possessions are very dear to me, tooâso many memories, you know. Itâs the same with photographs. People nowadays have so few photographs about. Now I like to keep all the pictures of my nephews and nieces as babiesâand then as childrenâand so on.â

âYouâve got a horrible one of me, aged three,â said Bunch. âHolding a fox terrier and squinting.â

âI expect your aunt has many photographs of you,â said Miss Marple, turning to Patrick.

âOh, weâre only distant cousins,â said Patrick.

âI believe Elinor did send me one of you as a baby, Pat,â said Miss Blacklock. âBut Iâm afraid I didnât keep it. Iâd really forgotten how many children sheâd had or what their names were until she wrote me about you two being over here.â

âAnother sign of the times,â said Miss Marple. âNowadays one so often doesnât know oneâs younger relations at all. In the old days, with all the big family reunions, that would have been impossible.â

âI last saw Pat and Juliaâs mother at a wedding thirty years ago,â said Miss Blacklock. âShe was a very pretty girl.â

âThatâs why she has such handsome children,â said Patrick with a grin.

âYouâve got a marvellous old album,â said Julia. âDo you remember, Aunt Letty, we looked through it the other day. The hats!â

âAnd how smart we thought ourselves,â said Miss Blacklock with a sigh.

âNever mind, Aunt Letty,â said Patrick, âJulia will come across a snapshot of herself in about thirty yearsâ timeâand wonât she think she looks a guy!â

II

âDid you do that on purpose?â said Bunch, as she and Miss Marple were walking home. âTalk about photographs, I mean?â

âWell, my dear, it is interesting to know that Miss Blacklock didnât know either of her two young relatives by sight â¦ YesâI think Inspector Craddock will be interested to hear that.â

Twelve

MORNING ACTIVITIES IN CHIPPING CLEGHORN

I

Edmund Swettenham sat down rather precariously on a garden roller.

âGood morning, Phillipa,â he said.

âHallo.â

âAre you very busy?â

âModerately.â

âWhat are you doing?â

âCanât you see?â

âNo. Iâm not a gardener. You seem to be playing with earth in some fashion.â

âIâm pricking out winter lettuce.â

âPricking out? What a curious term! Like pinking. Do you know what pinking is? I only learnt the other day. I always thought it was a term for professional duelling.â

âDo you want anything particular?â asked Phillipa coldly.

âYes. I want to see you.â

Phillipa gave him a quick glance.

âI wish you wouldnât come here like this. Mrs. Lucas wonât like it.â

âDoesnât she allow you to have followers?â

âDonât be absurd.â

âFollowers. Thatâs another nice word. It describes my attitude perfectly. Respectfulâat a distanceâbut firmly pursuing.â

âPlease go away, Edmund. Youâve no business to come here.â

âYouâre wrong,â said Edmund triumphantly. âI have business here. Mrs. Lucas rang up my mamma this morning and said she had a good many vegetable marrows.â

âMasses of them.â

âAnd would we like to exchange a pot of honey for a vegetable marrow or so.â

âThatâs not a fair exchange at all! Vegetable marrows are quite unsaleable at the momentâeverybody has such a lot.â

âNaturally. Thatâs why Mrs. Lucas rang up. Last time, if I remember rightly, the exchange suggested was some skim milkâskim milk, mark youâin exchange for some lettuces. It was then very early in the season for lettuces. They were about a shilling each.â

Phillipa did not speak.

Edmund tugged at his pocket and extracted a pot of honey.

âSo here,â he said, âis my alibi. Used in a loose and quite indefensible meaning of the term. If Mrs. Lucas pops her bust round the door of the potting shed, Iâm here in quest of vegetable marrows. There is absolutely no question of dalliance.â

âI see.â

âDo you ever read Tennyson?â inquired Edmund conversationally. âNot very often.â

âYou should. Tennyson is shortly to make a comeback in a big way. When you turn on your wireless in the evening it will be the Idylls of the King you will hear and not interminable Trollope. I always thought the Trollope pose was the most unbearable affectation. Perhaps a little of Trollope, but not to drown in him. But speaking of Tennyson, have you read Maud?â

âOnce, long ago.â

âItâs got some points about it.â He quoted softly:

ââFaultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null.â Thatâs you, Phillipa.â

âHardly a compliment!â

âNo, it wasnât meant to be. I gather Maud got under the poor fellowâs skin just like youâve got under mine.â

âDonât be absurd, Edmund.â

âOh, hell, Phillipa, why are you like you are? What goes on behind your splendidly regular features? What do you think? What do you feel? Are you happy, or miserable, or frightened, or what? There must be something.â

Phillipa said quietly:

âWhat I feel is my own business.â

âItâs mine, too. I want to make you talk. I want to know what goes on in that quiet head of yours. Iâve a right to know. I have really. I didnât want to fall in love with you. I wanted to sit quietly and write my book. Such a nice book, all about how miserable the world is. Itâs frightfully easy to be clever about how miserable everybody is. And itâs all a habit, really. Yes, Iâve suddenly become convinced of that. After reading a life of Burne Jones.â

Phillipa had stopped pricking out. She was staring at him with a puzzled frown.

âWhat has Burne Jones got to do with it?â

âEverything. When youâve read all about the Pre-Raphaelites you realize just what fashion is. They were all terrifically hearty and slangy and jolly, and laughed and joked, and everything was fine and wonderful. That was fashion, too. They werenât any happier or heartier than we are. And weâre not any more miserable than they were. Itâs all fashion, I tell you. After the last war, we went in for sex. Now itâs all frustration. None of it matters. Why are we talking about all this? I started out to talk about us. Only I got cold feet and shied off. Because you wonât help me.â

âWhat do you want me to do?â

âTalk! Tell me things. Is it your husband? Do you adore him and heâs dead and so youâve shut up like a clam? Is that it? All right, you adored him, and heâs dead. Well, other girlsâ husbands are deadâlots of themâand some of the girls loved their husbands. They tell you so in bars, and cry a bit when theyâre drunk enough, and then want to go to bed with you so that theyâll feel better. Itâs one way of getting over it, I suppose. Youâve got to get over it, Phillipa. Youâre youngâand youâre extremely lovelyâand I love you like hell. Talk about your damned husband, tell me about him.â

âThereâs nothing to tell. We met and got married.â

âYou must have been very young.â

âToo young.â

âThen you werenât happy with him? Go on, Phillipa.â

âThereâs nothing to go on about. We were married. We were as happy as most people are, I suppose. Harry was born. Ronald went overseas. Heâhe was killed in Italy.â

âAnd now thereâs Harry?â

âAnd now thereâs Harry.â

âI like Harry. Heâs a really nice kid. He likes me. We get on. What about it, Phillipa? Shall we get married? You can go on gardening and I can go on writing my book and in the holidays weâll leave off working and enjoy ourselves. We can manage, with tact, not to have to live with Mother. She can fork out a bit to support her devoted son. I sponge, I write tripey books, I have defective eyesight and I talk too much. Thatâs the worst. Will you try it?â

Phillipa looked at him. She saw a tall rather solemn young man with an anxious face and large spectacles. His sandy head was rumpled and he was regarding her with a reassuring friendliness.

âNo,â said Phillipa.

âDefinitelyâno?â

âDefinitely no.â

âWhy?â

âYou donât know anything about me.â

âIs that all?â

âNo, you donât know anything about anything.â

Edmund considered.

âPerhaps not,â he admitted. âBut who does? Phillipa, my adored oneââ He broke off.

A shrill and prolonged yapping was rapidly approaching.

âPekes in the high hall garden, (said Edmund)

When twilight was falling (only itâs eleven a.m.)

Phil, Phil, Phil, Phil,

They were crying and calling

âYour name doesnât lend itself to the rhythm, does it? Sounds like an Ode to a Fountain Pen. Have you got another name?â

âJoan. Please go away. Thatâs Mrs. Lucas.â

âJoan, Joan, Joan, Joan. Better, but still not good. When greasy Joan the pot doth keelâthatâs not a nice picture of married life, either.â

âMrs. Lucas isââ

âOh, hell!â said Edmund. âGet me a blasted vegetable marrow.â

II

Sergeant Fletcher had the house at Little Paddocks to himself.

It was Mitziâs day off. She always went by the eleven oâclock bus into Medenham Wells. By arrangement with Miss Blacklock, Sergeant Fletcher had the run of the house. She and Dora Bunner had gone down to the village.

Fletcher worked fast. Someone in the house had oiled and prepared that door, and whoever had done it, had done it in order to be able to leave the drawing room unnoticed as soon as the lights went out. That ruled out Mitzi who wouldnât have needed to use the door.

Who was left? The neighbours, Fletcher thought, might also be ruled out. He didnât see how they could have found an opportunity to oil and prepare the door. That left Patrick and Julia Simmons, Phillipa Haymes, and possibly Dora Bunner. The young Simmonses were in Milchester. Phillipa Haymes was at work. Sergeant Fletcher was free to search out any secrets he could. But the house was disappointingly innocent. Fletcher, who was an expert on electricity, could find nothing suggestive in the wiring or appurtenances of the electric fixtures to show how the lights had been fused. Making a rapid survey of the household bedrooms he found an irritating normality. In Phillipa Haymesâ room were photographs of a small boy with serious eyes, an earlier photo of the same child, a pile of schoolboy letters, a theatre programme or two. In Juliaâs room there was a drawer full of snapshots of the South of France. Bathing photos, a villa set amidst mimosa. Patrickâs held some souvenirs of Naval days. Dora Bunnerâs held few personal possessions and they seemed innocent enough.

And yet, thought Fletcher, someone in the house must have oiled that door.

His thoughts broke off at a sound below stairs. He went quickly to the top of the staircase and looked down.

Mrs. Swettenham was crossing the hall. She had a basket on her arm. She looked into the drawing room, crossed the hall and went into the dining room. She came out again without the basket.

Some faint sound that Fletcher made, a board that creaked unexpectedly under his feet, made her turn her head. She called up:

âIs that you, Miss Blacklock?â

âNo, Mrs. Swettenham, itâs me,â said Fletcher.

Mrs. Swettenham gave a faint scream.

âOh! how you startled me. I thought it might be another burglar.â

Fletcher came down the stairs.

âThis house doesnât seem very well protected against burglars,â he said. âCan anybody always walk in and out just as they like?â

âI just brought up some of my quinces,â explained Mrs. Swettenham. âMiss Blacklock wants to make quince jelly and she hasnât got a quince tree here. I left them in the dining room.â

Then she smiled.

âOh, I see, you mean how did I get in? Well, I just came in through the side door. We all walk in and out of each otherâs houses, Sergeant. Nobody dreams of locking a door until itâs dark. I mean it would be so awkward, wouldnât it, if you brought things and couldnât get in to leave them? Itâs not like the old days when you rang a bell and a servant always came to answer it.â Mrs. Swettenham sighed. âIn India, I remember,â she said mournfully, âwe had eighteen servantsâeighteen. Not counting the ayah. Just as a matter of course. And at home, when I was a girl, we always had threeâthough Mother always felt it was terribly poverty-stricken not to be able to afford a kitchen maid. I must say that I find life very odd nowadays, Sergeant, though I know one mustnât complain. So much worse for the miners always getting psitticosis (or is that parrot disease?) and having to come out of the mines and try to be gardeners though they donât know weeds from spinach.â

She added, as she tripped towards the door, âI mustnât keep you. I expect youâre very busy. Nothing else is going to happen, is it?â

âWhy should it, Mrs. Swettenham?â

âI just wondered, seeing you here. I thought it might be a gang. Youâll tell Miss Blacklock about the quinces, wonât you?â

Mrs. Swettenham departed. Fletcher felt like a man who has received an unexpected jolt. He had been assumingâerroneously, he now perceivedâthat it must have been someone in the house who had done the oiling of the door. He saw now that he was wrong. An outsider had only to wait until Mitzi had departed by bus and Letitia Blacklock and Dora Bunner were both out of the house. Such an opportunity must have been simplicity itself. That meant that he couldnât rule out anybody who had been in the drawing room that night.

III

âMurgatroyd!â

âYes, Hinch?â

âIâve been doing a bit of thinking.â

âHave you, Hinch?â

âYes, the great brain has been working. You know, Murgatroyd, the whole setup the other evening was decidedly fishy.â

âFishy?â

âYes. Tuck your hair up, Murgatroyd, and take this trowel. Pretend itâs a revolver.â

âOh,â said Miss Murgatroyd, nervously.

âAll right. It wonât bite you. Now come along to the kitchen door. Youâre going to be the burglar. You stand here. Now youâre going into the kitchen to hold up a lot of nit-wits. Take the torch. Switch it on.â

âBut itâs broad daylight!â

âUse your imagination, Murgatroyd. Switch it on.â

Miss Murgatroyd did so, rather clumsily, shifting the trowel under one arm while she did so.

âNow then,â said Miss Hinchcliffe, âoff you go. Remember the time you played Hermia in A Midsummer Nightâs Dream at the Womenâs Institute? Act. Give it all youâve got. âStick âem up!â Those are your linesâand donât ruin them by saying âPlease.ââ

Obediently Miss Murgatroyd raised her torch, flourished the trowel and advanced on the kitchen door.

Transferring the torch to her right hand she swiftly turned the handle and stepped forward, resuming the torch in her left hand.

âStick âem up!â she fluted, adding vexedly: âDear me, this is very difficult, Hinch.â

âWhy?â

âThe door. Itâs a swing door, it keeps coming back and Iâve got both hands full.â

âExactly,â boomed Miss Hinchcliffe. âAnd the drawing room door at Little Paddocks always swings to. It isnât a swing door like this, but it wonât stay open. Thatâs why Letty Blacklock bought that absolutely delectable heavy glass doorstop from Elliotâs in the High Street. I donât mind saying Iâve never forgiven her for getting in ahead of me there. I was beating the old brute down most successfully. Heâd come down from eight guineas to six pound ten, and then Blacklock comes along and buys the damned thing. Iâd never seen as attractive a doorstop, you donât often get those glass bubbles in that big size.â

âPerhaps the burglar put the doorstop against the door to keep it open,â suggested Miss Murgatroyd.

âUse your common sense, Murgatroyd. What does he do? Throw the door open, say âExcuse me a moment,â stoop and put the stop into position and then resume business by saying âHands upâ? Try holding the door with your shoulder.â

âItâs still very awkward,â complained Miss Murgatroyd.

âExactly,â said Miss Hinchcliffe. âA revolver, a torch and a door to hold openâa bit too much, isnât it? So whatâs the answer?â

Miss Murgatroyd did not attempt to supply an answer. She looked inquiringly and admiringly at her masterful friend and waited to be enlightened.

âWe know heâd got a revolver, because he fired it,â said Miss Hinchcliffe. âAnd we know he had a torch because we all saw itâthat is unless weâre all victims of mass hypnotism like explanations of the Indian Rope Trick (what a bore that old Easterbrook is with his Indian stories) so the question is, did someone hold that door open for him?â

âBut who could have done that?â

âWell, you could have for one, Murgatroyd. As far as I remember, you were standing directly behind it when the lights went out.â Miss Hinchcliffe laughed heartily. âHighly suspicious character, arenât you, Murgatroyd? But whoâd think it to look at you? Here, give me that trowelâthank heavens it isnât really a revolver. Youâd have shot yourself by now!â

IV

âItâs a most extraordinary thing,â muttered Colonel Easterbrook. âMost extraordinary. Laura.â

âYes, darling?â

âCome into my dressing room a moment.â

âWhat is it, darling?â

Mrs. Easterbrook appeared through the open door.

âRemember my showing you that revolver of mine?â

âOh, yes, Archie, a nasty horrid black thing.â

âYes. Hun souvenir. Was in this drawer, wasnât it?â

âYes, it was.â

âWell, itâs not there now.â

âArchie, how extraordinary!â

âYou havenât moved it or anything?â

âOh, no, Iâd never dare to touch the horrid thing.â

âThink old mother whatsername did?â

âOh, I shouldnât think so for a minute. Mrs. Butt would never do a thing like that. Shall I ask her?â

âNoâno, better not. Donât want to start a lot of talk. Tell me, do you remember when it was I showed it to you?â

âOh, about a week ago. You were grumbling about your collars and the laundry and you opened this drawer wide and there it was at the back and I asked you what it was.â

âYes, thatâs right. About a week ago. You donât remember the date?â

Mrs. Easterbrook considered, eyelids down over her eyes, a shrewd brain working.

âOf course,â she said. âIt was Saturday. The day we were to have gone in to the pictures, but we didnât.â

âHâmâsure it wasnât before that? Wednesday? Thursday or even the week before that again?â

âNo, dear,â said Mrs. Easterbrook. âI remember quite distinctly. It was Saturday the 30th. It just seems a long time because of all the trouble thereâs been. And I can tell you how I remember. Itâs because it was the day after the hold-up at Miss Blacklockâs. Because when I saw your revolver it reminded me of the shooting the night before.â

âAh,â said Colonel Easterbrook, âthen thatâs a great load off my mind.â

âOh, Archie, why?â

âJust because if that revolver had disappeared before the shootingâwell, it might possibly have been my revolver that was pinched by that Swiss fellow.â

âBut how would he have known you had one?â

âThese gangs have a most extraordinary communication service. They get to know everything about a place and who lives there.â

âWhat a lot you do know, Archie.â

âHa. Yes. Seen a thing or two in my time. Still as you definitely remember seeing my revolver after the hold-upâwell, that settles it. The revolver that Swiss fellow used canât have been mine, can it?â

âOf course it canât.â

âA great relief. I should have had to go to the police about it. And they ask a lot of awkward questions. Bound to. As a matter of fact I never took out a licence for it. Somehow, after a war, one forgets these peacetime regulations. I looked on it as a war souvenir, not as a firearm.â

âYes, I see. Of course.â

âBut all the sameâwhere on earth can the damned thing be?â

âPerhaps Mrs. Butt took it. Sheâs always seemed quite honest, but perhaps she felt nervous after the hold-up and thought sheâd like toâto have a revolver in the house. Of course, sheâll never admit doing that. I shanât even ask her. She might get offended. And what should we do then? This is such a big houseâI simply couldnâtââ

âQuite so,â said Colonel Easterbrook. âBetter not say anything.â

Thirteen

MORNING ACTIVITIES IN CHIPPING CLEGHORN (CONTINUED)

Miss Marple came out of the Vicarage gate and walked down the little lane that led into the main street.

She walked fairly briskly with the aid of the Rev. Julian Harmonâs stout ashplant stick.

She passed the Red Cow and the butcherâs and stopped for a brief moment to look into the window of Mr. Elliotâs antique shop. This was cunningly situated next door to the Bluebird Tearooms and CafÃ© so that rich motorists, after stopping for a nice cup of tea and somewhat euphemistically named âHome Made Cakesâ of a bright saffron colour, could be tempted by Mr. Elliotâs judiciously planned shop window.

In this antique bow frame, Mr. Elliot catered for all tastes. Two pieces of Waterford glass reposed on an impeccable wine cooler. A walnut bureau, made up of various bits and pieces, proclaimed itself a Genuine Bargain and on a table, in the window itself, were a nice assortment of cheap doorknockers and quaint pixies, a few chipped bits of Dresden, a couple of sad-looking bead necklaces, a mug with âA Present from Tunbridge Wellsâ on it, and some tit-bits of Victorian silver.

Miss Marple gave the window her rapt attention, and Mr. Elliot, an elderly obese spider, peeped out of his web to appraise the possibilities of this new fly.

But just as he decided that the charms of the Present from Tunbridge Wells were about to be too much for the lady who was staying at the Vicarage (for of course Mr. Elliot, like everybody else, knew exactly who she was), Miss Marple saw out of the corner of her eye Miss Dora Bunner entering the Bluebird CafÃ©, and immediately decided that what she needed to counteract the cold wind was a nice cup of morning coffee.

Four or five ladies were already engaged in sweetening their morning shopping by a pause for refreshment. Miss Marple, blinking a little in the gloom of the interior of the Bluebird, and hovering artistically, was greeted by the voice of Dora Bunner at her elbow.

âOh, good morning, Miss Marple. Do sit down here. Iâm all alone.â

âThank you.â

Miss Marple subsided gratefully on to the rather angular little blue-painted armchair which the Bluebird affected.

âSuch a sharp wind,â she complained. âAnd I canât walk very fast because of my rheumatic leg.â

âOh, I know. I had sciatica one yearâand really most of the time I was in agony.â

The two ladies talked rheumatism, sciatica and neuritis for some moments with avidity. A sulky-looking girl in a pink overall with a flight of bluebirds down the front of it took their order for coffee and cakes with a yawn and an air of weary patience.

âThe cakes,â Miss Bunner said in a conspiratorial whisper, âare really quite good here.â

âI was so interested in that very pretty girl I met as we were coming away from Miss Blacklockâs the other day,â said Miss Marple. âI think she said she does gardening. Or is she on the land? Hynesâwas that her name?â

âOh, yes, Phillipa Haymes. Our âLodger,â as we call her.â Miss Bunner laughed at her own humour. âSuch a nice quiet girl. A lady, if you know what I mean.â

âI wonder now. I knew a Colonel Haymesâin the Indian cavalry. Her father perhaps?â

âSheâs Mrs. Haymes. A widow. Her husband was killed in Sicily or Italy. Of course, it might be his father.â

âI wondered, perhaps, if there might be a little romance on the way?â Miss Marple suggested roguishly. âWith that tall young man?â

âWith Patrick, do you mean? Oh, I donâtââ

âNo, I meant a young man with spectacles. Iâve seen him about.â

âOh, of course, Edmund Swettenham. Sh! Thatâs his mother, Mrs. Swettenham, over in the corner. I donât know, Iâm sure. You think he admires her? Heâs such an odd young manâsays the most disturbing things sometimes. Heâs supposed to be clever, you know,â said Miss Bunner with frank disapproval.

âCleverness isnât everything,â said Miss Marple, shaking her head. âAh, here is our coffee.â

The sulky girl deposited it with a clatter. Miss Marple and Miss Bunner pressed cakes on each other.

âI was so interested to hear you were at school with Miss Blacklock. Yours is indeed an old friendship.â

âYes, indeed.â Miss Bunner sighed. âVery few people would be as loyal to their old friends as dear Miss Blacklock is. Oh, dear, those days seem a long time ago. Such a pretty girl and enjoyed life so much. It all seemed so sad.â

Miss Marple, though with no idea of what had seemed so sad, sighed and shook her head.

âLife is indeed hard,â she murmured.

âAnd sad affliction bravely borne,â murmured Miss Bunner, her eyes suffusing with tears. âI always think of that verse. True patience; true resignation. Such courage and patience ought to be rewarded, that is what I say. What I feel is that nothing is too good for dear Miss Blacklock, and whatever good things come to her, she truly deserves them.â

âMoney,â said Miss Marple, âcan do a lot to ease oneâs path in life.â

She felt herself safe in this observation since she judged that it must be Miss Blacklockâs prospects of future affluence to which her friend referred.

The remark, however, started Miss Bunner on another train of thought.

âMoney!â she exclaimed with bitterness. âI donât believe, you know, that until one has really experienced it, one can know what money, or rather the lack of it, means.â

Miss Marple nodded her white head sympathetically.

Miss Bunner went on rapidly, working herself up, and speaking with a flushed face:

âIâve heard people say so often âIâd rather have flowers on the table than a meal without them.â But how many meals have those people ever missed? They donât know what it isânobody knows who hasnât been through itâto be really hungry. Bread, you know, and a jar of meat paste, and a scrape of margarine. Day after day, and how one longs for a good plate of meat and two vegetables. And the shabbiness. Darning oneâs clothes and hoping it wonât show. And applying for jobs and always being told youâre too old. And then perhaps getting a job and after all one isnât strong enough. One faints. And youâre back again. Itâs the rentâalways the rentâthatâs got to be paidâotherwise youâre out in the street. And in these days it leaves so little over. Oneâs old age pension doesnât go farâindeed it doesnât.â

âI know,â said Miss Marple gently. She looked with compassion at Miss Bunnerâs twitching face.

âI wrote to Letty. I just happened to see her name in the paper. It was a luncheon in aid of Milchester Hospital. There it was in black and white, Miss Letitia Blacklock. It brought the past back to me. I hadnât heard of her for years and years. Sheâd been secretary, you know, to that very rich man, Goedler. She was always a clever girlâthe kind that gets on in the world. Not so much looksâas character. I thoughtâwell, I thoughtâperhaps sheâll remember meâand sheâs one of the people I could ask for a little help. I mean someone youâve known as a girlâbeen at school withâwell, they do know about youâthey know youâre not just aâbegging letter-writerââ

Tears came into Dora Bunnerâs eyes.

âAnd then Lotty came and took me awayâsaid she needed someone to help her. Of course, I was very surprisedâvery surprisedâbut then newspapers do get things wrong. How kind she wasâand how sympathetic. And remembering all the old days so well â¦ Iâd do anything for herâI really would. And I try very hard, but Iâm afraid sometimes I muddle thingsâmy headâs not what it was. I make mistakes. And I forget and say foolish things. Sheâs very patient. Whatâs so nice about her is that she always pretends that I am useful to her. Thatâs real kindness, isnât it?â

Miss Marple said gently: âYes, thatâs real kindness.â

âI used to worry, you know, even after I came to Little Paddocksâabout what would become of me ifâif anything were to happen to Miss Blacklock. After all, there are so many accidentsâthese motors dashing aboutâone never knows, does one? But naturally I never said anythingâbut she must have guessed. Suddenly, one day she told me that sheâd left me a small annuity in her willâandâwhat I value far moreâall her beautiful furniture. I was quite overcome â¦ But she said nobody else would value it as I shouldâand that is quite trueâI canât bear to see some lovely piece of china smashedâor wet glasses put down on a table and leaving a mark. I do really look after her things. Some peopleâsome people especially, are so terribly carelessâand sometimes worse than careless!

âIâm not really as stupid as I look,â Miss Bunner continued with simplicity. âI can see, you know, when Lettyâs being imposed upon. Some peopleâI wonât name namesâbut they take advantage. Dear Miss Blacklock is, perhaps, just a shade too trusting.â

Miss Marple shook her head.

âThatâs a mistake.â

âYes, it is. You and I, Miss Marple, know the world. Dear Miss Blacklockââ She shook her head.

Miss Marple thought that as the secretary of a big financier Miss Blacklock might be presumed to know the world too. But probably what Dora Bunner meant was that Letty Blacklock had always been comfortably off, and that the comfortably off do not know the deeper abysses of human nature.

âThat Patrick!â said Miss Bunner with a suddenness and an asperity that made Miss Marple jump. âTwice, at least, to my knowledge, heâs got money out of her. Pretending heâs hard up. Run into debt. All that sort of thing. Sheâs far too generous. All she said to me when I remonstrated with her was: âThe boyâs young, Dora. Youth is the time to have your fling.ââ

âWell, thatâs true enough,â said Miss Marple. âSuch a handsome young man, too.â

âHandsome is as handsome does,â said Dora Bunner. âMuch too fond of poking fun at people. And a lot of going on with girls, I expect. Iâm just a figure of fun to himâthatâs all. He doesnât seem to realize that people have their feelings.â

âYoung people are rather careless that way,â said Miss Marple.

Miss Bunner leaned forward suddenly with a mysterious air.

âYou wonât breathe a word, will you, my dear?â she demanded. âBut I canât help feeling that he was mixed up in this dreadful business. I think he knew that young manâelse Julia did. I darenât hint at such a thing to dear Miss Blacklockâat least I did, and she just snapped my head off. And, of course, itâs awkwardâbecause heâs her nephewâor at any rate her cousinâand if the Swiss young man shot himself Patrick might be held morally responsible, mightnât he? If heâd put him up to it, I mean. Iâm really terribly confused about the whole thing. Everyone making such a fuss about that other door into the drawing room. Thatâs another thing that worries meâthe detective saying it had been oiled. Because you see, I sawââ

She came to an abrupt stop.

Miss Marple paused to select a phrase.

âMost difficult for you,â she said sympathetically. âNaturally you wouldnât want anything to get round to the police.â

âThatâs just it,â Dora Bunner cried. âI lie awake at nights and worryâbecause, you see, I came upon Patrick in the shrubbery the other day. I was looking for eggsâone hen lays outâand there he was holding a feather and a cupâan oily cup. And he jumped most guiltily when he saw me and he said: âI was just wondering what this was doing here.â Well, of course, heâs a quick thinker. I should say he thought that up quickly when I startled him. And how did he come to find a thing like that in the shrubbery unless he was looking for it, knowing perfectly well it was there? Of course, I didnât say anything.â

âNo, no, of course not.â

âBut I gave him a look, if you know what I mean.â

Dora Bunner stretched out her hand and bit abstractedly into a lurid salmon-coloured cake.

âAnd then another day I happened to overhear him having a very curious conversation with Julia. They seemed to be having a kind of quarrel. He was saying: âIf I thought you had anything to do with a thing like that!â and Julia (sheâs always so calm, you know) said: âWell, little brother, what would you do about it?â And then, most unfortunately, I trod on that board that always squeaks, and they saw me. So I said, quite gaily: âYou two having a quarrel?â and Patrick said, âIâm warning Julia not to go in for these black-market deals.â Oh, it was all very slick, but I donât believe they were talking about anything of the sort! And if you ask me, I believe Patrick had tampered with that lamp in the drawing roomâto make the lights go out, because I remember distinctly that it was the shepherdessânot the shepherd. And the next dayââ

She stopped and her face grew pink. Miss Marple turned her head to see Miss Blacklock standing behind themâshe must just have come in.

âCoffee and gossip, Bunny?â said Miss Blacklock, with quite a shade of reproach in her voice. âGood morning, Miss Marple. Cold, isnât it?â

The doors flew open with a clang and Bunch Harmon came into the Bluebird with a rush.

âHallo,â she said, âam I too late for coffee?â

âNo, dear,â said Miss Marple. âSit down and have a cup.â

âWe must get home,â said Miss Blacklock. âDone your shopping, Bunny?â

Her tone was indulgent once more, but her eyes still held a slight reproach.

âYesâyes, thank you, Letty. I must just pop into the chemists in passing and get some aspirin and some cornplasters.â

As the doors of the Bluebird swung to behind them, Bunch asked:

âWhat were you talking about?â

Miss Marple did not reply at once. She waited whilst Bunch gave the order, then she said:

âFamily solidarity is a very strong thing. Very strong. Do you remember some famous caseâI really canât remember what it was. They said the husband poisoned his wife. In a glass of wine. Then, at the trial, the daughter said sheâd drunk half her motherâs glassâso that knocked the case against her father to pieces. They do sayâbut that may be just rumourâthat she never spoke to her father or lived with him again. Of course, a father is one thingâand a nephew or a distant cousin is another. But still there it isâno one wants a member of their own family hanged, do they?â

âNo,â said Bunch, considering. âI shouldnât think they would.â

Miss Marple leaned back in her chair. She murmured under her breath, âPeople are really very alike, everywhere.â

âWho am I like?â

âWell, really, dear, you are very much like yourself. I donât know that you remind me of anyone in particular. Except perhapsââ

âHere it comes,â said Bunch.

âI was just thinking of a parlourmaid of mine, dear.â

âA parlourmaid? I should make a terrible parlourmaid.â

âYes, dear, so did she. She was no good at all at waiting at table. Put everything on the table crooked, mixed up the kitchen knives with the dining room ones, and her cap (this was a long time ago, dear) her cap was never straight.â

Bunch adjusted her hat automatically.

âAnything else?â she demanded anxiously.

âI kept her because she was so pleasant to have about the houseâand because she used to make me laugh. I liked the way she said things straight out. Came to me one day, âOf course, I donât know, maâam,â she says, âbut Florrie, the way she sits down, itâs just like a married woman.â And sure enough poor Florrie was in troubleâthe gentlemanly assistant at the hairdresserâs. Fortunately it was in good time, and I was able to have a little talk with him, and they had a very nice wedding and settled down quite happily. She was a good girl, Florrie, but inclined to be taken in by a gentlemanly appearance.â

âShe didnât do a murder, did she?â asked Bunch. âThe parlourmaid, I mean.â

âNo, indeed,â said Miss Marple. âShe married a Baptist Minister and they had a family of five.â

âJust like me,â said Bunch. âThough Iâve only got as far as Edward and Susan up to date.â

She added, after a minute or two:

âWho are you thinking about now, Aunt Jane?â

âQuite a lot of people, dear, quite a lot of people,â said Miss Marple, vaguely.

âIn St. Mary Mead?â

âMostly â¦ I was really thinking about Nurse Ellertonâreally an excellent kindly woman. Took care of an old lady, seemed really fond of her. Then the old lady died. And another came and she died. Morphia. It all came out. Done in the kindest way, and the shocking thing was that the woman herself really couldnât see that sheâd done anything wrong. They hadnât long to live in any case, she said, and one of them had cancer and quite a lot of pain.â

âYou meanâit was a mercy killing?â

âNo, no. They signed their money away to her. She liked money, you knowâ¦.

âAnd then there was that young man on the linerâMrs. Pusey at the paper shop, her nephew. Brought home stuff heâd stolen and got her to dispose of it. Said it was things that heâd bought abroad. She was quite taken in. And then when the police came round and started asking questions, he tried to bash her on the head, so that she shouldnât be able to give him away â¦ Not a nice young manâbut very good-looking. Had two girls in love with him. He spent a lot of money on one of them.â

âThe nastiest one, I suppose,â said Bunch.

âYes, dear. And there was Mrs. Cray at the wool shop. Devoted to her son, spoilt him, of course. He got in with a very queer lot. Do you remember Joan Croft, Bunch?â

âN-no, I donât think so.â

âI thought you might have seen her when you were with me on a visit. Used to stalk about smoking a cigar or a pipe. We had a Bank hold-up once, and Joan Croft was in the Bank at the time. She knocked the man down and took his revolver away from him. She was congratulated on her courage by the Bench.â

Bunch listened attentively. She seemed to be learning by heart.

âAndâ?â she prompted.

âThat girl at St. Jean des Collines that summer. Such a quiet girlânot so much quiet as silent. Everybody liked her, but they never got to know her much better â¦ We heard afterwards that her husband was a forger. It made her feel cut off from people. It made her, in the end, a little queer. Brooding does, you know.â

âAny Anglo-Indian Colonels in your reminiscences, darling?â

âNaturally, dear. There was Major Vaughan at The Larches and Colonel Wright at Simla Lodge. Nothing wrong with either of them. But I do remember Mr. Hodgson, the Bank Manager, went on a cruise and married a woman young enough to be his daughter. No idea of where she came fromâexcept what she told him of course.â

âAnd that wasnât true?â

âNo, dear, it definitely wasnât.â

âNot bad,â said Bunch, nodding, and ticking people off on her fingers. âWeâve had devoted Dora, and handsome Patrick, and Mrs. Swettenham and Edmund, and Phillipa Haymes, and Colonel Easterbrook and Mrs. Easterbrookâand if you ask me, I should say youâre absolutely right about her. But there wouldnât be any reason for her murdering Letty Blacklock.â

âMiss Blacklock, of course, might know something about her that she didnât want known.â

âOh, darling, that old Tanqueray stuff? Surely thatâs dead as the hills.â

âIt might not be. You see, Bunch, you are not the kind that minds much about what people think of you.â

âI see what you mean,â said Bunch suddenly. âIf youâd been up against it, and then, rather like a shivering stray cat, youâd found a home and cream and a warm stroking hand and you were called Pretty Pussy and somebody thought the world of you â¦ Youâd do a lot to keep that â¦ Well, I must say, youâve presented me with a very complete gallery of people.â

âYou didnât get them all right, you know,â said Miss Marple, mildly.

âDidnât I? Where did I slip up? Julia? Julia, pretty Julia is peculiar.â

âThree and sixpence,â said the sulky waitress, materialising out of the gloom.

âAnd,â she added, her bosom heaving beneath the bluebirds, âIâd like to know, Mrs. Harmon, why you call me peculiar. I had an Aunt who joined the Peculiar People, but Iâve always been good Church of England myself, as the late Rev. Hopkinson can tell you.â

âIâm terribly sorry,â said Bunch. âI was just quoting a song. I didnât mean you at all. I didnât know your name was Julia.â

âQuite a coincidence,â said the sulky waitress, cheering up. âNo offence, Iâm sure, but hearing my name, as I thoughtâwell, naturally if you think someoneâs talking about you, itâs only human nature to listen. Thank you.â

She departed with her tip.

âAunt Jane,â said Bunch, âdonât look so upset. What is it?â

âBut surely,â murmured Miss Marple. âThat couldnât be so. Thereâs no reasonââ

âAunt Jane!â

Miss Marple sighed and then smiled brightly.

âItâs nothing, dear,â she said.

âDid you think you knew who did the murder?â asked Bunch. âWho was it?â

âI donât know at all,â said Miss Marple. âI got an idea for a momentâbut itâs gone. I wish I did know. Timeâs so short. So terribly short.â

âWhat do you mean short?â

âThat old lady up in Scotland may die any moment.â

Bunch said, staring:

âThen you really do believe in Pip and Emma. You think it was themâand that theyâll try again?â

âOf course theyâll try again,â said Miss Marple, almost absentmindedly. âIf they tried once, theyâll try again. If youâve made up your mind to murder someone, you donât stop because the first time it didnât come off. Especially if youâre fairly sure youâre not suspected.â

âBut if itâs Pip and Emma,â said Bunch, âthere are only two people it could be. It must be Patrick and Julia. Theyâre brother and sister and theyâre the only ones who are the right age.â

âMy dear, it isnât nearly as simple as that. There are all sorts of ramifications and combinations. Thereâs Pipâs wife if heâs married, or Emmaâs husband. Thereâs their motherâsheâs an interested party even if she doesnât inherit direct. If Letty Blacklock hasnât seen her for thirty years, sheâd probably not recognize her now. One elderly woman is very like another. You remember Mrs. Wotherspoon drew her own and Mrs. Bartlettâs Old Age Pension although Mrs. Bartlett had been dead for years. Anyway, Miss Blacklockâs shortsighted. Havenât you noticed how she peers at people? And then thereâs the father. Apparently he was a real bad lot.â

âYes, but heâs a foreigner.â

âBy birth. But thereâs no reason to believe he speaks broken English and gesticulates with his hands. I dare say he could play the part ofâof an Anglo-Indian Colonel as well as anybody else.â

âIs that what you think?â

âNo, I donât. I donât indeed, dear. I just think that thereâs a great deal of money at stake, a great deal of money. And Iâm afraid I know only too well the really terrible things that people will do to lay their hands on a lot of money.â

âI suppose they will,â said Bunch. âIt doesnât really do them any good, does it? Not in the end?â

âNoâbut they donât usually know that.â

âI can understand it.â Bunch smiled suddenly, her sweet rather crooked smile. âOne feels it would be different for oneself â¦ Even I feel that.â She considered: âYou pretend to yourself that youâd do a lot of good with all that money. Schemes â¦ Homes for Unwanted Children â¦ Tired Mothers â¦ A lovely rest abroad somewhere for elderly women who have worked too hardâ¦.â

Her face grew sombre. Her eyes were suddenly dark and tragic.

âI know what youâre thinking,â she said to Miss Marple. âYouâre thinking that Iâd be the worst kind. Because Iâd kid myself. If you just wanted the money for selfish reasons youâd at any rate see what you were like. But once you began to pretend about doing good with it, youâd be able to persuade yourself, perhaps, that it wouldnât very much matter killing someoneâ¦.â

Then her eyes cleared.

âBut I shouldnât,â she said. âI shouldnât really kill anyone. Not even if they were old, or ill, or doing a lot of harm in the world. Not even if they were blackmailers orâor absolute beasts.â She fished a fly carefully out of the dregs of the coffee and arranged it on the table to dry. âBecause people like living, donât they? So do flies. Even if youâre old and in pain and can just crawl out in the sun. Julian says those people like living even more than young strong people do. Itâs harder, he says, for them to die, the struggleâs greater. I like living myselfânot just being happy and enjoying myself and having a good time. I mean livingâwaking up and feeling, all over me, that Iâm thereâticking over.â

She blew on the fly gently; it waved its legs, and flew rather drunkenly away.

âCheer up, darling Aunt Jane,â said Bunch. âIâd never kill anybody.â

Fourteen

EXCURSION INTO THE PAST

After a night in the train, Inspector Craddock alighted at a small station in the Highlands.

It struck him for a moment as strange that the wealthy Mrs. Goedlerâan invalidâwith a choice of a London house in a fashionable square, an estate in Hampshire, and a villa in the South of France, should have selected this remote Scottish home as her residence. Surely she was cut off here from many friends and distractions. It must be a lonely lifeâor was she too ill to notice or care about her surroundings?

A car was waiting to meet him. A big old-fashioned Daimler with an elderly chauffeur driving it. It was a sunny morning and the Inspector enjoyed the twenty-mile drive, though he marvelled anew at this preference for isolation. A tentative remark to the chauffeur brought partial enlightenment.

âItâs her own home as a girl. Ay, sheâs the last of the family. And she and Mr. Goedler were always happier here than anywhere, though it wasnât often he could get away from London. But when he did they enjoyed themselves like a couple of bairns.â

When the grey walls of the old keep came in sight, Craddock felt that time was slipping backwards. An elderly butler received him, and after a wash and a shave he was shown into a room with a huge fire burning in the grate, and breakfast was served to him.

After breakfast, a tall, middle-aged woman in nurseâs dress, with a pleasant and competent manner, came in and introduced herself as Sister McClelland.

âI have my patient all ready for you, Mr. Craddock. She is, indeed, looking forward to seeing you.â

âIâll do my best not to excite her,â Craddock promised.

âI had better warn you of what will happen. You will find Mrs. Goedler apparently quite normal. She will talk and enjoy talking and thenâquite suddenlyâher powers will fail. Come away at once, then, and send for me. She is, you see, kept almost entirely under the influence of morphia. She drowses most of the time. In preparation for your visit, I have given her a strong stimulant. As soon as the effect of the stimulant wears off, she will relapse into semiconsciousness.â

âI quite understand, Miss McClelland. Would it be in order for you to tell me exactly what the state of Mrs. Goedlerâs health is?â

âWell, Mr. Craddock, she is a dying woman. Her life cannot be prolonged for more than a few weeks. To say that she should have been dead years ago would strike you as odd, yet it is the truth. What has kept Mrs. Goedler alive is her intense enjoyment and love of being alive. That sounds, perhaps, an odd thing to say of someone who has lived the life of an invalid for many years and has not left her home here for fifteen years, but it is true. Mrs. Goedler has never been a strong womanâbut she has retained to an astonishing degree the will to live.â She added with a smile, âShe is a very charming woman, too, as you will find.â

Craddock was shown into a large bedroom where a fire was burning and where an old lady lay in a large canopied bed. Though she was only about seven or eight years older than Letitia Blacklock, her fragility made her seem older than her years.

Her white hair was carefully arranged, a froth of pale blue wool enveloped her neck and shoulders. There were lines of pain on the face, but lines of sweetness, too. And there was, strangely enough, what Craddock could only describe as a roguish twinkle in her faded blue eyes.

âWell, this is interesting,â she said. âItâs not often I receive a visit from the police. I hear Letitia Blacklock wasnât much hurt by this attempt on her? How is my dear Blackie?â

âSheâs very well, Mrs. Goedler. She sent you her love.â

âItâs a long time since Iâve seen her â¦ For many years now, itâs been just a card at Christmas. I asked her to come up here when she came back to England after Charlotteâs death, but she said it would be painful after so long and perhaps she was right â¦ Blackie always had a lot of sense. I had an old school friend to see me about a year ago, and, lor!ââshe smiledââwe bored each other to death. After weâd finished all the âDo you remembers?â there wasnât anything to say. Most embarrassing.â

Craddock was content to let her talk before pressing his questions. He wanted, as it were, to get back into the past, to get the feel of the Goedler-Blacklock mÃ©nage.

âI suppose,â said Belle shrewdly, âthat you want to ask about the money? Randall left it all to go to Blackie after my death. Really, of course, Randall never dreamed that Iâd outlive him. He was a big strong man, never a dayâs illness, and I was always a mass of aches and pains and complaints and doctors coming and pulling long faces over me.â

âI donât think complaints would be the right word, Mrs. Goedler.â

The old lady chuckled.

âI didnât mean it in the complaining sense. Iâve never been too sorry for myself. But it was always taken for granted that I, being the weakly one, would go first. It didnât work out that way. Noâit didnât work out that wayâ¦.â

âWhy, exactly, did your husband leave his money the way he did?â

âYou mean, why did he leave it to Blackie? Not for the reason youâve probably been thinking.â The roguish twinkle was very apparent. âWhat minds you policemen have! Randall was never in the least in love with her and she wasnât with him. Letitia, you know, has really got a manâs mind. She hasnât any feminine feelings or weaknesses. I donât believe she was ever in love with any man. She was never particularly pretty and she didnât care for clothes. She used a little makeup in deference to prevailing custom, but not to make herself look prettier.â There was pity in the old voice as she went on: âShe never knew any of the fun of being a woman.â

Craddock looked at the frail little figure in the big bed with interest. Belle Goedler, he realized, had enjoyedâstill enjoyedâbeing a woman. She twinkled at him.

âIâve always thought,â she said, âit must be terribly dull to be a man.â

Then she said thoughtfully:

âI think Randall looked on Blackie very much as a kind of younger brother. He relied on her judgment which was always excellent. She kept him out of trouble more than once, you know.â

âShe told me that she came to his rescue once with money?â

âThat, yes, but I meant more than that. One can speak the truth after all these years. Randall couldnât really distinguish between what was crooked and what wasnât. His conscience wasnât sensitive. The poor dear really didnât know what was just smartâand what was dishonest. Blackie kept him straight. Thatâs one thing about Letitia Blacklock, sheâs absolutely dead straight. She would never do anything that was dishonest. Sheâs a very fine character, you know. Iâve always admired her. They had a terrible girlhood, those girls. The father was an old country doctorâterrifically pig-headed and narrow-mindedâthe complete family tyrant. Letitia broke away, came to London, and trained herself as a chartered accountant. The other sister was an invalid, there was a deformity of kinds and she never saw people or went out. Thatâs why when the old man died, Letitia gave up everything to go home and look after her sister. Randall was wild with herâbut it made no difference. If Letitia thought a thing was her duty sheâd do it. And you couldnât move her.â

âHow long was that before your husband died?â

âA couple of years, I think. Randall made his will before she left the firm, and he didnât alter it. He said to me: âWeâve no one of our own.â (Our little boy died, you know, when he was two years old.) âAfter you and I are gone, Blackie had better have the money. Sheâll play the markets and make âem sit up.â

âYou see,â Belle went on, âRandall enjoyed the whole money-making game so muchâit wasnât just the moneyâit was the adventure, the risks, the excitement of it all. And Blackie liked it too. She had the same adventurous spirit and the same judgment. Poor darling, sheâd never had any of the usual funâbeing in love, and leading men on and teasing themâand having a home and children and all the real fun of life.â

Craddock thought it was odd, the real pity and indulgent contempt felt by this woman, a woman whose life had been hampered by illness, whose only child had died, whose husband had died, leaving her to a lonely widowhood, and who had been a hopeless invalid for years.

She nodded her head at him.

âI know what youâre thinking. But Iâve had all the things that make life worth whileâthey may have been taken from meâbut I have had them. I was pretty and gay as a girl, I married the man I loved, and he never stopped loving me â¦ My child died, but I had him for two precious years â¦ Iâve had a lot of physical painâbut if you have pain, you know how to enjoy the exquisite pleasure of the times when pain stops. And everyoneâs been kind to me, always â¦ Iâm a lucky woman, really.â

Craddock seized upon an opening in her former remarks.

âYou said just now, Mrs. Goedler, that your husband left his fortune to Miss Blacklock because he had no one else to leave it to. But thatâs not strictly true, is it? He had a sister.â

âOh, Sonia. But they quarrelled years ago and made a clean break of it.â

âHe disapproved of her marriage?â

âYes, she married a man calledânow what was his nameâ?â

âStamfordis.â

âThatâs it. Dmitri Stamfordis. Randall always said he was a crook. The two men didnât like each other from the first. But Sonia was wildly in love with him and quite determined to marry him. And I really never saw why she shouldnât. Men have such odd ideas about these things. Sonia wasnât a mere girlâshe was twenty-five, and she knew exactly what she was doing. He was a crook, I dare sayâI mean really a crook. I believe he had a criminal recordâand Randall always suspected the name he was passing under here wasnât his own. Sonia knew all that. The point was, which of course Randall couldnât appreciate, that Dmitri was really a wildly attractive person to women. And he was just as much in love with Sonia as she was with him. Randall insisted that he was just marrying her for her moneyâbut that wasnât true. Sonia was very handsome, you know. And she had plenty of spirit. If the marriage had turned out badly, if Dmitri had been unkind to her or unfaithful to her, she would just have cut her losses and walked out on him. She was a rich woman and could do as she chose with her life.â

âThe quarrel was never made up?â

âNo. Randall and Sonia never had got on very well. She resented his trying to prevent the marriage. She said, âVery well. Youâre quite impossible! This is the last you hear of me!ââ

âBut it was not the last you heard of her?â

Belle smiled.

âNo, I got a letter from her about eighteen months afterwards. She wrote from Budapest, I remember, but she didnât give an address. She told me to tell Randall that she was extremely happy and that sheâd just had twins.â

âAnd she told you their names?â

Again Belle smiled. âShe said they were born just after middayâand she intended to call them Pip and Emma. That may have been just a joke, of course.â

âDidnât you hear from her again?â

âNo. She said she and her husband and the babies were going to America on a short stay. I never heard any moreâ¦.â

âYou donât happen, I suppose, to have kept that letter?â

âNo, Iâm afraid not â¦ I read it to Randall and he just grunted: âSheâll regret marrying that fellow one of these days.â Thatâs all he ever said about it. We really forgot about her. She went right out of our livesâ¦.â

âNevertheless Mr. Goedler left his estate to her children in the event of Miss Blacklock predeceasing you?â

âOh, that was my doing. I said to him, when he told me about the will: âAnd suppose Blackie dies before I do?â He was quite surprised. I said, âOh, I know Blackie is as strong as a horse and Iâm a delicate creatureâbut thereâs such a thing as accidents, you know, and thereâs such a thing as creaking gates â¦â And he said, âThereâs no oneâabsolutely no one.â I said, âThereâs Sonia.â And he said at once, âAnd let that fellow get hold of my money? Noâindeed!â I said, âWell, her children then. Pip and Emma, and there may be lots more by nowââand so he grumbled, but he did put it in.â

âAnd from that day to this,â Craddock said slowly, âyouâve heard nothing of your sister-in-law or her children?â

âNothingâthey may be deadâthey may beâanywhere.â

They may be in Chipping Cleghorn, thought Craddock.

As though she read his thoughts, a look of alarm came into Belle Goedlerâs eyes. She said, âDonât let them hurt Blackie. Blackieâs goodâreally goodâyou mustnât let harm come toââ

Her voice trailed off suddenly. Craddock saw the sudden grey shadows round her mouth and eyes.

âYouâre tired,â he said. âIâll go.â

She nodded.

âSend Mac to me,â she whispered. âYes, tired â¦â She made a feeble motion of her hand. âLook after Blackie â¦ Nothing must happen to Blackie â¦ look after herâ¦.â

âIâll do my very best, Mrs. Goedler.â He rose and went to the door.

Her voice, a thin thread of sound, followed himâ¦.

âNot long nowâuntil Iâm deadâdangerous for herâTake careâ¦.â

Sister McClelland passed him as he went out. He said, uneasily:

âI hope I havenât done her harm.â

âOh, I donât think so, Mr. Craddock. I told you she would tire quite suddenly.â

Later, he asked the nurse:

âThe only thing I hadnât time to ask Mrs. Goedler was whether she had any old photographs? If so, I wonderââ

She interrupted him.

âIâm afraid thereâs nothing of that kind. All her personal papers and things were stored with their furniture from the London house at the beginning of the war. Mrs. Goedler was desperately ill at the time. Then the storage despository was blitzed. Mrs. Goedler was very upset at losing so many personal souvenirs and family papers. Iâm afraid thereâs nothing of that kind.â

So that was that, Craddock thought.

Yet he felt his journey had not been in vain. Pip and Emma, those twin wraiths, were not quite wraiths.

Craddock thought, âHereâs a brother and sister brought up somewhere in Europe. Sonia Goedler was a rich woman at the time of her marriage, but money in Europe hasnât remained money. Queer things have happened to money during these war years. And so there are two young people, the son and daughter of a man who had a criminal record. Suppose they came to England, more or less penniless. What would they do? Find out about any rich relatives. Their uncle, a man of vast fortune, is dead. Possibly the first thing theyâd do would be to look up their uncleâs will. See if by any chance money had been left to them or to their mother. So they go to Somerset House and learn the contents of his will, and then, perhaps, they learn of the existence of Miss Letitia Blacklock. Then they make inquiries about Randall Goedlerâs widow. Sheâs an invalid, living up in Scotland, and they find out she hasnât long to live. If this Letitia Blacklock dies before her, they will come into a vast fortune. What then?â

Craddock thought, âThey wouldnât go to Scotland. Theyâd find out where Letitia Blacklock is living now. And theyâd go thereâbut not as themselves â¦ Theyâd go togetherâor separately? Emma â¦ I wonder?â¦ Pip and Emma â¦ Iâll eat my hat if Pip, or Emma, or both of them, arenât in Chipping Cleghorn nowâ¦.â

Fifteen

DELICIOUS DEATH

I

In the kitchen at Little Paddocks, Miss Blacklock was giving instructions to Mitzi.

âSardine sandwiches as well as the tomato ones. And some of those little scones you make so nicely. And Iâd like you to make that special cake of yours.â

âIs it a party then, that you want all these things?â

âItâs Miss Bunnerâs birthday, and some people will be coming to tea.â

âAt her age one does not have birthdays. It is better to forget.â

âWell, she doesnât want to forget. Several people are bringing her presentsâand it will be nice to make a little party of it.â

âThat is what you say last timeâand see what happened!â

Miss Blacklock controlled her temper.

âWell, it wonât happen this time.â

âHow do you know what may happen in this house? All day long I shiver and at night I lock my door and I look in the wardrobe to see no one is hidden there.â

âThat ought to keep you nice and safe,â said Miss Blacklock, coldly.

âThe cake that you want me to make, it is theâ?â Mitzi uttered a sound that to Miss Blacklockâs English ear sounded like Schwitzebzr or alternatively like cats spitting at each other.

âThatâs the one. The rich one.â

âYes. It is rich. For it I have nothing! Impossible to make such a cake. I need for it chocolate and much butter, and sugar and raisins.â

âYou can use this tin of butter that was sent us from America. And some of the raisins we were keeping for Christmas, and here is a slab of chocolate and a pound of sugar.â

Mitziâs face suddenly burst into radiant smiles.

âSo, I make him for you goodâgood,â she cried, in an ecstasy. âIt will be rich, rich, of a melting richness! And on top I will put the icingâchocolate icingâI make him so niceâand write on it Good Wishes. These English people with their cakes that tastes of sand, never never, will they have tasted such a cake. Delicious, they will sayâdeliciousââ

Her face clouded again.

âMr. Patrick. He called it Delicious Death. My cake! I will not have my cake called that!â

âIt was a compliment really,â said Miss Blacklock. âHe meant it was worth dying to eat such a cake.â

Mitzi looked at her doubtfully.

âWell, I do not like that wordâdeath. They are not dying because they eat my cake, no, they feel much, much betterâ¦.â

âIâm sure we all shall.â

Miss Blacklock turned away and left the kitchen with a sigh of relief at the successful ending of the interview. With Mitzi one never knew.

She ran into Dora Bunner outside.

âOh, Letty, shall I run in and tell Mitzi just how to cut the sandwiches?â

âNo,â said Miss Blacklock, steering her friend firmly into the hall. âSheâs in a good mood now and I donât want her disturbed.â

âBut I could just show herââ

âPlease donât show her anything, Dora. These central Europeans donât like being shown. They hate it.â

Dora looked at her doubtfully. Then she suddenly broke into smiles.

âEdmund Swettenham just rang up. He wished me many happy returns of the day and said he was bringing me a pot of honey as a present this afternoon. Isnât it kind? I canât imagine how he knew it was my birthday.â

âEverybody seems to know. You must have been talking about it, Dora.â

âWell, I did just happen to mention that today I should be fifty-nine.â

âYouâre sixty-four,â said Miss Blacklock with a twinkle.

âAnd Miss Hinchcliffe said, âYou donât look it. What age do you think I am?â Which was rather awkward because Miss Hinchcliffe always looks so peculiar that she might be any age. She said she was bringing me some eggs, by the way. I said our hens hadnât been laying very well, lately.â

âWeâre not doing so badly out of your birthday,â said Miss Blacklock. âHoney, eggsâa magnificent box of chocolates from Juliaââ

âI donât know where she gets such things.â

âBetter not ask. Her methods are probably strictly illegal.â

âAnd your lovely brooch.â Miss Bunner looked down proudly at her bosom on which was pinned a small diamond leaf.

âDo you like it? Iâm glad. I never cared for jewellery.â

âI love it.â

âGood. Letâs go and feed the ducks.â

II

âHa,â cried Patrick dramatically, as the party took their places round the dining room table. âWhat do I see before me? Delicious Death.â

âHush,â said Miss Blacklock. âDonât let Mitzi hear you. She objects to your name for her cake very much.â

âNevertheless, Delicious Death it is! Is it Bunnyâs birthday cake?â

âYes, it is,â said Miss Bunner. âI really am having the most wonderful birthday.â

Her cheeks were flushed with excitement and had been ever since Colonel Easterbrook had handed her a small box of sweets and declaimed with a bow, âSweets to the Sweet!â

Julia had turned her head away hurriedly, and had been frowned at by Miss Blacklock.

Full justice was done to the good things on the tea table and they rose from their seats after a round of crackers.

âI feel slightly sick,â said Julia. âItâs that cake. I remember I felt just the same last time.â

âItâs worth it,â said Patrick.

âThese foreigners certainly understand confectionery,â said Miss Hinchcliffe. âWhat they canât make is a plain boiled pudding.â

Everybody was respectfully silent, though it seemed to be hovering on Patrickâs lips to ask if anyone really wanted a plain boiled pudding.

âGot a new gardener?â asked Miss Hinchcliffe of Miss Blacklock as they returned to the drawing room.

âNo, why?â

âSaw a man snooping round the henhouse. Quite a decent-looking Army type.â

âOh, that,â said Julia. âThatâs our detective.â

Mrs. Easterbrook dropped her handbag.

âDetective?â she exclaimed. âButâbutâwhy?â

âI donât know,â said Julia. âHe prowls about and keeps an eye on the house. Heâs protecting Aunt Letty, I suppose.â

âAbsolute nonsense,â said Miss Blacklock. âI can protect myself, thank you.â

âBut surely itâs all over now,â cried Mrs. Easterbrook. âThough I meant to ask you, why did they adjourn the inquest?â

âPolice arenât satisfied,â said her husband. âThatâs what that means.â

âBut arenât satisfied of what?â

Colonel Easterbrook shook his head with the air of a man who could say a good deal more if he chose. Edmund Swettenham, who disliked the Colonel, said, âThe truth of it is, weâre all under suspicion.â

âBut suspicion of what?â repeated Mrs. Easterbrook.

âNever mind, kitten,â said her husband.

âLoitering with intent,â said Edmund. âThe intent being to commit murder upon the first opportunity.â

âOh, donât, please donât, Mr. Swettenham.â Dora Bunner began to cry. âIâm sure nobody here could possibly want to kill dear, dear Letty.â

There was a moment of horrible embarrassment. Edmund turned scarlet, murmured, âJust a joke.â Phillipa suggested in a high clear voice that they might listen to the six oâclock news and the suggestion was received with enthusiastic assent.

Patrick murmured to Julia: âWe need Mrs. Harmon here. Sheâd be sure to say in that high clear voice of hers, âBut I suppose somebody is still waiting for a good chance to murder you, Miss Blacklock?ââ

âIâm glad she and that old Miss Marple couldnât come,â said Julia. âThat old woman is the prying kind. And a mind like a sink, I should think. Real Victorian type.â

Listening to the news led easily into a pleasant discussion on the horrors of atomic warfare. Colonel Easterbrook said that the real menace to civilization was undoubtedly Russia, and Edmund said that he had several charming Russian friendsâwhich announcement was coldly received.

The party broke up with renewed thanks to the hostess.

âEnjoy yourself, Bunny?â asked Miss Blacklock, as the last guest was sped.

âOh, I did. But Iâve got a terrible headache. Itâs the excitement, I think.â

âItâs the cake,â said Patrick. âI feel a bit liverish myself. And youâve been nibbling chocolates all the morning.â

âIâll go and lie down, I think,â said Miss Bunner. âIâll take a couple of aspirins and try and have a nice sleep.â

âThat would be a very good plan,â said Miss Blacklock.

Miss Bunner departed upstairs.

âShall I shut up the ducks for you, Aunt Letty?â

Miss Blacklock looked at Patrick severely.

âIf youâll be sure to latch that door properly.â

âI will. I swear I will.â

âHave a glass of sherry, Aunt Letty,â said Julia. âAs my old nurse used to say, âIt will settle your stomach.â A revolting phrase, but curiously apposite at this moment.â

âWell, I dare say it might be a good thing. The truth is one isnât used to rich things. Oh, Bunny, how you made me jump. What is it?â

âI canât find my aspirin,â said Miss Bunner disconsolately.

âWell, take some of mine, dear, theyâre by my bed.â

âThereâs a bottle on my dressing table,â said Phillipa.

âThank youâthank you very much. If I canât find mineâbut I know Iâve got it somewhere. A new bottle. Now where could I have put it?â

âThereâs heaps in the bathroom,â said Julia impatiently. âThis house is chock full of aspirin.â

âIt vexes me to be so careless and mislay things,â replied Miss Bunner, retreating up the stairs again.

âPoor old Bunny,â said Julia, holding up her glass. âDo you think we ought to have given her some sherry?â

âBetter not, I think,â said Miss Blacklock. âSheâs had a lot of excitement today, and it isnât really good for her. Iâm afraid sheâll be the worse for it tomorrow. Still, I really do think she has enjoyed herself!â

âSheâs loved it,â said Phillipa.

âLetâs give Mitzi a glass of sherry,â suggested Julia. âHi, Pat,â she called as she heard him entering the side door. âFetch Mitzi.â

So Mitzi was brought in and Julia poured her out a glass of sherry.

âHereâs to the best cook in the world,â said Patrick.

Mitzi was gratifiedâbut felt nevertheless that a protest was due.

âThat is not so. I am not really a cook. In my country I do intellectual work.â

âThen youâre wasted,â said Patrick. âWhatâs intellectual work compared to a chef dâoeuvre like Delicious Death?â

âOoâI say to you I do not likeââ

âNever mind what you like, my girl,â said Patrick. âThatâs my name for it and hereâs to it. Letâs all drink to Delicious Death and to hell with the aftereffects.â

III

âPhillipa, my dear, I want to talk to you.â

âYes, Miss Blacklock?â

Phillipa Haymes looked up in slight surprise.

âYouâre not worrying about anything, are you?â

âWorrying?â

âIâve noticed that youâve looked worried lately. There isnât anything wrong, is there?â

âOh no, Miss Blacklock. Why should there be?â

âWellâI wondered. I thought, perhaps, that you and Patrickâ?â

âPatrick?â Phillipa looked really surprised.

âItâs not so, then. Please forgive me if Iâve been impertinent. But youâve been thrown together a lotâand although Patrick is my cousin, I donât think heâs the type to make a satisfactory husband. Not for some time to come, at all events.â

Phillipaâs face had frozen into a hard immobility.

âI shanât marry again,â she said.

âOh, yes, you will some day, my child. Youâre young. But we neednât discuss that. Thereâs no other trouble. Youâre not worried aboutâmoney, for instance?â

âNo, Iâm quite all right.â

âI know you get anxious sometimes about your boyâs education. Thatâs why I want to tell you something. I drove into Milchester this afternoon to see Mr. Beddingfeld, my lawyer. Things havenât been very settled lately and I thought I would like to make a new willâin view of certain eventualities. Apart from Bunnyâs legacy, everything goes to you, Phillipa.â

âWhat?â Phillipa spun round. Her eyes stared. She looked dismayed, almost frightened.

âBut I donât want itâreally I donât â¦ Oh, Iâd rather not â¦ And anyway, why? Why to me?â

âPerhaps,â said Miss Blacklock in a peculiar voice, âbecause thereâs no one else.â

âBut thereâs Patrick and Julia.â

âYes, thereâs Patrick and Julia.â The odd note in Miss Blacklockâs voice was still there.

âThey are your relations.â

âVery distant ones. They have no claim on me.â

âBut IâI havenât eitherâI donât know what you think â¦ Oh, I donât want it.â

Her gaze held more hostility than gratitude. There was something almost like fear in her manner.

âI know what Iâm doing, Phillipa. Iâve become fond of youâand thereâs the boy â¦ You wonât get very much if I should die nowâbut in a few weeksâ time it might be different.â

Her eyes met Phillipaâs steadily.

âBut youâre not going to die!â Phillipa protested.

âNot if I can avoid it by taking due precautions.â

âPrecautions?â

âYes. Think it over â¦ And donât worry any more.â

She left the room abruptly. Phillipa heard her speaking to Julia in the hall.

Julia entered the drawing room a few moments later.

There was a slightly steely glitter in her eyes.

âPlayed your cards rather well, havenât you, Phillipa? I see youâre one of those quiet ones â¦ a dark horse.â

âSo you heardâ?â

âYes, I heard. I rather think I was meant to hear.â

âWhat do you mean?â

âOur Lettyâs no fool â¦ Well, anyway, youâre all right, Phillipa. Sitting pretty, arenât you?â

âOh, JuliaâI didnât meanâI never meantââ

âDidnât you? Of course you did. Youâre fairly up against things, arenât you? Hard up for money. But just remember thisâif anyone bumps off Aunt Letty now, youâll be suspect No. 1.â

âBut I shanât be. It would be idiotic if I killed her now whenâif I waitedââ

âSo you do know about old Mrs. Whatsername dying up in Scotland? I wondered â¦ Phillipa, Iâm beginning to believe youâre a very dark horse indeed.â

âI donât want to do you and Patrick out of anything.â

âDonât you, my dear? Iâm sorryâbut I donât believe you.â

Sixteen

INSPECTOR CRADDOCK RETURNS

Inspector Craddock had had a bad night on his night journey home. His dreams had been less dreams than nightmares. Again and again he was racing through the grey corridors of an old-world castle in a desperate attempt to get somewhere, or to prevent something, in time. Finally he dreamt that he awoke. An enormous relief surged over him. Then the door of his compartment slid slowly open, and Letitia Blacklock looked in at him with blood running down her face, and said reproachfully: âWhy didnât you save me? You could have if youâd tried.â

This time he really awoke.

Altogether, the Inspector was thankful finally to reach Milchester. He went straight away to make his report to Rydesdale who listened carefully.

âIt doesnât take us much further,â he said. âBut it confirms what Miss Blacklock told you. Pip and Emmaâhâm, I wonder.â

âPatrick and Julia Simmons are the right age, sir. If we could establish that Miss Blacklock hadnât seen them since they were childrenââ

With a very faint chuckle, Rydesdale said: âOur ally, Miss Marple, has established that for us. Actually Miss Blacklock had never seen either of them at all until two months ago.â

âThen, surely, sirââ

âItâs not so easy as all that, Craddock. Weâve been checking up. On what weâve got, Patrick and Julia seem definitely to be out of it. His Naval record is genuineâquite a good record bar a tendency to âinsubordination.â Weâve checked with Cannes, and an indignant Mrs. Simmons says of course her son and daughter are at Chipping Cleghorn with her cousin Letitia Blacklock. So thatâs that!â

âAnd Mrs. Simmons is Mrs. Simmons?â

âSheâs been Mrs. Simmons for a very long time, thatâs all I can say,â said Rydesdale dryly.

âThat seems clear enough. Onlyâthose two fitted. Right age. Not known to Miss Blacklock, personally. If we wanted Pip and Emmaâwell, there they were.â

The Chief Constable nodded thoughtfully, then he pushed across a paper to Craddock.

âHereâs a little something weâve dug up on Mrs. Easterbrook.â

The Inspector read with lifted eyebrows.

âVery interesting,â he remarked. âHoodwinked that old ass pretty well, hasnât she? It doesnât tie in with this business though, as far as I can see.â

âApparently not.â

âAnd hereâs an item that concerns Mrs. Haymes.â

Again Craddockâs eyebrows rose.

âI think Iâll have another talk with the lady,â he said.

âYou think this information might be relevant?â

âI think it might be. It would be a long shot, of courseâ¦.â

The two men were silent for a moment or two.

âHow has Fletcher got on, sir?â

âFletcher has been exceedingly active. Heâs made a routine search of the house by agreement with Miss Blacklockâbut he didnât find anything significant. Then heâs been checking up on who could have had the opportunity of oiling that door. Checking who was up at the house on the days that that foreign girl was out. A little more complicated than we thought, because it appears she goes for a walk most afternoons. Usually down to the village where she has a cup of coffee at the Bluebird. So that when Miss Blacklock and Miss Bunner are outâwhich is most afternoonsâthey go blackberryingâthe coast is clear.â

âAnd the doors are always left unlocked?â

âThey used to be. I donât suppose they are now.â

âWhat are Fletcherâs results? Whoâs known to have been in the house when it was left empty?â

âPractically the whole lot of them.â

Rydesdale consulted a page in front of him.

âMiss Murgatroyd was there with a hen to sit on some eggs. (Sounds complicated but thatâs what she says.) Very flustered about it all and contradicts herself, but Fletcher thinks thatâs temperamental and not a sign of guilt.â

âMight be,â Craddock admitted. âShe flaps.â

âThen Mrs. Swettenham came up to fetch some horse meat that Miss Blacklock had left for her on the kitchen table because Miss Blacklock had been in to Milchester in the car that day and always gets Mrs. Swettenhamâs horse meat for her. That make sense to you?â

Craddock considered.

âWhy didnât Miss Blacklock leave the horse meat when she passed Mrs. Swettenhamâs house on her way back from Milchester?â

âI donât know, but she didnât. Mrs. Swettenham says she (Miss B.) always leaves it on the kitchen table, and she (Mrs. S.) likes to fetch it when Mitzi isnât there because Mitzi is sometimes so rude.â

âHangs together quite well. And the next?â

âMiss Hinchcliffe. Says she wasnât there at all lately. But she was. Because Mitzi saw her coming out of the side door one day and so did a Mrs. Butt (sheâs one of the locals). Miss H. then admitted she might have been there but had forgotten. Canât remember what she went for. Says she probably just dropped in.â

âThatâs rather odd.â

âSo was her manner, apparently. Then thereâs Mrs. Easterbrook. She was exercising the dear dogs out that way and she just popped in to see if Miss Blacklock would lend her a knitting pattern but Miss Blacklock wasnât in. She says she waited a little.â

âJust so. Might be snooping round. Or might be oiling a door. And the Colonel?â

âWent there one day with a book on India that Miss Blacklock had expressed a desire to read.â

âHad she?â

âHer account is that she tried to get out of having to read it, but it was no use.â

âAnd thatâs fair enough,â sighed Craddock. âIf anyone is really determined to lend you a book, you never can get out of it!â

âWe donât know if Edmund Swettenham was up there. Heâs extremely vague. Said he did drop in occasionally on errands for his mother, but thinks not lately.â

âIn fact, itâs all inconclusive.â

âYes.â

Rydesdale said, with a slight grin:

âMiss Marple has also been active. Fletcher reports that she had morning coffee at the Bluebird. Sheâs been to sherry at Boulders, and to tea at Little Paddocks. Sheâs admired Mrs. Swettenhamâs gardenâand dropped in to see Colonel Easterbrookâs Indian curios.â

âShe may be able to tell us if Colonel Easterbrookâs a pukka Colonel or not.â

âSheâd know, I agreeâhe seems all right. Weâd have to check with the Far Eastern Authorities to get certain identification.â

âAnd in the meantimeââCraddock broke offââdo you think Miss Blacklock would consent to go away?â

âGo away from Chipping Cleghorn?â

âYes. Take the faithful Bunner with her, perhaps, and leave for an unknown destination. Why shouldnât she go up to Scotland and stay with Belle Goedler? Itâs a pretty unget-at-able place.â

âStop there and wait for her to die? I donât think sheâd do that. I donât think any nice-natured woman would like that suggestion.â

âIf itâs a matter of saving her lifeââ

âCome now, Craddock, it isnât quite so easy to bump someone off as you seem to think.â

âIsnât it, sir?â

âWellâin one wayâitâs easy enough I agree. Plenty of methods. Weed-killer. A bash on the head when sheâs out shutting up the poultry, a pot shot from behind a hedge. All quite simple. But to bump someone off and not be suspected of bumping them offâthatâs not quite so easy. And they must realize by now that theyâre all under observation. The original carefully planned scheme failed. Our unknown murderer has got to think up something else.â

âI know that, sir. But thereâs the time element to consider. Mrs. Goedlerâs a dying womanâshe might pop off any minute. That means that our murderer canât afford to wait.â

âTrue.â

âAnd another thing, sir. Heâor sheâmust know that weâre checking up on everybody.â

âAnd that takes time,â said Rydesdale with a sigh. âIt means checking with the East, with India. Yes, itâs a long tedious business.â

âSo thatâs another reason forâhurry. Iâm sure, sir, that the danger is very real. Itâs a very large sum thatâs at stake. If Belle Goedler diesââ

He broke off as a constable entered.

âConstable Legg on the line from Chipping Cleghorn, sir.â

âPut him through here.â

Inspector Craddock, watching the Chief Constable, saw his features harden and stiffen.

âVery good,â barked Rydesdale. âDetective-Inspector Craddock will be coming out immediately.â

He put the receiver down.

âIs itâ?â Craddock broke off.

Rydesdale shook his head.

âNo,â he said. âItâs Dora Bunner. She wanted some aspirin. Apparently she took some from a bottle beside Letitia Blacklockâs bed. There were only a few tablets left in the bottle. She took two and left one. The doctorâs got that one and is sending it to be analysed. He says itâs definitely not aspirin.â

âSheâs dead?â

âYes, found dead in her bed this morning. Died in her sleep, doctor says. He doesnât think it was natural though her health was in a bad state. Narcotic poisoning, thatâs his guess. Autopsyâs fixed for tonight.â

âAspirin tablets by Letitia Blacklockâs bed. The clever clever devil. Patrick told me Miss Blacklock threw away a half bottle of sherryâopened a new one. I donât suppose sheâd have thought of doing that with an open bottle of aspirin. Who had been in the house this timeâwithin the last day or two? The tablets canât have been there long.â

Rydesdale looked at him.

âAll our lot were there yesterday,â he said. âBirthday party for Miss Bunner. Any of them could have nipped upstairs and done a neat little substitution. Or of course anyone living in the house could have done it any time.â

Seventeen

THE ALBUM

Standing by the Vicarage gate, well wrapped up, Miss Marple took the note from Bunchâs hand.

âTell Miss Blacklock,â said Bunch, âthat Julian is terribly sorry he canât come up himself. Heâs got a parishioner dying out at Locke Hamlet. Heâll come up after lunch if Miss Blacklock would like to see him. The noteâs about the arrangements for the funeral. He suggests Wednesday if the inquestâs on Tuesday. Poor old Bunny. Itâs so typical of her, somehow, to get hold of poisoned aspirin meant for someone else. Goodbye, darling. I hope the walk wonât be too much for you. But Iâve simply got to get that child to hospital at once.â

Miss Marple said the walk wouldnât be too much for her, and Bunch rushed off.

Whilst waiting for Miss Blacklock, Miss Marple looked round the drawing room, and wondered just exactly what Dora Bunner had meant that morning in the Bluebird by saying that she believed Patrick had âtampered with the lampâ to âmake the lights go out.â What lamp? And how had he âtamperedâ with it?

She must, Miss Marple decided, have meant the small lamp that stood on the table by the archway. She had said something about a shepherdess or a shepherdâand this was actually a delicate piece of Dresden china, a shepherd in a blue coat and pink breeches holding what had originally been a candlestick and had now been adapted to electricity. The shade was of plain vellum and a little too big so that it almost masked the figure. What else was it that Dora Bunner had said? âI remember distinctly that it was the shepherdess. And the next dayââ Certainly it was a shepherd now.

Miss Marple remembered that when she and Bunch had come to tea, Dora Bunner had said something about the lamp being one of a pair. Of courseâa shepherd and a shepherdess. And it had been the shepherdess on the day of the hold-upâand the next morning it had been the other lampâthe lamp that was here now, the shepherd. The lamps had been changed over during the night. And Dora Bunner had had reason to believe (or had believed without reason) that it was Patrick who had changed them.

Why? Because, if the original lamp were examined, it would show just how Patrick had managed to âmake the lights go out.â How had he managed? Miss Marple looked earnestly at the lamp in front of her. The flex ran along the table over the edge and was plugged into the wall. There was a small pear-shaped switch halfway along the flex. None of it suggested anything to Miss Marple because she knew very little about electricity.

Where was the shepherdess lamp? she wondered. In the âspare roomâ or thrown away, orâwhere was it Dora Bunner had come upon Patrick Simmons with a feather and an oily cup? In the shrubbery? Miss Marple made up her mind to put all these points to Inspector Craddock.

At the very beginning Miss Blacklock had leaped to the conclusion that her nephew Patrick had been behind the insertion of that advertisement. That kind of instinctive belief was often justified, or so Miss Marple believed. Because, if you knew people fairly well, you knew the kind of things they thought ofâ¦.

Patrick Simmonsâ¦.

A handsome young man. An engaging young man. A young man whom women liked, both young women and old women. The kind of man, perhaps, that Randall Goedlerâs sister had married. Could Patrick Simmons be âPipâ? But heâd been in the Navy during the war. The police could soon check up on that.

Onlyâsometimesâthe most amazing impersonations did happen.

You could get away with a great deal if you had enough audacityâ¦.

The door opened and Miss Blacklock came in. She looked, Miss Marple thought, many years older. All the life and energy had gone out of her.

âIâm very sorry, disturbing you like this,â said Miss Marple. âBut the Vicar had a dying parishioner and Bunch had to rush a sick child to hospital. The Vicar wrote you a note.â

She held it out and Miss Blacklock took it and opened it.

âDo sit down, Miss Marple,â she said. âItâs very kind of you to have brought this.â

She read the note through.

âThe Vicarâs a very understanding man,â she said quietly. âHe doesnât offer one fatuous consolation â¦ Tell him that these arrangements will do very well. Herâher favourite hymn was Lead Kindly Light.â

Her voice broke suddenly.

Miss Marple said gently:

âI am only a stranger, but I am so very very sorry.â

And suddenly, uncontrollably, Letitia Blacklock wept. It was a piteous overmastering grief, with a kind of hopelessness about it. Miss Marple sat quite still.

Miss Blacklock sat up at last. Her face was swollen and blotched with tears.

âIâm sorry,â she said. âItâit just came over me. What Iâve lost. Sheâshe was the only link with the past, you see. The only one whoâwho remembered. Now that sheâs gone Iâm quite alone.â

âI know what you mean,â said Miss Marple. âOne is alone when the last one who remembers is gone. I have nephews and nieces and kind friendsâbut thereâs no one who knew me as a young girlâno one who belongs to the old days. Iâve been alone for quite a long time now.â

Both women sat silent for some moments.

âYou understand very well,â said Letitia Blacklock. She rose and went over to her desk. âI must write a few words to the Vicar.â She held the pen rather awkwardly and wrote slowly.

âArthritic,â she explained. âSometimes I can hardly write at all.â

She sealed up the envelope and addressed it.

âIf you wouldnât mind taking it, it would be very kind.â

Hearing a manâs voice in the hall she said quickly:

âThatâs Inspector Craddock.â

She went to the mirror over the fireplace and applied a small powder puff to her face.

Craddock came in with a grim, angry face.

He looked at Miss Marple with disapprobation.

âOh,â he said. âSo youâre here.â

Miss Blacklock turned from the mantelpiece.

âMiss Marple kindly came up with a note from the Vicar.â

Miss Marple said in a flurried manner:

âI am going at onceâat once. Please donât let me hamper you in any way.â

âWere you at the tea party here yesterday afternoon?â

Miss Marple said, nervously:

âNoâno, I wasnât. Bunch drove me over to call on some friends.â

âThen thereâs nothing you can tell me.â Craddock held the door open in a pointed manner, and Miss Marple scuttled out in a somewhat abashed fashion.

âNosey Parkers, these old women,â said Craddock.

âI think youâre being unfair to her,â said Miss Blacklock. âShe really did come with a note from the Vicar.â

âI bet she did.â

âI donât think it was idle curiosity.â

âWell, perhaps youâre right, Miss Blacklock, but my own diagnosis would be a severe attack of Nosey Parkeritisâ¦.â

âSheâs a very harmless old creature,â said Miss Blacklock.

âDangerous as a rattlesnake if you only knew,â the Inspector thought grimly. But he had no intention of taking anyone into his confidence unnecessarily. Now that he knew definitely there was a killer at large, he felt that the less said the better. He didnât want the next person bumped off to be Jane Marple.

Somewhereâa killer â¦ Where?

âI wonât waste time offering sympathy, Miss Blacklock,â he said. âAs a matter of fact I feel pretty bad about Miss Bunnerâs death. We ought to have been able to prevent it.â

âI donât see what you could have done.â

âNoâwell, it wouldnât have been easy. But now weâve got to work fast. Whoâs doing this, Miss Blacklock? Whoâs had two shots at killing you, and will probably, if we donât work fast enough, soon have another?â

Letitia Blacklock shivered. âI donât know, InspectorâI donât know at all!â

âIâve checked up with Mrs. Goedler. Sheâs given me all the help she can. It wasnât very much. There are just a few people who would definitely profit by your death. First Pip and Emma. Patrick and Julia Simmons are the right age, but their background seems clear enough. Anyway, we canât concentrate on these two alone. Tell me, Miss Blacklock, would you recognize Sonia Goedler if you saw her?â

âRecognize Sonia? Why, of courseââ She stopped suddenly. âNo,â she said slowly, âI donât know that I would. Itâs a long time. Thirty years â¦ Sheâd be an elderly woman now.â

âWhat was she like when you remember her?â

âSonia?â Miss Blacklock considered for some moments. âShe was rather small, darkâ¦.â

âAny special peculiarities? Mannerisms?â

âNoâno, I donât think so. She was gayâvery gay.â

âShe maynât be so gay now,â said the Inspector. âHave you got a photograph of her?â

âOf Sonia? Let me seeânot a proper photograph. Iâve got some old snapshotsâin an album somewhereâat least I think thereâs one of her.â

âAh. Can I have a look at it?â

âYes, of course. Now where did I put that album?â

âTell me, Miss Blacklock, do you consider it remotely possible that Mrs. Swettenham might be Sonia Goedler?â

âMrs. Swettenham?â Miss Blacklock looked at him in lively atonishment. âBut her husband was in the Government Serviceâin India first, I think, and then in Hong Kong.â

âWhat you mean is, that thatâs the story sheâs told you. You donât, as we say in the Courts, know it of your own knowledge, do you?â

âNo,â said Miss Blacklock slowly. âWhen you put it like that, I donât â¦ But Mrs. Swettenham? Oh, itâs absurd!â

âDid Sonia Goedler ever do any acting? Amateur theatricals?â

âOh, yes. She was good.â

âThere you are! Another thing, Mrs. Swettenham wears a wig. At least,â the Inspector corrected himself, âMrs. Harmon says she does.â

âYesâyes, I suppose it might be a wig. All those little grey curls. But I still think itâs absurd. Sheâs really very nice and exceedingly funny sometimes.â

âThen thereâs Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd. Could either of them be Sonia Goedler?â

âMiss Hinchcliffe is too tall. Sheâs as tall as a man.â

âMiss Murgatroyd then?â

âOh, butâoh no, Iâm sure Miss Murgatroyd couldnât be Sonia.â

âYou donât see very well, do you, Miss Blacklock?â

âIâm shortsighted; is that what you mean?â

âYes. What Iâd like to see is a snapshot of this Sonia Goedler, even if itâs a long time ago and not a good likeness. Weâre trained, you know, to pick out resemblances, in a way no amateur can ever do.â

âIâll try and find it for you.â

âNow?â

âWhat, at once?â

âIâd prefer it.â

âVery well. Now, let me see. I saw that album when we were tidying a lot of books out of the cupboard. Julia was helping me. She laughed, I remember, at the clothes we used to wear in those days â¦ The books we put in the shelf in the drawing room. Where did we put the albums and the big bound volumes of the Art Journal? What a wretched memory I have! Perhaps Julia will remember. Sheâs at home today.â

âIâll find her.â

The Inspector departed on his quest. He did not find Julia in any of the downstairs rooms. Mitzi, asked where Miss Simmons was, said crossly that it was not her affair.

âMe! I stay in my kitchen and concern myself with the lunch. And nothing do I eat that I have not cooked myself. Nothing, do you hear?â

The Inspector called up the stairs âMiss Simmons,â and getting no response, went up.

He met Julia face to face just as he turned the corner of the landing. She had just emerged from a door that showed behind it a small twisty staircase.

âI was up in the attic,â she explained. âWhat is it?â

Inspector Craddock explained.

âThose old photograph albums? Yes, I remember them quite well. We put them in the big cupboard in the study, I think. Iâll find them for you.â

She led the way downstairs and pushed open the study door. Near the window there was a large cupboard. Julia pulled it open and disclosed a heterogenous mass of objects.

âJunk,â said Julia. âAll junk. But elderly people simply will not throw things away.â

The Inspector knelt down and took a couple of old-fashioned albums from the bottom shelf.

âAre these they?â

âYes.â

Miss Blacklock came in and joined them.

âOh, so thatâs where we put them. I couldnât remember.â

Craddock had the books on the table and was turning the pages.

Women in large cartwheel hats, women with dresses tapering down to their feet so that they could hardly walk. The photos had captions neatly printed underneath them, but the ink was old and faded.

âIt would be in this one,â said Miss Blacklock. âOn about the second or third page. The other book is after Sonia had married and gone away.â She turned a page. âIt ought to be here.â She stopped.

There were several empty spaces on the page. Craddock bent down and deciphered the faded writing. âSonia â¦ Self â¦ R.G.â A little further along, âSonia and Belle on beach.â And again on the opposite page, âPicnic at Skeyne.â He turned over another page, âCharlotte, Self, Sonia, R.G.â

Craddock stood up. His lips were grim.

âSomebody has removed these photographsânot long ago, I should say.â

âThere werenât any blank spaces when we looked at them the other day. Were there, Julia?â

âI didnât look very closelyâonly at some of the dresses. But no â¦ youâre right, Aunt Letty, there werenât any blank spaces.â

Craddock looked grimmer still.

âSomebody,â he said, âhas removed every photo of Sonia Goedler from this album.â

Eighteen

THE LETTERS

I

âSorry to worry you again, Mrs. Haymes.â

âIt doesnât matter,â said Phillipa coldly.

âShall we go into this room here?â

âThe study? Yes, if you like, Inspector. Itâs very cold. Thereâs no fire.â

âIt doesnât matter. Itâs not for long. And weâre not so likely to be overheard here.â

âDoes that matter?â

âNot to me, Mrs. Haymes. It might to you.â

âWhat do you mean?â

âI think you told me, Mrs. Haymes, that your husband was killed fighting in Italy?â

âWell?â

âWouldnât it have been simpler to have told me the truthâthat he was a deserter from his regiment.â

He saw her face grow white, and her hands close and unclose themselves.

She said bitterly:

âDo you have to rake up everything?â

Craddock said dryly:

âWe expect people to tell us the truth about themselves.â

She was silent. Then she said:

âWell?â

âWhat do you mean by âWell?,â Mrs. Haymes?â

âI mean, what are you going to do about it? Tell everybody? Is that necessaryâor fairâor kind?â

âDoes nobody know?â

âNobody here. Harryââher voice changedââmy son, he doesnât know. I donât want him to know. I donât want him to knowâever.â

âThen let me tell you that youâre taking a very big risk, Mrs. Haymes. When the boy is old enough to understand, tell him the truth. If he finds out by himself some dayâit wonât be good for him. If you go on stuffing him up with tales of his father dying like a heroââ

âI donât do that. Iâm not completely dishonest. I just donât talk about it. His father wasâkilled in the war. After all, thatâs what it amounts toâfor us.â

âBut your husband is still alive?â

âPerhaps. How should I know?â

âWhen did you see him last, Mrs. Haymes?â

Phillipa said quickly:

âI havenât seen him for years.â

âAre you quite sure thatâs true? You didnât, for instance, see him about a fortnight ago?â

âWhat are you suggesting?â

âIt never seemed to me very likely that you met Rudi Scherz in the summerhouse here. But Mitziâs story was very emphatic. I suggest, Mrs. Haymes, that the man you came back from work to meet that morning was your husband.â

âI didnât meet anybody in the summerhouse.â

âHe was hard up for money, perhaps, and you supplied him with some?â

âIâve not seen him, I tell you. I didnât meet anybody in the summerhouse.â

âDeserters are often rather desperate men. They often take part in robberies, you know. Hold-ups. Things of that kind. And they have foreign revolvers very often that theyâve brought back from abroad.â

âI donât know where my husband is. I havenât seen him for years.â

âIs that your last word, Mrs. Haymes?â

âIâve nothing else to say.â

II

Craddock came away from his interview with Phillipa Haymes feeling angry and baffled.

âObstinate as a mule,â he said to himself angrily.

He was fairly sure that Phillipa was lying, but he hadnât succeeded in breaking down her obstinate denials.

He wished he knew a little more about ex-Captain Haymes. His information was meagre. An unsatisfactory Army record, but nothing to suggest that Haymes was likely to turn criminal.

And anyway Haymes didnât fit in with the oiled door.

Someone in the house had done that, or someone with easy access to it.

He stood looking up the staircase, and suddenly he wondered what Julia had been doing up in the attic. An attic, he thought, was an unlikely place for the fastidious Julia to visit.

What had she been doing up there?

He ran lightly up to the first floor. There was no one about. He opened the door out of which Julia had come and went up the narrow stairs to the attic.

There were trunks there, old suitcases, various broken articles of furniture, a chair with a leg off, a broken china lamp, part of an old dinner service.

He turned to the trunks and opened the lid of one.

Clothes. Old-fashioned, quite good-quality womenâs clothes. Clothes belonging, he supposed, to Miss Blacklock, or to her sister who had died.

He opened another trunk.

Curtains.

He passed to a small attachÃ©-case. It had papers in it and letters. Very old letters, yellowed with time.

He looked at the outside of the case which had the initials C.L.B. on it. He deduced correctly that it had belonged to Letitiaâs sister Charlotte. He unfolded one of the letters. It began

Dearest Charlotte.

Yesterday Belle felt well enough to go for a picnic. R.G. also took a day off. The Asvogel flotation has gone splendidly, R.G. is terribly pleased about it. The Preference shares are at a premium.

He skipped the rest and looked at the signature:

Your loving sister, Letitia.

He picked up another.

Darling Charlotte.

I wish you would sometimes make up your mind to see people. You do exaggerate, you know. It isnât nearly as bad as you think. And people really donât mind things like that. Itâs not the disfigurement you think it is.

He nodded his head. He remembered Belle Goedler saying that Charlotte Blacklock had a disfigurement or deformity of some kind. Letitia had, in the end, resigned her job, to go and look after her sister. These letters all breathed the anxious spirit of her affection and love for an invalid. She had written her sister, apparently, long accounts of everyday happenings, of any little detail that she thought might interest the sick girl. And Charlotte had kept these letters. Occasionally odd snapshots had been enclosed.

Excitement suddenly flooded Craddockâs mind. Here, it might be, he would find a clue. In these letters there would be written down things that Letitia Blacklock herself had long forgotten. Here was a faithful picture of the past and somewhere amongst it, there might be a clue that would help him to identify the unknown. Photographs, too. There might, just possibly, be a photograph of Sonia Goedler here that the person who had taken the other photos out of the album did not know about.

Inspector Craddock packed the letters up again, carefully, closed the case, and started down the stairs.

Letitia Blacklock, standing on the landing below, looked at him in amazement.

âWas that you up in the attic? I heard footsteps. I couldnât imagine whoââ

âMiss Blacklock, I have found some letters here, written by you to your sister Charlotte many years ago. Will you allow me to take them away and read them?â

She flushed angrily.

âMust you do a thing like that? Why? What good can they be to you?â

âThey might give me a picture of Sonia Goedler, of her characterâthere may be some allusionâsome incidentâthat will help.â

âThey are private letters, Inspector.â

âI know.â

âI suppose you will take them anyway â¦ You have the power to do so, I suppose, or you can easily get it. Take themâtake them! But youâll find very little about Sonia. She married and went away only a year or two after I began to work for Randall Goedler.â

Craddock said obstinately:

âThere may be something.â He added, âWeâve got to try everything. I assure you the danger is very real.â

She said, biting her lips:

âI know. Bunny is deadâfrom taking an aspirin tablet that was meant for me. It may be Patrick, or Julia, or Phillipa, or Mitzi nextâsomebody young with their life in front of them. Somebody who drinks a glass of wine that is poured out for me, or eats a chocolate that is sent to me. Oh! take the lettersâtake them away. And afterwards burn them. They donât mean anything to anyone but me and Charlotte. Itâs all overâgoneâpast. Nobody remembers nowâ¦.â

Her hand went up to the choker of false pearls she was wearing. Caddock thought how incongruous it looked with her tweed coat and skirt.

She said again:

âTake the letters.â

III

It was the following afternoon that the Inspector called at the Vicarage.

It was a dark gusty day.

Miss Marple had her chair pulled close to the fire and was knitting. Bunch was on hands and knees, crawling about the floor, cutting out material to a pattern.

She sat back and pushed a mop of hair out of her eyes, looking up expectantly at Craddock.

âI donât know if itâs a breach of confidence,â said the Inspector, addressing himself to Miss Marple, âbut Iâd like you to look at this letter.â

He explained the circumstances of his discovery in the attic.

âItâs rather a touching collection of letters,â he said. âMiss Blacklock poured out everything in the hopes of sustaining her sisterâs interest in life and keeping her health good. Thereâs a very clear picture of an old father in the backgroundâold Dr. Blacklock. A real old pig-headed bully, absolutely set in his ways, and convinced that everything he thought and said was right. Probably killed thousands of patients through obstinacy. He wouldnât stand for any new ideas or methods.â

âI donât really know that I blame him there,â said Miss Marple. âI always feel that the young doctors are only too anxious to experiment. After theyâve whipped out all our teeth, and administered quantities of very peculiar glands, and removed bits of our insides, they then confess that nothing can be done for us. I really prefer the old-fashioned remedy of big black bottles of medicine. After all, one can always pour those down the sink.â

She took the letter that Craddock handed her.

He said: âI want you to read it because I think that that generation is more easily understood by you than by me. I donât know really quite how these peopleâs minds worked.â

Miss Marple unfolded the fragile paper.

Dearest Charlotte,

Iâve not written for two days because weâve been having the most terrible domestic complications. Randallâs sister Sonia (you remember her? She came to take you out in the car that day? How I wish you would go out more). Sonia has declared her intention of marrying one Dmitri Stamfordis. I have only seen him once. Very attractiveânot to be trusted, I should say. R.G. raves against him and says he is a crook and a swindler. Belle, bless her, just smiles and lies on her sofa. Sonia, who though she looks so impassive has really a terrific temper, is simply wild with R.G. I really thought yesterday she was going to murder him!

Iâve done my best. Iâve talked to Sonia and Iâve talked to R.G. and Iâve got them both into a more reasonable frame of mind and then they come together and it all starts over again! Youâve no idea how tiring it is. R.G. has been making enquiriesâand it does really seem as though this Stamfordis man was thoroughly undesirable.

In the meantime business is being neglected. I carry on at the office and in a way itâs rather fun because R.G. gives me a free hand. He said to me yesterday: âThank Heaven, thereâs one sane person in the world. Youâre never likely to fall in love with a crook, Blackie, are you?â I said I didnât think I was likely to fall in love with anybody. R.G. said: âLetâs start a few new hares in the City.â Heâs really rather a mischievous devil sometimes and he sails terribly near the wind. âYouâre quite determined to keep me on the straight and narrow path arenât you, Blackie?â he said the other day. And I shall too! I canât understand how people canât see when a thingâs dishonestâbut R.G. really and truly doesnât. He only knows what is actually against the law.

Belle only laughs at all this. She thinks the fuss about Sonia is all nonsense. âSonia has her own money,â she said. âWhy shouldnât she marry this man if she wants to?â I said it might turn out to be a terrible mistake and Belle said, âItâs never a mistake to marry a man you want to marryâeven if you regret it.â And then she said, âI suppose Sonia doesnât want to break with Randall because of money. Soniaâs very fond of money.â

No more now. How is father? I wonât say Give him my love. But you can if you think itâs better to do so. Have you seen more people? You really must not be morbid, darling.

Sonia asks to be remembered to you. She has just come in and is closing and unclosing her hands like an angry cat sharpening its claws. I think she and R.G. have had another row. Of course Sonia can be very irritating. She stares you down with that cool stare of hers.

Lots of love, darling, and buck up. This iodine treatment may make a lot of difference. Iâve been enquiring about it and it really does seem to have good results.

Your loving sister,

Letitia.

Miss Marple folded the letter and handed it back. She looked abstracted.

âWell, what do you think about her?â Craddock urged. âWhat picture do you get of her?â

âOf Sonia? Itâs difficult, you know, to see anyone through another personâs mind â¦ Determined to get her own wayâthat, definitely, I think. And wanting the best of two worldsâ¦.â

âClosing and unclosing her hands like an angry cat,â murmured Craddock. âYou know, that reminds me of someoneâ¦.â

He frowned.

âMaking enquiries â¦â murmured Miss Marple.

âIf we could get hold of the result of those inquiries,â said Craddock.

âDoes that letter remind you of anything in St. Mary Mead?â asked Bunch, rather indistinctly since her mouth was full of pins.

âI really canât say it does, dear â¦ Dr. Blacklock is, perhaps, a little like Mr. Curtiss the Wesleyan Minister. He wouldnât let his child wear a plate on her teeth. Said it was the Lordâs Will if her teeth stuck out. âAfter all,â I said to him, âyou do trim your beard and cut your hair. It might be the Lordâs Will that your hair should grow out.â He said that was quite different. So like a man. But that doesnât help us with our present problem.â

âWeâve never traced that revolver, you know. It wasnât Rudi Scherz. If I knew who had had a revolver in Chipping Cleghornââ

âColonel Easterbrook has one,â said Bunch. âHe keeps it in his collar drawer.â

âHow do you know, Mrs. Harmon?â

âMrs. Butt told me. Sheâs my daily. Or rather, my twice weekly. Being a military gentleman, she said, heâd naturally have a revolver and very handy it would be if burglars were to come along.â

âWhen did she tell you this?â

âAges ago. About six months ago, I should think.â

âColonel Easterbrook?â murmured Craddock.

âItâs like those pointer things at fairs, isnât it?â said Bunch, still speaking through a mouthful of pins. âGo round and round and stop at something different every time.â

âYouâre telling me,â said Craddock and groaned.

âColonel Easterbrook was up at Little Paddocks to leave a book there one day. He could have oiled that door then. He was quite straightforward about being there though. Not like Miss Hinchcliffe.â

Miss Marple coughed gently. âYou must make allowances for the times we live in, Inspector,â she said.

Craddock looked at her, uncomprehendingly.

âAfter all,â said Miss Marple. âyou are the Police, arenât you? People canât say everything theyâd like to say to the Police, can they?â

âI donât see why not,â said Craddock. âUnless theyâve got some criminal matter to conceal.â

âShe means butter,â said Bunch, crawling actively round a table leg to anchor a floating bit of paper. âButter and corn for hens, and sometimes creamâand sometimes, even, a side of bacon.â

âShow him that note from Miss Blacklock,â said Miss Marple. âItâs some time ago now, but it reads like a first-class mystery story.â

âWhat have I done with it? Is this the one you mean, Aunt Jane?â

Miss Marple took it and looked at it.

âYes,â she said with satisfaction. âThatâs the one.â

She handed it to the Inspector.

âI have made inquiriesâThursday is the day,â Miss Blacklock had written. âAny time after three. If there is any for me leave it in the usual place.â

Bunch spat out her pins and laughed. Miss Marple was watching the Inspectorâs face.

The Vicarâs wife took it upon herself to explain.

âThursday is the day one of the farms round here makes butter. They let anybody they like have a bit. Itâs usually Miss Hinchcliffe who collects it. Sheâs very much in with all the farmersâbecause of her pigs, I think. But itâs all a bit hush hush, you know, a kind of local scheme of barter. One person gets butter, and sends along cucumbers, or something like thatâand a little something when a pigâs killed. And now and then an animal has an accident and has to be destroyed. Oh, you know the sort of thing. Only one canât, very well, say it right out to the Police. Because I suppose quite a lot of this barter is illegalâonly nobody really knows because itâs all so complicated. But I expect Hinch had slipped into Little Paddocks with a pound of butter or something and had put it in the usual place. Thatâs a flour bin under the dresser, by the way. It doesnât have flour in it.â

Craddock sighed.

âIâm glad I came here to you ladies,â he said.

âThere used to be clothing coupons, too,â said Bunch. âNot usually boughtâthat wasnât considered honest. No money passes. But people like Mrs. Butt or Mrs. Finch or Mrs. Huggins like a nice woollen dress or a winter coat that hasnât seen too much wear and they pay for it with coupons instead of money.â

âYouâd better not tell me any more,â said Craddock. âItâs all against the law.â

âThen there oughtnât to be such silly laws,â said Bunch, filling her mouth up with pins again. âI donât do it, of course, because Julian doesnât like me to, so I donât. But I know whatâs going on, of course.â

A kind of despair was coming over the Inspector.

âIt all sounds so pleasant and ordinary,â he said. âFunny and petty and simple. And yet one woman and a man have been killed, and another woman may be killed before I can get anything definite to go on. Iâve left off worrying about Pip and Emma for the moment. Iâm concentrating on Sonia. I wish I knew what she looked like. There was a snapshot or two in with these letters, but none of the snaps could have been of her.â

âHow do you know it couldnât have been her? Do you know what she looked like?â

âShe was small and dark, Miss Blacklock said.â

âReally,â said Miss Marple, âthatâs very interesting.â

âThere was one snap that reminded me vaguely of someone. A tall fair girl with her hair all done up on top of her head. I donât know who she could have been. Anyway, it canât have been Sonia. Do you think Mrs. Swettenham could have been dark when she was a girl?â

âNot very dark,â said Bunch. âSheâs got blue eyes.â

âI hoped there might be a photo of Dmitri Stamfordisâbut I suppose that was too much to hope for â¦ Wellââhe took up the letterââIâm sorry this doesnât suggest anything to you, Miss Marple.â

âOh! but it does,â said Miss Marple. âIt suggests a good deal. Just read it through again, Inspectorâespecially where it says that Randall Goedler was making inquiries about Dmitri Stamfordis.â

Craddock stared at her.

The telephone rang.

Bunch got up from the floor and went out into the hall where, in accordance with the best Victorian traditions, the telephone had originally been placed and where it still was.

She reentered the room to say to Craddock:

âItâs for you.â

Slightly surprised, the Inspector went out to the instrumentâcarefully shutting the door of the living room behind him.

âCraddock? Rydesdale here.â

âYes, sir.â

âIâve been looking through your report. In the interview you had with Phillipa Haymes I see she states positively that she hasnât seen her husband since his desertion from the Army?â

âThatâs right, sirâshe was most emphatic. But in my opinion she wasnât speaking the truth.â

âI agree with you. Do you remember a case about ten days agoâman run over by a lorryâtaken to Milchester General with concussion and a fractured pelvis?â

âThe fellow who snatched a child practically from under the wheels of a lorry, and got run down himself?â

âThatâs the one. No papers of any kind on him and nobody came forward to identify him. Looked as though he might be on the run. He died last night without regaining consciousness. But heâs been identifiedâdeserter from the ArmyâRonald Haymes, ex-Captain in the South Loamshires.â

âPhillipa Haymesâ husband?â

âYes. Heâd got an old Chipping Cleghorn bus ticket on him, by the wayâand quite a reasonable amount of money.â

âSo he did get money from his wife? I always thought he was the man Mitzi overheard talking to her in the summerhouse. She denied it flatly, of course. But surely, sir, that lorry accident was beforeââ

Rydesdale took the words out of his mouth.

âYes, he was taken to Milchester General on the 28th. The hold-up at Little Paddocks was on the 29th. That lets him out of any possible connection with it. But his wife, of course, knew nothing about the accident. She may have been thinking all along that he was concerned in it. Sheâd hold her tongueânaturallyâafter all he was her husband.â

âIt was a fairly gallant bit of work, wasnât it, sir?â said Craddock slowly.

âRescuing that child from the lorry? Yes. Plucky. Donât suppose it was cowardice that made Haymes desert. Well, all thatâs past history. For a man whoâd blotted his copybook, it was a good death.â

âIâm glad for her sake,â said the Inspector. âAnd for that boy of theirs.â

âYes, he neednât be too ashamed of his father. And the young woman will be able to marry again now.â

Craddock said slowly:

âI was thinking of that, sir â¦ It opens upâpossibilities.â

âYouâd better break the news to her as youâre on the spot.â

âI will, sir. Iâll push along there now. Or perhaps Iâd better wait until sheâs back at Little Paddocks. It may be rather a shockâand thereâs someone else I rather want to have a word with first.â

Nineteen

RECONSTRUCTION OF THE CRIME

I

âIâll put a lamp by you before I go,â said Bunch. âItâs so dark in here. Thereâs going to be a storm, I think.â

She lifted the small reading lamp to the other side of the table where it would throw light on Miss Marpleâs knitting as she sat in a wide highbacked chair.

As the flex pulled across the table, Tiglath Pileser the cat leapt upon it and bit and clawed it violently.

âNo, Tiglath Pileser, you mustnât â¦ He really is awful. Look, heâs nearly bitten it throughâitâs all frayed. Donât you understand, you idiotic puss, that you may get a nasty electric shock if you do that?â

âThank you, dear,â said Miss Marple, and put out a hand to turn on the lamp.

âIt doesnât turn on there. You have to press that silly little switch halfway along the flex. Wait a minute. Iâll take these flowers out of the way.â

She lifted a bowl of Christmas roses across the table. Tiglath Pileser, his tail switching, put out a mischievous paw and clawed Bunchâs arm. She spilled some of the water out of the vase. It fell on the frayed area of flex and on Tiglath Pileser himself, who leapt to the floor with an indignant hiss.

Miss Marple pressed the small pear-shaped switch. Where the water had soaked the frayed flex there was a flash and a crackle.

âOh, dear,â said Bunch. âItâs fused. Now I suppose all the lights in here are off.â She tried them. âYes, they are. So stupid being all on the same thingummibob. And itâs made a burn on the table, too. Naughty Tiglath Pileserâitâs all his fault. Aunt Janeâwhatâs the matter? Did it startle you?â

âItâs nothing, dear. Just something I saw quite suddenly which I ought to have seen beforeâ¦.â

âIâll go and fix the fuse and get the lamp from Julianâs study.â

âNo, dear, donât bother. Youâll miss your bus. I donât want any more light. I just want to sit quietly andâthink about something. Hurry dear, or you wonât catch your bus.â

When Bunch had gone, Miss Marple sat quite still for about two minutes. The air of the room was heavy and menacing with the gathering storm outside.

Miss Marple drew a sheet of paper towards her.

She wrote first: Lamp? and underlined it heavily.

After a moment or two, she wrote another word.

Her pencil travelled down the paper, making brief cryptic notesâ¦.

II

In the rather dark living room of Boulders with its low ceiling and latticed window panes, Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd were having an argument.

âThe trouble with you, Murgatroyd,â said Miss Hinchcliffe, âis that you wonât try.â

âBut I tell you, Hinch, I canât remember a thing.â

âNow look here, Amy Murgatroyd, weâre going to do some constructive thinking. So far we havenât shone on the detective angle. I was quite wrong over that door business. You didnât hold the door open for the murderer after all. Youâre cleared, Murgatroyd!â

Miss Murgatroyd gave a rather watery smile.

âItâs just our luck to have the only silent cleaning woman in Chipping Cleghorn,â continued Miss Hinchcliffe. âUsually Iâm thankful for it, but this time it means weâve got off to a bad start. Everybody else in the place knows about that second door in the drawing room being usedâand we only heard about it yesterdayââ

âI still donât quite understand howââ

âItâs perfectly simple. Our original premises were quite right. You canât hold open a door, wave a torch and shoot with a revolver all at the same time. We kept in the revolver and the torch and cut out the door. Well, we were wrong. It was the revolver we ought to have cut out.â

âBut he did have a revolver,â said Miss Murgatroyd. âI saw it. It was there on the floor beside him.â

âWhen he was dead, yes. Itâs all quite clear. He didnât fire that revolverââ

âThen who did?â

âThatâs what weâre going to find out. But whoever did it, the same person put a couple of poisoned aspirin tablets by Letty Blacklockâs bedâand thereby bumped off poor Dora Bunner. And that couldnât have been Rudi Scherz, because heâs as dead as a doornail. It was someone who was in the room that night of the hold-up and probably someone who was at the birthday party, too. And the only person that lets out is Mrs. Harmon.â

âYou think someone put those aspirins there the day of the birthday party?â

âWhy not?â

âBut how could they?â

âWell, we all went to the loo, didnât we?â said Miss Hinchcliffe coarsely. âAnd I washed my hands in the bathroom because of that sticky cake. And little Sweetie Easterbrook powdered her grubby little face in Blacklockâs bedroom, didnât she?â

âHinch! Do you think sheâ?â

âI donât know yet. Rather obvious, if she did. I donât think if you were going to plant some tablets, that youâd want to be seen in the bedroom at all. Oh, yes, there were plenty of opportunities.â

âThe men didnât go upstairs.â

âThere are back stairs. After all, if a man leaves the room, you donât follow him to see if he really is going where you think he is going. It wouldnât be delicate! Anyway, donât argue, Murgatroyd. I want to get back to the original attempt on Letty Blacklock. Now, to begin with, get the facts firmly into your head, because itâs all going to depend upon you.â

Miss Murgatroyd looked alarmed.

âOh, dear, Hinch, you know what a muddle I get into!â

âItâs not a question of your brains, or the grey fluff that passes for brains with you. Itâs a question of eyes. Itâs a question of what you saw.â

âBut I didnât see anything.â

âThe trouble with you is, Murgatroyd, as I said just now, that you wonât try. Now pay attention. This is what happened. Whoever it is thatâs got it in for Letty Blacklock was there in that room that evening. He (I say he because itâs easier, but thereâs no reason why it should be a man more than a woman except, of course, that men are dirty dogs), well, he has previously oiled that second door that leads out of the drawing room and which is supposed to be nailed up or something. Donât ask me when he did it, because that confuses things. Actually, by choosing my time, I could walk into any house in Chipping Cleghorn and do anything I liked there for half an hour or so with no one being the wiser. Itâs just a question of working out where the daily women are and when the occupiers are out and exactly where theyâve gone and how long theyâll be. Just good staff work. Now, to continue. Heâs oiled that second door. It will open without a sound. Hereâs the setup: Lights go out, door A (the regular door) opens with a flourish. Business with torch and hold-up lines. In the meantime, while weâre all goggling, X (thatâs the best term to use) slips quietly out by door B into the dark hall, comes up behind that Swiss idiot, takes a couple of shots at Letty Blacklock and then shoots the Swiss. Drops the revolver, where lazy thinkers like you will assume itâs evidence that the Swiss did the shooting, and nips back into the room again by the time that someone gets a lighter going. Got it?â

âYesâye-es, but who was it?â

âWell, if you donât know, Murgatroyd, nobody does!â

âMe?â Miss Murgatroyd fairly twittered in alarm. âBut I donât know anything at all. I donât really, Hinch!â

âUse that fluff of yours you call a brain. To begin with, where was everybody when the lights went out?â

âI donât know.â

âYes, you do. Youâre maddening, Murgatroyd. You know where you were, donât you? You were behind the door.â

âYesâyes, I was. It knocked against my corn when it flew open.â

âWhy donât you go to a proper chiropodist instead of messing about yourself with your feet?. Youâll give yourself blood poisoning one of these days. Come on, nowâyouâre behind the door. Iâm standing against the mantelpiece with my tongue hanging out for a drink. Letty Blacklock is by the table near the archway, getting the cigarettes. Patrick Simmons has gone through the archway into the small room where Letty Blacklock has had the drinks put. Agreed?â

âYes, yes, I remember all that.â

âGood, now somebody else followed Patrick into that room or was just starting to follow him. One of the men. The annoying thing is that I canât remember whether it was Easterbrook or Edmund Swettenham. Do you remember?â

âNo, I donât.â

âYou wouldnât! And there was someone else who went through to the small room: Phillipa Haymes. I remember that distinctly because I remember noticing what a nice flat back she has, and I thought to myself âthat girl would look well on a horse.â I was watching her and thinking just that. She went over to the mantelpiece in the other room. I donât know what it was she wanted there, because at that moment the lights went out.

âSo thatâs the position. In the drawing room are Patrick Simmons, Phillipa Haymes, and either Colonel Easterbrook or Edmund Swettenhamâwe donât know which. Now, Murgatroyd, pay attention. The most probable thing is that it was one of those three who did it. If anyone wanted to get out of that far door, theyâd naturally take care to put themselves in a convenient place when the lights went out. So, as I say, in all probability, itâs one of those three. And in that case, Murgatroyd, thereâs not a thing you can do about it!â

Miss Murgatroyd brightened perceptibly.

âOn the other hand,â continued Miss Hinchcliffe, âthereâs the possibility that it wasnât one of those three. And thatâs where you come in, Murgatroyd.â

âBut how should I know anything about it?â

âAs I said before if you donât nobody does.â

âBut I donât! I really donât! I couldnât see anything at all!â

âOh, yes, you could. Youâre the only person who could see. You were standing behind the door. You couldnât look at the torchâbecause the door was between you and it. You were facing the other way, the same way as the torch was pointing. The rest of us were just dazzled. But you werenât dazzled.â

âNoâno, perhaps not, but I didnât see anything, the torch went round and roundââ

âShowing you what? It rested on faces, didnât it? And on tables? And on chairs?â

âYesâyes, it did â¦ Miss Bunner, her mouth wide open and her eyes popping out of her head, staring and blinking.â

âThatâs the stuff!â Miss Hinchcliffe gave a sigh of relief. âThe difficulty there is in making you use that grey fluff of yours! Now then, keep it up.â

âBut I didnât see any more, I didnât, really.â

âYou mean you saw an empty room? Nobody standing about? Nobody sitting down?â

âNo, of course not that. Miss Bunner with her mouth open and Mrs. Harmon was sitting on the arm of a chair. She had her eyes tight shut and her knuckles all doubled up to her faceâlike a child.â

âGood, thatâs Mrs. Harmon and Miss Bunner. Donât you see yet what Iâm getting at? The difficulty is that I donât want to put ideas into your head. But when weâve eliminated who you did seeâwe can get on to the important point which is, was there anyone you didnât see. Got it? Besides the tables and the chairs and the chrysanthemums and the rest of it, there were certain people: Julia Simmons, Mrs. Swettenham, Mrs. Easterbrookâeither Colonel Easterbrook or Edmund SwettenhamâDora Bunner and Bunch Harmon. All right, you saw Bunch Harmon and Dora Bunner. Cross them off. Now think, Murgatroyd, think, was there one of those people who definitely wasnât there?â

Miss Murgatroyd jumped slightly as a branch knocked against the open window. She shut her eyes. She murmured to herselfâ¦.

âThe flowers â¦ on the table â¦ the big armchair â¦ the torch didnât come round as far as you, HinchâMrs. Harmon, yesâ¦.â

The telephone rang sharply. Miss Hinchcliffe went to it.

âHallo, yes? The station?â

The obedient Miss Murgatroyd, her eyes closed, was reliving the night of the 29th. The torch, sweeping slowly round â¦ a group of people â¦ the windows â¦ the sofa â¦ Dora Bunner â¦ the wall â¦ the table with lamp â¦ the archway â¦ the sudden spat of the revolverâ¦.

ââ¦ but thatâs extraordinary!â said Miss Murgatroyd.

âWhat?â Miss Hinchcliffe was barking angrily into the telephone. âBeen there since this morning? What time? Damn and blast you, and you only ring me up now? Iâll set the S.P.C.A. after you. An oversight? Is that all youâve got to say?â

She banged down the receiver.

âItâs that dog,â she said. âThe red setter. Been at the station since this morningâsince this morning at eight oâclock. Without a drop of water! And the idiots only ring me up now. Iâm going to get her right away.â

She plunged out of the room, Miss Murgatroyd squeaking shrilly in her wake.

âBut listen, Hinch, a most extraordinary thing â¦ I donât understand itâ¦.â

Miss Hinchcliffe had dashed out of the door and across to the shed which served as a garage.

âWeâll go on with it when I come back,â she called. âI canât wait for you to come with me. Youâve got your bedroom slippers on as usual.â

She pressed the starter of the car and backed out of the garage with a jerk. Miss Murgatroyd skipped nimbly sideways.

âBut listen, Hinch, I must tell youââ

âWhen I come backâ¦.â

The car jerked and shot forwards. Miss Murgatroydâs voice came faintly after it on a high excited note.

âBut, Hinch, she wasnât there. â¦â

III

Overhead the clouds had been gathering thick and blue. As Miss Murgatroyd stood looking after the retreating car, the first big drops began to fall.

In an agitated fashion, Miss Murgatroyd plunged across to a line of string on which she had, some hours previously, hung out a couple of jumpers and a pair of woollen combinations to dry.

She was murmuring under her breath:

âReally most extraordinary â¦ Oh, dear, I shall never get these down in timeâand they were nearly dryâ¦.â

She struggled with a recalcitrant clothes peg, then turned her head as she heard someone approaching.

Then she smiled a pleased welcome.

âHalloâdo go inside, youâll get wet.â

âLet me help you.â

âOh, if you donât mind â¦ so annoying if they all get soaked again. I really ought to let down the line, but I think I can just reach.â

âHereâs your scarf. Shall I put it round your neck?â

âOh, thank you â¦ Yes, perhaps â¦ If I could just reach this pegâ¦.â

The woollen scarf was slipped round her neck and then, suddenly, pulled tightâ¦.

Miss Murgatroydâs mouth opened, but no sound came except a small choking gurgle.

And the scarf was pulled tighter stillâ¦.

IV

On her way back from the station, Miss Hinchcliffe stopped the car to pick up Miss Marple who was hurrying along the street.

âHallo,â she shouted. âYouâll get very wet. Come and have tea with us. I saw Bunch waiting for the bus. Youâll be all alone at the Vicarage. Come and join us. Murgatroyd and I are doing a bit of reconstruction of the crime. I rather think weâre just getting somewhere. Mind the dog. Sheâs rather nervous.â

âWhat a beauty!â

âYes, lovely bitch, isnât she! Those fools kept her at the station since this morning without letting me know. I told them off, the lazy bâs. Oh, excuse my language. I was brought up by grooms at home in Ireland.â

The little car turned with a jerk into the small backyard of Boulders.

A crowd of eager ducks and fowls encircled the two ladies as they descended.

âCurse Murgatroyd,â said Miss Hinchcliffe, âshe hasnât given âem their corn.â

âIs it difficult to get corn?â Miss Marple inquired.

Miss Hincliffe winked.

âIâm in with most of the farmers,â she said.

Shooing away the hens, she escorted Miss Marple towards the cottage.

âHope youâre not too wet?â

âNo, this is a very good mackintosh.â

âIâll light the fire if Murgatroyd hasnât lit it. Hiyah, Murgatroyd? Where is the woman? Murgatroyd! Whereâs that dog? Sheâs disappeared now.â

A slow dismal howl came from outside.

âCurse the silly bitch.â Miss Hinchcliffe tramped to the door and called:

âHyoup, CutieâCutie. Damnâ silly name but thatâs what they called her apparently. We must find her another name. Hiyah, Cutie.â

The red setter was sniffing at something lying below the taut string where a row of garments swirled in the wind.

âMurgatroydâs not even had the sense to bring the washing in. Where is she?â

Again the red setter nosed at what seemed to be a pile of clothes, and raised her nose high in the air and howled again.

âWhatâs the matter with the dog?â

Miss Hinchcliffe strode across the grass.

And quickly, apprehensively, Miss Marple ran after her. They stood there, side by side, the rain beating down on them, and the older womanâs arm went round the younger oneâs shoulders.

She felt the muscles go stiff and taut as Miss Hinchcliffe stood looking down on the thing lying there, with the blue congested face and the protruding tongue.

âIâll kill whoever did this,â said Miss Hinchcliffe in a low quiet voice, âif I once get my hands on herâ¦.â

Miss Marple said questioningly:

âHer?â

Miss Hinchcliffe turned a ravaged face towards her.

âYes. I know who it isânear enough â¦ That is, itâs one of three possibles.â

She stood for another moment, looking down at her dead friend, and then turned towards the house. Her voice was dry and hard.

âWe must ring up the police,â she said. âAnd while weâre waiting for them, Iâll tell you. My fault, in a way, that Murgatroydâs lying out there. I made a game of it â¦ Murder isnât a gameâ¦.â

âNo,â said Miss Marple. âMurder isnât a game.â

âYou know something about it, donât you?â said Miss Hinchcliffe as she lifted the receiver and dialled.

She made a brief report and hung up.

âTheyâll be here in a few minutes â¦ Yes, I heard that youâd been mixed up in this sort of business before â¦ I think it was Edmund Swettenham told me so â¦ Do you want to hear what we were doing, Murgatroyd and I?â

Succinctly she described the conversation held before her departure for the station.

âShe called after me, you know, just as I was leaving â¦ Thatâs how I know itâs a woman and not a man â¦ If Iâd waitedâif only Iâd listened! God dammit, the dog could have stopped where she was for another quarter of an hour.â

âDonât blame yourself, my dear. That does no good. One canât foresee.â

âNo, one canât â¦ Something tapped against the window, I remember. Perhaps she was outside there, thenâyes, of course, she must have been â¦ coming to the house â¦ and there were Murgatroyd and I shouting at each other. Top of our voices â¦ She heard â¦ She heard it allâ¦.â

âYou havenât told me yet what your friend said.â

âJust one sentence! âShe wasnât there.ââ

She paused. âYou see? There were three women we hadnât eliminated. Mrs. Swettenham, Mrs. Easterbrook, Julia Simmons. And one of those threeâwasnât there â¦ She wasnât there in the drawing room because she had slipped out through the other door and was out in the hall.â

âYes,â said Miss Marple, âI see.â

âItâs one of those three women. I donât know which. But Iâll find out!â

âExcuse me,â said Miss Marple. âBut did sheâdid Miss Murgatroyd, I mean, say it exactly as you said it?â

âHow dâyou meanâas I said it?â

âOh, dear, how can I explain? You said it like this. She-wasnât-there. An equal emphasis on every word. You see, there are three ways you could say it. You could say, âShe wasnât there.â Very personal. Or again, âShe wasnât there.â Confirming, some suspicion already held. Or else you could say (and this is nearer to the way you said it just now), âShe wasnât thereâ¦â quite blanklyâwith the emphasis, if there was emphasisâon the âthere.ââ

âI donât know.â Miss Hinchcliffe shook her head. âI canât remember â¦ How the hell can I remember? I think, yes, surely sheâd say âShe wasnât there.â That would be the natural way, I should think. But I simply donât know. Does it make any difference?â

âYes,â said Miss Marple, thoughtfully. âI think so. Itâs a very slight indication, of course, but I think it is an indication. Yes, I should think it makes a lot of differenceâ¦.â

Twenty

MISS MARPLE IS MISSING

I

The postman, rather to his disgust, had lately been given orders to make an afternoon delivery of letters in Chipping Cleghorn as well as a morning one.

On this particular afternoon he left three letters at Little Paddocks at exactly ten minutes to five.

One was addressed to Phillipa Haymes in a schoolboyâs hand; the other two were for Miss Blacklock. She opened them as she and Phillipa sat down at the tea table. The torrential rain had enabled Phillipa to leave Dayas Hall early today, since once she had shut up the greenhouses there was nothing more to do.

Miss Blacklock tore open her first letter which was a bill for repairing a kitchen boiler. She snorted angrily.

âDymondâs prices are preposterousâquite preposterous. Still, I suppose all the other people are just as bad.â

She opened the second letter which was in a handwriting quite unknown to her.

Dear Cousin Letty (it said),

I hope it will be all right for me to come to you on Tuesday? I wrote to Patrick two days ago but he hasnât answered. So I presume itâs all right. Mother is coming to England next month and hopes to see you then.

My train arrives at Chipping Cleghorn at 6:15 if thatâs convenient?

Yours affectionately,

Julia Simmons.

Miss Blacklock read the letter once with astonishment pure and simple, and then again with a certain grimness. She looked up at Phillipa who was smiling over her sonâs letter.

âAre Julia and Patrick back, do you know?â

Phillipa looked up.

âYes, they came in just after I did. They went upstairs to change. They were wet.â

âPerhaps youâd not mind going and calling them.â

âOf course I will.â

âWait a momentâIâd like you to read this.â

She handed Phillipa the letter she had received.

Phillipa read it and frowned. âI donât understandâ¦.â

âNor do I, quite â¦ I think itâs about time I did. Call Patrick and Julia, Phillipa.â

Phillipa called from the bottom of the stairs:

âPatrick! Julia! Miss Blacklock wants you.â

Patrick came running down the stairs and entered the room.

âDonât go, Phillipa,â said Miss Blacklock.

âHallo, Aunt Letty,â said Patrick cheerfully. âWant me?â

âYes, I do. Perhaps youâll give me an explanation of this?â

Patrickâs face showed an almost comical dismay as he read.

âI meant to telegraph her! What an ass I am!â

âThis letter, I presume, is from your sister Julia?â

âYesâyes, it is.â

Miss Blacklock said grimly:

âThen who, may I ask, is the young woman whom you brought here as Julia Simmons, and whom I was given to understand was your sister and my cousin?â

âWellâyou seeâAunt Lettyâthe fact of the matter isâI can explain it allâI know I oughtnât to have done itâbut it really seemed more of a lark than anything else. If youâll just let me explainââ

âI am waiting for you to explain. Who is this young woman?â

âWell, I met her at a cocktail party soon after I got demobbed. We got talking and I said I was coming here and thenâwell, we thought it might be rather a good wheeze if I brought her along â¦ You see, Julia, the real Julia, was mad to go on the stage and Mother had seven fits at the ideaâhowever, Julia got a chance to join a jolly good repertory company up in Perth or somewhere and she thought sheâd give it a tryâbut she thought sheâd keep Mum calm by letting Mum think that she was here with me studying to be a dispenser like a good little girl.â

âI still want to know who this other young woman is.â

Patrick turned with relief as Julia, cool and aloof, came into the room.

âThe balloonâs gone up,â he said.

Julia raised her eyebrows. Then, still cool, she came forward and sat down.

âO.K.,â she said. âThatâs that. I suppose youâre very angry?â She studied Miss Blacklockâs face with almost dispassionate interest. âI should be if I were you.â

âWho are you?â

Julia sighed.

âI think the momentâs come when I make a clean breast of things. Here we go. Iâm one half of the Pip and Emma combination. To be exact, my christened name is Emma Jocelyn Stamfordisâonly Father soon dropped the Stamfordis. I think he called himself De Courcy next.

âMy father and mother, let me tell you, split up about three years after Pip and I were born. Each of them went their own way. And they split us up. I was Fatherâs part of the loot. He was a bad parent on the whole, though quite a charming one. I had various desert spells of being educated in conventsâwhen Father hadnât any money, or was preparing to engage in some particularly nefarious deal. He used to pay the first term with every sign of affluence and then depart and leave me on the nunsâ hands for a year or two. In the intervals, he and I had some very good times together, moving in cosmopolitan society. However, the war separated us completely. Iâve no idea of whatâs happened to him. I had a few adventures myself. I was with the French Resistance for a time. Quite exciting. To cut a long story short, I landed up in London and began to think about my future. I knew that Motherâs brother with whom sheâd had a frightful row had died a very rich man. I looked up his will to see if there was anything for me. There wasnâtânot directly, that is to say. I made a few inquiries about his widowâit seemed she was quite ga-ga and kept under drugs and was dying by inches. Frankly, it looked as though you were my best bet. You were going to come into a hell of a lot of money and from all I could find out, you didnât seem to have anyone much to spend it on. Iâll be quite frank. It occurred to me that if I could get to know you in a friendly kind of way, and if you took a fancy to meâwell, after all, conditions have changed a bit, havenât they, since Uncle Randall died? I mean any money we ever had has been swept away in the cataclysm of Europe. I thought you might pity a poor orphan girl, all alone in the world, and make her, perhaps, a small allowance.â

âOh, you did, did you?â said Miss Blacklock grimly.

âYes. Of course, I hadnât seen you then â¦ I visualized a kind of sob stuff approach â¦ Then, by a marvellous stroke of luck, I met Patrick hereâand he turned out to be your nephew or your cousin, or something. Well, that struck me as a marvellous chance. I went bullheaded for Patrick and he fell for me in a most gratifying way. The real Julia was all wet about this acting stuff and I soon persuaded her it was her duty to Art to go and fix herself up in some uncomfortable lodgings in Perth and train to be the new Sarah Bernhardt.

âYou mustnât blame Patrick too much. He felt awfully sorry for me, all alone in the worldâand he soon thought it would be a really marvellous idea for me to come here as his sister and do my stuff.â

âAnd he also approved of your continuing to tell a tissue of lies to the police?â

âHave a heart, Letty. Donât you see that when that ridiculous hold-up business happenedâor rather after it happenedâI began to feel I was in a bit of a spot. Letâs face it, Iâve got a perfectly good motive for putting you out of the way. Youâve only got my word for it now that I wasnât the one who tried to do it. You canât expect me deliberately to go and incriminate myself. Even Patrick got nasty ideas about me from time to time, and if even he could think things like that, what on earth would the police think? That Detective-Inspector struck me as a man of singularly sceptical mind. No, I figured out the only thing for me to do was to sit tight as Julia and just fade away when term came to an end.

âHow was I to know that fool Julia, the real Julia, would go and have a row with the producer, and fling the whole thing up in a fit of temperament? She writes to Patrick and asks if she can come here, and instead of wiring her âKeep awayâ he goes and forgets to do anything at all!â She cast an angry glance at Patrick. âOf all the utter idiots!â

She sighed.

âYou donât know the straits Iâve been put to in Milchester! Of course, I havenât been to the hospital at all. But I had to go somewhere. Hours and hours Iâve spent in the pictures seeing the most frightful films over and over again.â

âPip and Emma,â murmured Miss Blacklock. âI never believed, somehow, in spite of what the Inspector said, that they were realââ

She looked searchingly at Julia.

âYouâre Emma,â she said. âWhereâs Pip?â

Juliaâs eyes, limpid and innocent, met hers.

âI donât know,â she said. âI havenât the least idea.â

âI think youâre lying, Julia. When did you see him last?â

Was there a momentary hesitation before Julia spoke?

She said clearly and deliberately:

âI havenât seen him since we were both three years oldâwhen my mother took him away. I havenât seen either him or my mother. I donât know where they are.â

âAnd thatâs all you have to say?â

Julia sighed.

âI could say I was sorry. But it wouldnât really be true; because actually Iâd do the same thing againâthough not if Iâd known about this murder business, of course.â

âJulia,â said Miss Blacklock, âI call you that because Iâm used to it. You were with the French Resistance, you say?â

âYes. For eighteen months.â

âThen I suppose you learned to shoot?â

Again those cool blue eyes met hers.

âI can shoot all right. Iâm a first-class shot. I didnât shoot at you, Letitia Blacklock, though youâve only got my word for that. But I can tell you this, that if I had shot at you, I wouldnât have been likely to miss.â

II

The sound of a car driving up to the door broke through the tenseness of the moment.

âWho can that be?â asked Miss Blacklock.

Mitzi put a tousled head in. She was showing the whites of her eyes.

âIt is the police come again,â she said. âThis, it is persecution! Why will they not leave us alone? I will not bear it. I will write to the Prime Minister. I will write to your King.â

Craddockâs hand put her firmly and not too kindly aside. He came in with such a grim set to his lips that they all looked at him apprehensively. This was a new Inspector Craddock.

He said sternly:

âMiss Murgatroyd has been murdered. She was strangledânot more than an hour ago.â His eye singled out Julia. âYouâMiss Simmonsâwhere have you been all day?â

Julia said warily:

âIn Milchester. Iâve just got in.â

âAnd you?â The eye went on to Patrick.

âYes.â

âDid you both come back here together?â

âYesâyes, we did,â said Patrick.

âNo,â said Julia. âItâs no good, Patrick. Thatâs the kind of lie that will be found out at once. The bus people know us well. I came back on the earlier bus, Inspectorâthe one that gets here at four oâclock.â

âAnd what did you do then?â

âI went for a walk.â

âIn the direction of Boulders?â

âNo. I went across the fields.â

He stared at her. Julia, her face pale, her lips tense, stared back.

Before anyone could speak, the telephone rang.

Miss Blacklock, with an inquiring glance at Craddock, picked up the receiver.

âYes. Who? Oh, Bunch. What? No. No, she hasnât. Iâve no idea â¦ Yes, heâs here now.â

She lowered the instrument and said:

âMrs. Harmon would like to speak to you, Inspector. Miss Marple has not come back to the Vicarage and Mrs. Harmon is worried about her.â

Craddock took two strides forward and gripped the telephone.

âCraddock speaking.â

âIâm worried, Inspector.â Bunchâs voice came through with a childish tremor in it. âAunt Janeâs out somewhereâand I donât know where. And they say that Miss Murgatroydâs been killed. Is it true?â

âYes, itâs true, Mrs. Harmon. Miss Marple was there with Miss Hinchcliffe when they found the body.â

âOh, so thatâs where she is.â Bunch sounded relieved.

âNoâno, Iâm afraid she isnât. Not now. She left there aboutâlet me seeâhalf an hour ago. She hasnât got home?â

âNoâshe hasnât. Itâs only ten minutesâ walk. Where can she be?â

âPerhaps sheâs called in on one of your neighbours?â

âIâve rung them upâall of them. Sheâs not there. Iâm frightened, Inspector.â

âSo am I,â thought Craddock.

He said quickly:

âIâll come round to youâat once.â

âOh, doâthereâs a piece of paper. She was writing on it before she went out. I donât know if it means anything â¦ It just seems gibberish to me.â

Craddock replaced the receiver.

Miss Blacklock said anxiously:

âHas something happened to Miss Marple? Oh, I hope not.â

âI hope not, too.â His mouth was grim.

âSheâs so oldâand frail.â

âI know.â

Miss Blacklock, standing with her hand pulling at the choker of pearls round her neck, said in a hoarse voice:

âItâs getting worse and worse. Whoeverâs doing these things must be mad, Inspectorâquite madâ¦.â

âI wonder.â

The choker of pearls round Miss Blacklockâs neck broke under the clutch of her nervous fingers. The smooth white globules rolled all over the room.

Letitia cried out in an anguished tone.

âMy pearlsâmy pearlsââ The agony in her voice was so acute that they all looked at her in astonishment. She turned, her hand to her throat, and rushed sobbing out of the room.

Phillipa began picking up the pearls.

âIâve never seen her so upset over anything,â she said. âOf courseâshe always wears them. Do you think, perhaps, that someone special gave them to her? Randall Goedler, perhaps?â

âItâs possible,â said the Inspector slowly.

âTheyâre notâthey couldnât beâreal by any chance?â Phillipa asked from where, on her knees, she was still collecting the white shining globules.

Taking one in his hand, Craddock was just about to reply contemptuously, âReal? Of course not!â when he suddenly stifled the words.

After all, could the pearls be real?

They were so large, so even, so white that their falseness seemed palpable, but Craddock remembered suddenly a police case where a string of real pearls had been bought for a few shillings in a pawnbrokerâs shop.

Letitia Blacklock had assured him that there was no jewellery of value in the house. If these pearls were, by any chance, genuine, they must be worth a fabulous sum. And if Randall Goedler had given them to herâthen they might be worth any sum you cared to name.

They looked falseâthey must be false, butâif they were real?

Why not? She might herself be unaware of their value. Or she might choose to protect her treasure by treating it as though it were a cheap ornament worth a couple of guineas at most. What would they be worth if real? A fabulous sum â¦ Worth doing murder forâif anybody knew about them.

With a start, the Inspector wrenched himself away from his speculations. Miss Marple was missing. He must go to the Vicarage.

III

He found Bunch and her husband waiting for him, their faces anxious and drawn.

âShe hasnât come back,â said Bunch.

âDid she say she was coming back here when she left Boulders?â asked Julian.

âShe didnât actually say so,â said Craddock slowly, throwing his mind back to the last time he had seen Jane Marple.

He remembered the grimness of her lips and the severe frosty light in those usually gentle blue eyes.

Grimness, an inexorable determination â¦ to do what? To go where?

âShe was talking to Sergeant Fletcher when I last saw her,â he said. âJust by the gate. And then she went through it and out. I took it she was going straight home to the Vicarage. I would have sent her in the carâbut there was so much to attend to, and she slipped away very quietly. Fletcher may know something! Whereâs Fletcher?â

But Sergeant Fletcher, it seemed, as Craddock learned when he rang up Boulders, was neither to be found there nor had he left any message where he had gone. There was some idea that he had returned to Milchester for some reason.

The Inspector rang up headquarters in Milchester, but no news of Fletcher was to be found there.

Then Craddock turned to Bunch as he remembered what she had told him over the telephone.

âWhereâs that paper? You said sheâd been writing something on a bit of paper.â

Bunch brought it to him. He spread it out on the table and looked down on it. Bunch leant over his shoulder and spelled it out as he read. The writing was shaky and not easy to read:

Lamp.

Then came the word âViolets.â

Then after a space:

Where is bottle of aspirin?

The next item in this curious list was more difficult to make out. âDelicious death,â Bunch read. âThatâs Mitziâs cake.â

âMaking enquiries,â read Craddock.

âInquiries? What about, I wonder? Whatâs this? Severe affliction bravely borne â¦ What on earthâ!â

âIodine,â read the Inspector. âPearls. Ah, pearls.â

âAnd then Lottyâno, Letty. Her eâs look like oâs. And then Berne. And whatâs this? Old Age Pension. â¦â

They looked at each other in bewilderment.

Craddock recapitulated swiftly:

âLamp. Violets. Where is bottle of aspirin? Delicious Death. Making enquiries. Severe affliction bravely borne. Iodine. Pearls. Letty. Berne. Old Age Pension.â

Bunch asked: âDoes it mean anything? Anything at all? I canât see any connection.â

Craddock said slowly: âIâve just a glimmerâbut I donât see. Itâs odd that she should have put down that about pearls.â

âWhat about pearls? What does it mean?â

âDoes Miss Blacklock always wear that three-tier choker of pearls?â

âYes, she does. We laugh about it sometimes. Theyâre so dreadfully false-looking, arenât they? But I suppose she thinks itâs fashionable.â

âThere might be another reason,â said Craddock slowly.

âYou donât mean that theyâre real. Oh! they couldnât be!â

âHow often have you had an opportunity of seeing real pearls of that size, Mrs. Harmon?â

âBut theyâre so glassy.â

Craddock shrugged his shoulders.

âAnyway, they donât matter now. Itâs Miss Marple that matters. Weâve got to find her.â

Theyâd got to find her before it was too lateâbut perhaps it was already too late? Those pencilled words showed that she was on the track â¦ But that was dangerousâhorribly dangerous. And where the hell was Fletcher?

Craddock strode out of the Vicarage to where heâd left his car. Searchâthat was all he could doâsearch.

A voice spoke to him out of the dripping laurels.

âSir!â said Sergeant Fletcher urgently. âSir. â¦â

Twenty-one

THREE WOMEN

Dinner was over at Little Paddocks. It had been a silent and uncomfortable meal.

Patrick, uneasily aware of having fallen from grace, only made spasmodic attempts at conversationâand such as he did make were not well received. Phillipa Haymes was sunk in abstraction. Miss Blacklock herself had abandoned the effort to behave with her normal cheerfulness. She had changed for dinner and had come down wearing her necklace of cameos but for the first time fear showed from her darkly circled eyes, and betrayed itself by her twitching hands.

Julia, alone, had maintained her air of cynical detachment throughout the evening.

âIâm sorry, Letty,â she said, âthat I canât pack my bag and go. But I presume the police wouldnât allow it. I donât suppose Iâll darken your roofâor whatever the expression isâfor long. I should imagine that Inspector Craddock will be round with a warrant and the handcuffs any moment. In fact I canât imagine why something of the kind hasnât happened already.â

âHeâs looking for the old ladyâfor Miss Marple,â said Miss Blacklock.

âDo you think sheâs been murdered, too?â Patrick asked with scientific curiosity. âBut why? What could she know?â

âI donât know,â said Miss Blacklock dully. âPerhaps Miss Murgatroyd told her something.â

âIf sheâs been murdered too,â said Patrick, âthere seems to be logically only one person who could have done it.â

âWho?â

âHinchcliffe, of course,â said Patrick triumphantly. âThatâs where she was last seen aliveâat Boulders. My solution would be that she never left Boulders.â

âMy head aches,â said Miss Blacklock in a dull voice. She pressed her fingers to her forehead. âWhy should Hinch murder Miss Marple? It doesnât make sense.â

âIt would if Hinch had really murdered Murgatroyd,â said Patrick triumphantly.

Phillipa came out of her apathy to say:

âHinch wouldnât murder Murgatroyd.â

âShe might have if Murgatroyd had blundered on something to show that sheâHinchâwas the criminal.â

âAnyway, Hinch was at the station when Murgatroyd was killed.â

âShe could have murdered Murgatroyd before she left.â

Startling them all, Letitia Blacklock suddenly screamed out:

âMurder, murder, murderâ! Canât you talk of anything else? Iâm frightened, donât you understand? Iâm frightened. I wasnât before. I thought I could take care of myself â¦ But what can you do against a murderer whoâs waitingâand watchingâand biding his time! Oh, God!â

She dropped her head forward on her hands. A moment later she looked up and apologized stiffly.

âIâm sorry. IâI lost control.â

âThatâs all right, Aunt Letty,â said Patrick affectionately. âIâll look after you.â

âYou?â was all Letitia Blacklock said, but the disillusionment behind the word was almost an accusation.

That had been shortly before dinner, and Mitzi had then created a diversion by coming and declaring that she was not going to cook the dinner.

âI do not do anything more in this house. I go to my room. I lock myself in. I stay there until it is daylight. I am afraidâpeople are being killedâthat Miss Murgatroyd with her stupid English faceâwho would want to kill her? Only a maniac! Then it is a maniac that is about! And a maniac does not care who he kills. But me, I do not want to be killed. There are shadows in the kitchenâand I hear noisesâI think there is someone out in the yard and then I think I see a shadow by the larder door and then it is footsteps I hear. So I go now to my room and I lock the door and perhaps even I put the chest of drawers against it. And in the morning I tell that cruel hard policeman that I go away from here. And if he will not let me I say: âI scream and I scream and I scream until you have to let me go!ââ

Everybody, with a vivid recollection of what Mitzi could do in the screaming line, shuddered at the threat.

âSo I go to my room,â said Mitzi, repeating the statement once more to make her intentions quite clear. With a symbolic action she cast off the cretonne apron she had been wearing. âGood night, Miss Blacklock. Perhaps in the morning, you may not be alive. So in case that is so, I say good-bye.â

She departed abruptly and the door, with its usual gentle little whine, closed softly after her.

Julia got up.

âIâll see to dinner,â she said in a matter-of-fact way. âRather a good arrangementâless embarrassing for you all than having me sit down at table with you. Patrick (since heâs constituted himself your protector, Aunt Letty) had better taste every dish first. I donât want to be accused of poisoning you on top of everything else.â

So Julia had cooked and served a really excellent meal.

Phillipa had come out to the kitchen with an offer of assistance but Julia had said firmly that she didnât want any help.

âJulia, thereâs something I want to sayââ

âThis is no time for girlish confidences,â said Julia firmly. âGo on back in the dining room, Phillipa.â

Now dinner was over and they were in the drawing room with coffee on the small table by the fireâand nobody seemed to have anything to say. They were waitingâthat was all.

At 8:30 Inspector Craddock rang up.

âI shall be with you in about a quarter of an hourâs time,â he announced. âIâm bringing Colonel and Mrs. Easterbrook and Mrs. Swettenham and her son with me.â

âBut really, Inspector â¦ I canât cope with people tonightââ

Miss Blacklockâs voice sounded as though she were at the end of her tether.

âI know how you feel, Miss Blacklock. Iâm sorry. But this is urgent.â

âHave youâfound Miss Marple?â

âNo,â said the Inspector, and rang off.

Julia took the coffee tray out to the kitchen where, to her surprise, she found Mitzi contemplating the piled-up dishes and plates by the sink.

Mitzi burst into a torrent of words.

âSee what you do in my so nice kitchen! That frying panâonly, only for omelettes do I use it! And you, what have you used it for?â

âFrying onions.â

âRuinedâruined. It will have now to be washed and neverâneverâdo I wash my omelette pan. I rub it carefully over with a greasy newspaper, that is all. And this saucepan here that you have usedâthat one, I use him only for milkââ

âWell, I donât know what pans you use for what,â said Julia crossly. âYou choose to go to bed and why on earth youâve chosen to get up again, I canât imagine. Go away again and leave me to wash up in peace.â

âNo, I will not let you use my kitchen.â

âOh, Mitzi, you are impossible!â

Julia stalked angrily out of the kitchen and at that moment the doorbell rang.

âI do not go to the door,â Mitzi called from the kitchen. Julia muttered an impolite Continental expression under her breath and stalked to the front door.

It was Miss Hinchcliffe.

ââEvening,â she said in her gruff voice. âSorry to barge in. Inspectorâs rung up, I expect?â

âHe didnât tell us you were coming,â said Julia, leading the way to the drawing room.

âHe said I neednât come unless I liked,â said Miss Hinchcliffe. âBut I do like.â

Nobody offered Miss Hinchcliffe sympathy or mentioned Miss Murgatroydâs death. The ravaged face of the tall vigorous woman told its own tale, and would have made any expression of sympathy an impertinence.

âTurn all the lights on,â said Miss Blacklock. âAnd put more coal on the fire. Iâm coldâhorribly cold. Come and sit here by the fire, Miss Hinchcliffe. The Inspector said he would be here in a quarter of an hour. It must be nearly that now.â

âMitziâs come down again,â said Julia.

âHas she? Sometimes I think that girlâs madâquite mad. But then perhaps weâre all mad.â

âIâve no patience with this saying that all people who commit crimes are mad,â barked Miss Hinchcliffe. âHorribly and intelligently saneâthatâs what I think a criminal is!â

The sound of a car was heard outside and presently Craddock came in with Colonel and Mrs. Easterbrook and Edmund and Mrs. Swettenham.

They were all curiously subdued.

Colonel Easterbrook said in a voice that was like an echo of his usual tones:

âHa! A good fire.â

Mrs. Easterbrook wouldnât take off her fur coat and sat down close to her husband. Her face, usually pretty and rather vapid, was like a little pinched weasel face. Edmund was in one of his furious moods and scowled at everybody. Mrs. Swettenham made what was evidently a great effort, and which resulted in a kind of parody of herself.

âItâs awfulâisnât it?â she said conversationally. âEverything, I mean. And really the less one says, the better. Because one doesnât know who nextâlike the Plague. Dear Miss Blacklock, donât you think you ought to have a little brandy? Just half a wineglass even? I always think thereâs nothing like brandyâsuch a wonderful stimulant. Iâit seems so terrible of usâforcing our way in here like this, but Inspector Craddock made us come. And it seems so terribleâshe hasnât been found, you know. That poor old thing from the Vicarage, I mean. Bunch Harmon is nearly frantic. Nobody knows where she went instead of going home. She didnât come to us. Iâve not even seen her today. And I should know if she had come to the house because I was in the drawing roomâat the back, you know, and Edmund was in his study writingâand thatâs at the frontâso if sheâd come either way we should have seen. And oh, I do hope and pray that nothing has happened to that dear sweet old thingâall her faculties still and everything.â

âMother,â said Edmund in a voice of acute suffering, âcanât you shut up?â

âIâm sure, dear, I donât want to say a word,â said Mrs. Swettenham, and sat down on the sofa by Julia.

Inspector Craddock stood near the door. Facing him, almost in a row, were the three women. Julia and Mrs. Swettenham on the sofa. Mrs. Easterbrook on the arm of her husbandâs chair. He had not brought about this arrangement, but it suited him very well.

Miss Blacklock and Miss Hinchcliffe were crouching over the fire. Edmund stood near them. Phillipa was far back in the shadows.

Craddock began without preamble.

âYou all know that Miss Murgatroydâs been killed,â he began. âWeâve reason to believe that the person who killed her was a woman. And for certain other reasons we can narrow it down still more. Iâm about to ask certain ladies here to account for what they were doing between the hours of four and four-twenty this afternoon. I have already had an account of her movements fromâfrom the young lady who has been calling herself Miss Simmons. I will ask her to repeat that statement. At the same time, Miss Simmons, I must caution you that you need not answer if you think your answers may incriminate you, and anything you say will be taken down by Constable Edwards and may be used as evidence in court.â

âYou have to say that, donât you?â said Julia. She was rather pale, but composed. âI repeat that between four and four-thirty I was walking along the field leading down to the brook by Compton Farm. I came back to the road by that field with three poplars in it. I didnât meet anyone as far as I can remember. I did not go near Boulders.â

âMrs. Swettenham?â

Edmund said, âAre you cautioning all of us?â

The Inspector turned to him.

âNo. At the moment only Miss Simmons. I have no reason to believe that any other statement made will be incriminating, but anyone, of course, is entitled to have a solicitor present and to refuse to answer questions unless he is present.â

âOh, but that would be very silly and a complete waste of time,â cried Mrs. Swettenham. âIâm sure I can tell you at once exactly what I was doing. Thatâs what you want, isnât it? Shall I begin now?â

âYes, please, Mrs. Swettenham.â

âNow, let me see.â Mrs. Swettenham closed her eyes, opened them again. âOf course I had nothing at all to do with killing Miss Murgatroyd. Iâm sure everybody here knows that. But Iâm a woman of the world, I know quite well that the police have to ask all the most unnecessary questions and write the answers down very carefully, because itâs all for what they call âthe record.â Thatâs it, isnât it?â Mrs. Swettenham flashed the question at the diligent Constable Edwards, and added graciously, âIâm not going too fast for you, I hope?â

Constable Edwards, a good shorthand writer, but with little social savoir faire, turned red to the ears and replied:

âItâs quite all right, madam. Well, perhaps a little slower would be better.â

Mrs. Swettenham resumed her discourse with emphatic pauses where she considered a comma or a full stop might be appropriate.

âWell, of course itâs difficult to sayâexactlyâbecause Iâve not got, really, a very good sense of time. And ever since the war quite half our clocks havenât gone at all, and the ones that do go are often either fast or slow or stop because we havenât wound them up.â Mrs. Swettenham paused to let this picture of confused time sink in and then went on earnestly, âWhat I think I was doing at four oâclock was turning the heel of my sock (and for some extraordinary reason I was going round the wrong wayâin purl, you know, not plain) but if I wasnât doing that, I must have been outside snipping off the dead chrysanthemumsâno, that was earlierâbefore the rain.â

âThe rain,â said the Inspector, âstarted at 4:10 exactly.â

âDid it now? That helps a lot. Of course, I was upstairs putting a wash basin in the passage where the rain always comes through. And it was coming through so fast that I guessed at once that the gutter was stopped up again. So I came down and got my mackintosh and rubber boots. I called Edmund, but he didnât answer, so I thought perhaps heâd got to a very important place in his novel and I wouldnât disturb him, and Iâve done it quite often myself before. With the broom handle, you know, tied on to that long thing you push up windows with.â

âYou mean,â said Craddock, noting bewilderment on his subordinateâs face, âthat you were cleaning out the gutter?â

âYes, it was all choked up with leaves. It took a long time and I got rather wet, but I got it clear at last. And then I went in and got changed and washedâso smelly, dead leavesâand then I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. It was 6:15 by the kitchen clock.â

Constable Edwards blinked.

âWhich means,â finished Mrs. Swettenham triumphantly, âthat it was exactly twenty minutes to five.â

âOr near enough,â she added.

âDid anybody see what you were doing whilst you were out cleaning the gutter?â

âNo, indeed,â said Mrs. Swettenham. âIâd soon have roped them in to help if they had! Itâs a most difficult thing to do single-handed.â

âSo, by your own statement, you were outside, in a mackintosh and boots, at the time when the rain was coming down, and according to you, you were employed during that time in cleaning out a gutter but you have no one who can substantiate that statement?â

âYou can look at the gutter,â said Mrs. Swettenham. âItâs beautifully clear.â

âDid you hear your mother call to you, Mr. Swettenham?â

âNo,â said Edmund. âI was fast asleep.â

âEdmund,â said his mother reproachfully, âI thought you were writing.â

Inspector Craddock turned to Mrs. Easterbrook.

âNow, Mrs. Easterbrook?â

âI was sitting with Archie in his study,â said Mrs. Easterbrook, fixing wide innocent eyes on him. âWe were listening to the wireless together, werenât we, Archie?â

There was a pause. Colonel Easterbrook was very red in the face. He took his wifeâs hand in his.

âYou donât understand these things, kitten,â he said. âIâwell, I must say, Inspector, youâve rather sprung this business on us. My wife, you know, has been terribly upset by all this. Sheâs nervous and highly strung and doesnât appreciate the importance ofâof taking due consideration before she makes a statement.â

âArchie,â cried Mrs. Easterbrook reproachfully, âare you going to say you werenât with me?â

âWell, I wasnât, was I, my dear? I mean oneâs got to stick to the facts. Very important in this sort of inquiry. I was talking to Lampson, the farmer at Croft End, about some chicken netting. That was about a quarter to four. I didnât get home until after the rain had stopped. Just before tea. A quarter to five. Laura was toasting the scones.â

âAnd had you been out also, Mrs. Easterbrook?â

The pretty face looked more like a weaselâs than ever. Her eyes had a trapped look.

âNoâno, I just sat listening to the wireless. I didnât go out. Not then. Iâd been out earlier. Aboutâabout half past three. Just for a little walk. Not far.â

She looked as though she expected more questions, but Craddock said quietly:

âThatâs all, Mrs. Easterbrook.â

He went on: âThese statements will be typed out. You can read them and sign them if they are substantially correct.â

Mrs. Easterbrook looked at him with sudden venom.

âWhy donât you ask the others where they were? That Haymes woman? And Edmund Swettenham? How do you know he was asleep indoors? Nobody saw him.â

Inspector Craddock said quietly:

âMiss Murgatroyd, before she died, made a certain statement. On the night of the hold-up here, someone was absent from this room. Someone who was supposed to have been in the room all the time. Miss Murgatroyd told her friend the names of the people she did see. By a process of elimination, she made the discovery that there was someone she did not see.â

âNobody could see anything,â said Julia.

âMurgatroyd could,â said Miss Hinchcliffe, speaking suddenly in her deep voice. âShe was over there behind the door, where Inspector Craddock is now. She was the only person who could see anything of what was happening.â

âAha! That is what you think, is it!â demanded Mitzi.

She made one of her dramatic entrances, flinging open the door and almost knocking Craddock sideways. She was in a frenzy of excitement.

âAh, you do not ask Mitzi to come in here with the others, do you, you stiff policemen? I am only Mitzi! Mitzi in the kitchen! Let her stay in the kitchen where she belongs! But I tell you that Mitzi, as well as anyone else, and perhaps better, yes, better, can see things. Yes, I see things. I see something the night of the burglary. I see something and I do not quite believe it, and I hold my tongue till now. I think to myself I will not tell what it is I have seen, not yet. I will wait.â

âAnd when everything had calmed down, you meant to ask for a little money from a certain person, eh?â said Craddock.

Mitzi turned on him like an angry cat.

âAnd why not? Why look down your nose? Why should I not be paid for it if I have been so generous as to keep silence? Especially if some day there will be moneyâmuch much money. Oh! I have heard thingsâI know what goes on. I know this Pippemmerâthis secret society of which sheââshe flung a dramatic finger towards Juliaââis an agent. Yes, I would have waited and asked for moneyâbut now I am afraid. I would rather be safe. For soon, perhaps, someone will kill me. So I will tell what I know.â

âAll right then,â said the Inspector sceptically. âWhat do you know?â

âI tell you.â Mitzi spoke solemnly. âOn that night I am not in the pantry cleaning silver as I sayâI am already in the dining room when I hear the gun go off. I look through the keyhole. The hall it is black, but the gun go off again and the torch it fallsâand it swings round as it fallsâand I see her. I see her there close to him with the gun in her hand. I see Miss Blacklock.â

âMe?â Miss Blacklock sat up in astonishment. âYou must be mad!â

âBut thatâs impossible,â cried Edmund. âMitzi couldnât have seen Miss Blacklock.â

Craddock cut in and his voice had the corrosive quality of a deadly acid.

âCouldnât she, Mr. Swettenham? And why not? Because it wasnât Miss Blacklock who was standing there with the gun? It was you, wasnât it?â

âIâof course notâwhat the hell!â

âYou took Colonel Easterbrookâs revolver. You fixed up the business with Rudi Scherzâas a good joke. You had followed Patrick Simmons into the far room and when the lights went out, you slipped out through the carefully oiled door. You shot at Miss Blacklock and then you killed Rudi Scherz. A few seconds later you were back in the drawing room clicking your lighter.â

For a moment Edmund seemed at a loss for words, then he spluttered out:

âThe whole idea is monstrous. Why me? What earthly motive had I got?â

âIf Miss Blacklock dies before Mrs. Goedler, two people inherit, remember. The two we know of as Pip and Emma. Julia Simmons has turned out to be Emmaââ

âAnd you think Iâm Pip?â Edmund laughed. âFantasticâabsolutely fantastic! Iâm about the right ageânothing else. And I can prove to you, you damned fool, that I am Edmund Swettenham. Birth certificate, schools, universityâeverything.â

âHe isnât Pip.â The voice came from the shadows in the corner. Phillipa Haymes came forward, her face pale. âIâm Pip, Inspector.â

âYou, Mrs. Haymes?â

âYes. Everybody seems to have assumed that Pip was a boyâJulia knew, of course, that her twin was another girlâI donât know why she didnât say so this afternoonââ

âFamily solidarity,â said Julia. âI suddenly realized who you were. Iâd had no idea till that moment.â

âIâd had the same idea as Julia did,â said Phillipa, her voice trembling a little. âAfter Iâlost my husband and the war was over, I wondered what I was going to do. My mother died many years ago. I found out about my Goedler relations. Mrs. Goedler was dying and at her death the money would go to a Miss Blacklock. I found out where Miss Blacklock lived and IâI came here. I took a job with Mrs. Lucas. I hoped that, since this Miss Blacklock was an elderly woman without relatives, she might, perhaps, be willing to help. Not me, because I could work, but help with Harryâs education. After all, it was Goedler money and sheâd no one particular of her own to spend it on.

âAnd then,â Phillipa spoke faster, it was as though, now her long reserve had broken down, she couldnât get the words out fast enough, âthat hold-up happened and I began to be frightened. Because it seemed to me that the only possible person with a motive for killing Miss Blacklock was me. I hadnât the least idea who Julia wasâwe arenât identical twins and weâre not much alike to look at. No, it seemed as though I was the only one bound to be suspected.â

She stopped and pushed her fair hair back from her face, and Craddock suddenly realized that the faded snapshot in the box of letters must have been a photograph of Phillipaâs mother. The likeness was undeniable. He knew too why that mention of closing and unclosing hands had seemed familiarâPhillipa was doing it now.

âMiss Blacklock has been good to me. Very very good to meâI didnât try to kill her. I never thought of killing her. But all the same, Iâm Pip.â She added, âYou see, you neednât suspect Edmund any more.â

âNeednât I?â said Craddock. Again there was that acid biting tone in his voice. âEdmund Swettenhamâs a young man whoâs fond of money. A young man, perhaps, who would like to marry a rich wife. But she wouldnât be a rich wife unless Miss Blacklock died before Mrs. Goedler. And since it seemed almost certain that Mrs. Goedler would die before Miss Blacklock, wellâhe had to do something about itâdidnât you, Mr. Swettenham?â

âItâs a damned lie!â Edmund shouted.

And then, suddenly, a sound rose on the air. It came from the kitchenâa long unearthly shriek of terror.

âThat isnât Mitzi!â cried Julia.

âNo,â said Inspector Craddock, âitâs someone whoâs murdered three peopleâ¦.â

Twenty-two

THE TRUTH

When the Inspector turned on Edmund Swettenham, Mitzi had crept quietly out of the room and back to the kitchen. She was running water into the sink when Miss Blacklock entered.

Mitzi gave her a shamefaced sideways look.

âWhat a liar you are, Mitzi,â said Miss Blacklock pleasantly. âHereâthat isnât the way to wash up. The silver first, and fill the sink right up. You canât wash up in about two inches of water.â

Mitzi turned the taps on obediently.

âYou are not angry at what I say, Miss Blacklock?â she asked.

âIf I were to be angry at all the lies you tell, I should never be out of a temper,â said Miss Blacklock.

âI will go and say to the Inspector that I make it all up, shall I?â asked Mitzi.

âHe knows that already,â said Miss Blacklock, pleasantly.

Mitzi turned off the taps and as she did so two hands came up behind her head and with one swift movement forced it down into the water-filled sink.

âOnly I know that youâre telling the truth for once,â said Miss Blacklock viciously.

Mitzi thrashed and struggled but Miss Blacklock was strong and her hands held the girlâs head firmly under water.

Then, from somewhere quite close behind her, Dora Bunnerâs voice rose piteously on the air:

âOh LottyâLottyâdonât do it â¦ Lotty.â

Miss Blacklock screamed. Her hands flew up in the air, and Mitzi, released, came up chocking and spluttering.

Miss Blacklock screamed again and again. For there was no one there in the kitchen with herâ¦.

âDora, Dora, forgive me. I had to â¦ I had toââ

She rushed distractedly towards the scullery doorâand the bulk of Sergeant Fletcher barred her way, just as Miss Marple stepped, flushed and triumphant, out of the broom cupboard.

âI could always mimic peopleâs voices,â said Miss Marple.

âYouâll have to come with me, Madam,â said Sergeant Fletcher. âI was a witness of your attempt to drown this girl. And there will be other charges. I must warn you, Letitia Blacklockââ

âCharlotte Blacklock,â corrected Miss Marple. âThatâs who she is, you know. Under that choker of pearls she always wears youâll find the scar of the operation.â

âOperation?â

âOperation for goitre.â

Miss Blacklock, quite calm now, looked at Miss Marple.

âSo you know all about it?â she said.

âYes, Iâve known for some time.â

Charlotte Blacklock sat down by the table and began to cry.

âYou shouldnât have done that,â she said. âNot made Doraâs voice come. I loved Dora. I really loved Dora.â

Inspector Craddock and the others had crowded in the doorway.

Constable Edwards, who added a knowledge of first aid and artificial respiration to his other accomplishments, was busy with Mitzi. As soon as Mitzi could speak she was lyrical with self-praise.

âI do that good, do I not? I am clever! And I am brave! Oh, I am brave! Very very nearly was I murdered, too. But I was so brave I risk everything.â

With a rush Miss Hinchcliffe thrust aside the others and leapt upon the weeping figure of Charlotte Blacklock by the table.

It took all Sergeant Fletcherâs strength to hold her off.

âNow thenââ he said. âNow thenâno, no, Miss Hinchcliffeââ

Between clenched teeth Miss Hinchcliffe was muttering:

âLet me get at her. Just let me get at her. It was she who killed Amy Murgatroyd.â

Charlotte Blacklock looked up and sniffed.

âI didnât want to kill her. I didnât want to kill anybodyâI had toâbut itâs Dora I mind aboutâafter Dora was dead, I was all aloneâever since she diedâIâve been aloneâoh, DoraâDoraââ

And once again she dropped her head on her hands and wept.

Twenty-three

EVENING AT THE VICARAGE

Miss Marple sat in the tall armchair. Bunch was on the floor in front of the fire with her arms round her knees.

The Reverend Julian Harmon was leaning forward and was for once looking more like a schoolboy than a man foreshadowing his own maturity. And Inspector Craddock was smoking his pipe and drinking a whisky and soda and was clearly very much off duty. An outer circle was composed of Julia, Patrick, Edmund and Phillipa.

âI think itâs your story, Miss Marple,â said Craddock.

âOh no, my dear boy. I only just helped a little, here and there. You were in charge of the whole thing, and conducted it all, and you know so much that I donât.â

âWell, tell it together,â said Bunch impatiently. âBit each. Only let Aunt Jane start because I like the muddly way her mind works. When did you first think that the whole thing was a put-up job by Blacklock?â

âWell, my dear Bunch, itâs hard to say. Of course, right at the very beginning, it did seem as though the ideal personâor rather the obvious person, I should sayâto have arranged the hold-up was Miss Blacklock herself. She was the only person who was known to have been in contact with Rudi Scherz, and how much easier to arrange something like that when itâs your own house. The central heating, for instance. No firesâbecause that would have meant light in the room. But the only person who could have arranged not to have a fire was the mistress of the house herself.

âNot that I thought of all that at the timeâit just seemed to me that it was a pity it couldnât be as simple as that! Oh, no, I was taken in like everyone else, I thought that someone really did want to kill Letitia Blacklock.â

âI think Iâd like to get clear first on what really happened,â said Bunch. âDid this Swiss boy recognize her?â

âYes. Heâd worked inââ

She hesitated and looked at Craddock.

âIn Dr. Adolf Kochâs clinic in Berne,â said Craddock. âKoch was a world-famous specialist on operations for goitre. Charlotte Blacklock went there to have her goitre removed and Rudi Scherz was one of the orderlies. When he came to England he recognized in the hotel a lady who had been a patient and on the spur of the moment he spoke to her. I dare say he mightnât have done that if heâd paused to think, because he left the place under a cloud, but that was some time after Charlotte had been there, so she wouldnât know anything about it.â

âSo he never said anything to her about Montreux and his father being a hotel proprietor?â

âOh, no, she made that up to account for his having spoken to her.â

âIt must have been a great shock to her,â said Miss Marple, thoughtfully. âShe felt reasonably safeâand thenâthe almost impossible mischance of somebody turning up who had known herânot as one of the two Miss Blacklocksâshe was prepared for thatâbut definitely as Charlotte Blacklock, a patient whoâd been operated on for goitre.

âBut you wanted to go through it all from the beginning. Well, the beginning, I thinkâif Inspector Craddock agrees with meâwas when Charlotte Blacklock, a pretty, lighthearted affectionate girl, developed that enlargement of the thryoid gland thatâs called a goitre. It ruined her life, because she was a very sensitive girl. A girl, too, who had always set a lot of stress on her personal appearance. And girls just at that age in their teens are particularly sensitive about themselves. If sheâd had a mother, or a reasonable father, I donât think she would have got into the morbid state she undoubtedly did get into. She had no one, you see, to take her out of herself, and force her to see people and lead a normal life and not think too much about her infirmity. And, of course, in a different household, she might have been sent for an operation many years earlier.

âBut Dr. Blacklock, I think, was an old-fashioned, narrow-minded, tyrannical and obstinate man. He didnât believe in these operations. Charlotte must take it from him that nothing could be doneâapart from dosage with iodine and other drugs. Charlotte did take it from him, and I think her sister also placed more faith in Dr. Blacklockâs powers as a physician than he deserved.

âCharlotte was devoted to her father in a rather weak and soppy way. She thought, definitely, that her father knew best. But she shut herself up more and more as the goitre became larger and more unsightly, and refused to see people. She was actually a kindly affectionate creature.â

âThatâs an odd description of a murderess,â said Edmund.

âI donât know that it is,â said Miss Marple. âWeak and kindly people are often very treacherous. And if theyâve got a grudge against life it saps the little moral strength that they may possess.

âLetitia Blacklock, of course, had quite a different personality. Inspector Craddock told me that Belle Goedler described her as really goodâand I think Letitia was good. She was a woman of great integrity who foundâas she put it herselfâa great difficulty in understanding how people couldnât see what was dishonest. Letitia Blacklock, however tempted, would never have contemplated any kind of fraud for a moment.

âLetitia was devoted to her sister. She wrote her long accounts of everything that happened in an effort to keep her sister in touch with life. She was worried by the morbid state Charlotte was getting into.

âFinally Dr. Blacklock died. Letitia, without hesitation, threw up her position with Randall Goedler and devoted herself to Charlotte. She took her to Switzerland, to consult authorities there on the possibility of operating. It had been left very lateâbut as we know the operation was successful. The deformity was goneâand the scar this operation had left was easily hidden by a choker of pearls or beads.

âThe war had broken out. A return to England was difficult and the two sisters stayed in Switzerland doing various Red Cross and other work. Thatâs right, isnât it, Inspector?â

âYes, Miss Marple.â

âThey got occasional news from Englandâamongst other things, I expect, they heard that Belle Goedler could not live long. Iâm sure it would be only human nature for them both to have planned and talked together of the days ahead when a big fortune would be theirs to spend. One has got to realize, I think, that this prospect meant much more to Charlotte than it did to Letitia. For the first time in her life, Charlotte could go about feeling herself a normal woman, a woman at whom no one looked with either repulsion or pity. She was free at last to enjoy lifeâand she had a whole lifetime, as it were, to crowd into her remaining years. To travel, to have a house and beautiful groundsâto have clothes and jewels, and go to plays and concerts, to gratify every whimâit was all a kind of fairy tale come true to Charlotte.

âAnd then Letitia, the strong healthy Letitia, got flu which turned to pneumonia and died within the space of a week! Not only had Charlotte lost her sister, but the whole dream existence she had planned for herself was cancelled. I think, you know, that she may have felt almost resentful towards Letitia. Why need Letitia have died, just then, when they had just had a letter saying Belle Goedler could not last long? Just one more month, perhaps, and the money would have been Letitiaâsâand hers when Letitia diedâ¦.

âNow this is where I think the difference between the two came in. Charlotte didnât really feel that what she suddenly thought of doing was wrongânot really wrong. The money was meant to come to Letitiaâit would have come to Letitia in the course of a few monthsâand she regarded herself and Letitia as one.

âPerhaps the idea didnât occur to her until the doctor or someone asked her her sisterâs Christian nameâand then she realized how to nearly everyone they had appeared as the two Miss Blacklocksâelderly, well-bred Englishwomen, dressed much the same, with a strong family resemblanceâ(and, as I pointed out to Bunch, one elderly woman is so like another). Why shouldnât it be Charlotte who had died and Letitia who was alive?

âIt was an impulse, perhaps, more than a plan. Letitia was buried under Charlotteâs name. âCharlotteâ was dead, âLetitiaâ came to England. All the natural initiative and energy, dormant for so many years, were now in the ascendant. As Charlotte she had played second fiddle. She now assumed the airs of command, the feeling of command that had been Letitiaâs. They were not really so unlike in mentalityâthough there was, I think, a big difference morally.

âCharlotte had, of course, to take one or two obvious precautions. She bought a house in a part of England quite unknown to her. The only people she had to avoid were a few people in her own native town in Cumberland (where in any case sheâd lived as a recluse) and, of course, Belle Goedler who had known Letitia so well that any impersonation would have been out of the question. Handwriting difficulties were got over by the arthritic condition of her hands. It was really very easy because so few people had ever really known Charlotte.â

âBut supposing sheâd met people whoâd known Letitia?â asked Bunch. âThere must have been plenty of those.â

âThey wouldnât matter in the same way. Someone might say: âI came across Letitia Blacklock the other day. Sheâs changed so much I really wouldnât have known her.â But there still wouldnât be any suspicion in their minds that she wasnât Letitia. People do change in the course of ten years. Her failure to recognize them could always be put down to her shortsightedness; and you must remember that she knew every detail of Letitiaâs life in Londonâthe people she metâthe places she went. Sheâd got Letitiaâs letters to refer to, and she could quickly have disarmed any suspicion by mention of some incident, or an inquiry after a mutual friend. No, it was recognition as Charlotte that was the only thing she had to fear.

âShe settled down at Little Paddocks, got to know her neighbours and, when she got a letter asking dear Letitia to be kind, she accepted with pleasure the visit of two young cousins she had never seen. Their acceptance of her as Aunt Letty increased her security.

âThe whole thing was going splendidly. And thenâshe made her big mistake. It was a mistake that arose solely from her kindness of heart and her naturally affectionate nature. She got a letter from an old school friend who had fallen on evil days, and she hurried to the rescue. Perhaps it may have been partly because she was, in spite of everything, lonely. Her secret kept her in a way apart from people. And she had been genuinely fond of Dora Bunner and remembered her as a symbol of her own gay carefree days at school. Anyway, on an impulse, she answered Doraâs letter in person. And very surprised Dora must have been! Sheâd written to Letitia and the sister who turned up in answer to her letter was Charlotte. There was never any question of pretending to be Letitia to Dora. Dora was one of the few old friends who had been admitted to see Charlotte in her lonely and unhappy days.

âAnd because she knew that Dora would look at the matter in exactly the same way as she did herself, she told Dora what she had done. Dora approved wholeheartedly. In her confused muddle-headed mind it seemed only right that dear Lotty should not be done out of her inheritance by Lettyâs untimely death. Lotty deserved a reward for all the patient suffering she had borne so bravely. It would have been most unfair if all that money should have gone to somebody nobody had ever heard of.

âShe quite understood that nothing must be allowed to get out. It was like an extra pound of butter. You couldnât talk about it but there was nothing wrong about having it. So Dora came to Little Paddocksâand very soon Charlotte began to understand that she had made a terrible mistake. It was not merely the fact that Dora Bunner, with her muddles and her mistakes and her bungling, was quite maddening to live with. Charlotte could have put up with thatâbecause she really cared for Dora, and anyway knew from the doctor that Dora hadnât got a very long time to live. But Dora very soon became a real danger. Though Charlotte and Letitia had called each other by their full names, Dora was the kind of person who always used abbreviations. To her the sisters had always been Letty and Lotty. And though she schooled her tongue resolutely to call her friend Lettyâthe old name often slipped out. Memories of the past, too, were rather apt to come to her tongueâand Charlotte had constantly to be on the watch to check these forgetful allusions. It began to get on her nerves.

âStill, nobody was likely to pay attention to Doraâs inconsistencies. The real blow to Charlotteâs security came, as I say, when she was recognized and spoken to by Rudi Scherz at the Royal Spa Hotel.

âI think that the money Rudi Scherz used to replace his earlier defalcations at the hotel may have come from Charlotte Blacklock. Inspector Craddock doesnât believeâand I donât eitherâthat Rudi Scherz applied to her for money with any idea of blackmail in his head.â

âHe hadnât the faintest idea he knew anything to blackmail her about,â said Inspector Craddock. âHe knew that he was quite a personable young manâand he was aware by experience that personable young men sometimes can get money out of elderly ladies if they tell a hard-luck story convincingly enough.

âBut she may have seen it differently. She may have thought that it was a form of insidious blackmail, that perhaps he suspected somethingâand that later, if there was publicity in the papers as there might be after Belle Goedlerâs death, he would realize that in her he had found a gold mine.

âAnd she was committed to the fraud now. Sheâd established herself as Letitia Blacklock. With the Bank. With Mrs. Goedler. The only snag was this rather dubious Swiss hotel clerk, an unreliable character, and possibly a blackmailer. If only he were out of the wayâsheâd be safe.

âPerhaps she made it all up as a kind of fantasy first. Sheâd been starved of emotion and drama in her life. She pleased herself by working out the details. How would she go about getting rid of him?

âShe made her plan. And at last she decided to act on it. She told her story of a sham hold-up at a party to Rudi Scherz, explained that she wanted a stranger to act the part of the âgangster,â and offered him a generous sum for his cooperation.

âAnd the fact that he agreed without any suspicion is what makes me quite certain that Scherz had no idea that he had any kind of hold over her. To him she was just a rather foolish old woman, very ready to part with money.

âShe gave him the advertisement to insert, arranged for him to pay a visit to Little Paddocks to study the geography of the house, and showed him the spot where she would meet him and let him into the house on the night in question. Dora Bunner, of course, knew nothing about all this.

âThe day cameââ He paused.

Miss Marple took up the tale in her gentle voice.

âShe must have spent a very miserable day. You see, it still wasnât too late to draw back â¦ Dora Bunner told us that Letty was frightened that day and she must have been frightened. Frightened of what she was going to do, frightened of the plan going wrongâbut not frightened enough to draw back.

âIt had been fun, perhaps, getting the revolver out of Colonel Easterbrookâs collar drawer. Taking along eggs, or jamâslipping upstairs in the empty house. It had been fun getting the second door in the drawing room oiled, so that it would open and shut noiselessly. Fun suggesting the moving of the table outside the door so that Phillipaâs flower arrangements would show to better advantage. It may have all seemed like a game. But what was going to happen next definitely wasnât a game any longer. Oh, yes, she was frightened â¦ Dora Bunner was right about that.â

âAll the same, she went through with it,â said Craddock. âAnd it all went according to plan. She went out just after six to âshut up the ducks,â and she let Scherz in then and gave him the mask and cloak and gloves and the torch. Then, at 6:30, when the clock begins to chime, sheâs ready by that table near the archway with her hand on the cigarette box. Itâs all so natural. Patrick, acting as host, has gone for the drinks. She, the hostess, is fetching the cigarettes. Sheâd judged, quite correctly, that when the clock begins to chime, everyone will look at the clock. They did. Only one person, the devoted Dora, kept her eyes fixed on her friend. And she told us, in her very first statement, exactly what Miss Blacklock did. She said that Miss Blacklock had picked up the vase of violets.

âSheâd previously frayed the cord of the lamp so that the wires were nearly bare. The whole thing only took a second. The cigarette box, the vase and the little switch were all close together. She picked up the violets, spilt the water on the frayed place and switched on the lamp. Waterâs a good conductor of electricity. The wires fused.â

âJust like the other afternoon at the Vicarage,â said Bunch. âThatâs what startled you so, wasnât it, Aunt Jane?â

âYes, my dear. Iâve been puzzling about those lights. Iâd realized that there were two lamps, a pair, and that one had been changed for the otherâprobably during the night.â

âThatâs right,â said Craddock. âWhen Fletcher examined that lamp the next morning it was, like all the others, perfectly in order, no frayed flex or fused wires.â

âIâd understood what Dora Bunner meant by saying it had been the shepherdess the night before,â said Miss Marple, âbut I fell into the error of thinking, as she thought, that Patrick had been responsible. The interesting thing about Dora Bunner was that she was quite unreliable in repeating things she had heardâshe always used her imagination to exaggerate or distort them, and she was usually wrong in what she thoughtâbut she was quite accurate about the things she saw. She saw Letitia pick up the violetsââ

âAnd she saw what she described as a flash and a crackle,â put in Craddock.

âAnd, of course, when dear Bunch spilt the water from the Christmas roses on to the lamp wireâI realized at once that only Miss Blacklock herself could have fused the lights because only she was near that table.â

âI could kick myself,â said Craddock. âDora Bunner even prattled about a burn on the table where someone had âput their cigarette downââbut nobody had even lit a cigarette â¦ And the violets were dead because there was no water in the vaseâa slip on Letitiaâs partâshe ought to have filled it up again. But I suppose she thought nobody would notice and as a matter of fact Miss Bunner was quite ready to believe that she herself had put no water in the vase to begin with.â

He went on:

âShe was highly suggestible, of course. And Miss Blacklock took advantage of that more than once. Bunnyâs suspicions of Patrick were, I think, induced by her.â

âWhy pick on me?â demanded Patrick in an aggrieved tone.

âIt was not, I think, a serious suggestionâbut it would keep Bunny distracted from any suspicion that Miss Blacklock might be stage managering the business. Well, we know what happened next. As soon as the lights went and everyone was exclaiming, she slipped out through the previously oiled door and up behind Rudi Scherz who was flashing his torch round the room and playing his part with gusto. I donât suppose he realized for a moment she was there behind him with her gardening gloves pulled on and the revolver in her hand. She waits till the torch reaches the spot she must aim forâthe wall near which she is supposed to be standing. Then she fires rapidly twice and as he swings round startled, she holds the revolver close to his body and fires again. She lets the revolver fall by his body, throws her gloves carelessly on the hall table, then back through the other door and across to where she had been standing when the lights went out. She nicked her earâI donât quite know howââ

âNail scissors, I expect,â said Miss Marple. âJust a snip on the lobe of the ear lets out a lot of blood. That was very good psychology, of course. The actual blood running down over her white blouse made it seem certain that she had been shot at, and that it had been a near miss.â

âIt ought to have gone off quite all right,â said Craddock. âDora Bunnerâs insistence that Scherz had definitely aimed at Miss Blacklock had its uses. Without meaning it, Dora Bunner conveyed the impression that sheâd actually seen her friend wounded. It might have been brought in Suicide or Accidental Death. And the case would have been closed. That it was kept open is due to Miss Marple here.â

âOh, no, no.â Miss Marple shook her head energetically. âAny little efforts on my part were quite incidental. It was you who werenât satisfied, Mr. Craddock. It was you who wouldnât let the case be closed.â

âI wasnât happy about it,â said Craddock. âI knew it was all wrong somewhere. But I didnât see where it was wrong, till you showed me. And after that Miss Blacklock had a real piece of bad luck. I discovered that that second door had been tampered with. Until that moment, whatever we agreed might have happenedâweâd nothing to go upon but a pretty theory. But that oiled door was evidence. And I hit upon it by pure chanceâby catching hold of a handle by mistake.â

âI think you were led to it, Inspector,â said Miss Marple. âBut then Iâm old-fashioned.â

âSo the hunt was up again,â said Craddock. âBut this time with a difference. We were looking now for someone with a motive to kill Letitia Blacklock.â

âAnd there was someone with a motive, and Miss Blacklock knew it,â said Miss Marple. âI think she recognized Phillipa almost at once. Because Sonia Goedler seems to have been one of the very few people who had been admitted to Charlotteâs privacy. And when one is old (you wouldnât know this yet, Mr. Craddock) one has a much better memory for a face youâve seen when you were young than you have for anyone youâve only met a year or two ago. Phillipa must have been just about the same age as her mother was when Charlotte remembered her, and she was very like her mother. The odd thing is that I think Charlotte was very pleased to recognize Phillipa. She became very fond of Phillipa and I think, unconsciously, it helped to stifle any qualms of conscience she may have had. She told herself that when she inherited the money, she was going to look after Phillipa. She would treat her as a daughter. Phillipa and Harry should live with her. She felt quite happy and beneficent about it. But once the Inspector began asking questions and finding out about âPip and Emmaâ Charlotte became very uneasy. She didnât want to make a scapegoat of Phillipa. Her whole idea had been to make the business look like a hold-up by a young criminal and his accidental death. But now, with the discovery of the oiled door, the whole viewpoint was changed. And, except for Phillipa, there wasnât (as far as she knew, for she had absolutely no idea of Juliaâs identity) anyone with the least possible motive for wishing to kill her. She did her best to shield Phillipaâs identity. She was quick-witted enough to tell you when you asked her, that Sonia was small and dark and she took the old snapshots out of the album so that you shouldnât notice any resemblance at the same time as she removed snapshots of Letitia herself.â

âAnd to think I suspected Mrs. Swettenham of being Sonia Goedler,â said Craddock disgustedly.

âMy poor mamma,â murmured Edmund. âA woman of blameless lifeâor so I have always believed.â

âBut of course,â Miss Marple went on, âit was Dora Bunner who was the real danger. Every day Dora got more forgetful and more talkative. I remember the way Miss Blacklock looked at her the day we went to tea there. Do you know why? Dora had just called her Lotty again. It seemed to us a mere harmless slip of the tongue. But it frightened Charlotte. And so it went on. Poor Dora could not stop herself talking. That day we had coffee together in the Bluebird, I had the oddest impression that Dora was talking about two people, not oneâand so, of course, she was. At one moment she spoke of her friend as not pretty but having so much characterâbut almost at the same moment she described her as a pretty lighthearted girl. Sheâd talk of Letty as so clever and so successfulâand then say what a sad life sheâd had, and then there was that quotation about stern affliction bravely borneâwhich really didnât seem to fit Letitiaâs life at all. Charlotte must, I think, have overheard a good deal that morning she came into the cafÃ©. She certainly must have heard Dora mention about the lamp having been changedâabout its being the shepherd and not the shepherdess. And she realized then what a very real danger to her security poor devoted Dora Bunner was.

âIâm afraid that that conversation with me in the cafÃ© really sealed Doraâs fateâif youâll excuse such a melodramatic expression. But I think it would have come to the same in the end â¦ Because life couldnât be safe for Charlotte while Dora Bunner was alive. She loved Doraâshe didnât want to kill Doraâbut she couldnât see any other way. And, I expect (like Nurse Ellerton that I was telling you about, Bunch) she persuaded herself that it was almost a kindness. Poor Bunnyânot long to live anyway and perhaps a painful end. The queer thing is that she did her best to make Bunnyâs last day a happy day. The birthday partyâand the special cakeâ¦.â

âDelicious Death,â said Phillipa with a shudder.

âYesâyes, it was rather like that â¦ she tried to give her friend a delicious death â¦ The party, and all the things she liked to eat, and trying to stop people saying things to upset her. And then the tablets, whatever they were, in the aspirin bottle by her own bed so that Bunny, when she couldnât find the new bottle of aspirin sheâd just bought, would go there to get some. And it would look, as it did look, that the tablets had been meant for Letitia. â¦

âAnd so Bunny died in her sleep, quite happily, and Charlotte felt safe again. But she missed Dora Bunnerâshe missed her affection and her loyalty, she missed being able to talk to her about the old days â¦ She cried bitterly the day I came up with that note from Julianâand her grief was quite genuine. Sheâd killed her own dear friendâ¦.â

âThatâs horrible,â said Bunch. âHorrible.â

âBut itâs very human,â said Julian Harmon. âOne forgets how human murderers are.â

âI know,â said Miss Marple. âHuman. And often very much to be pitied. But very dangerous, too. Especially a weak kindly murderer like Charlotte Blacklock. Because, once a weak person gets really frightened, they get quite savage with terror and theyâve no self-control at all.â

âMurgatroyd?â said Julian.

âYes, poor Miss Murgatroyd. Charlotte must have come up to the cottage and heard them rehearsing the murder. The window was open and she listened. It had never occurred to her until that moment that there was anyone else who could be a danger to her. Miss Hinchcliffe was urging her friend to remember what sheâd seen and until that moment Charlotte hadnât realized that anyone could have seen anything at all. Sheâd assumed that everybody would automatically be looking at Rudi Scherz. She must have held her breath outside the window and listened. Was it going to be all right? And then, just as Miss Hinchcliffe rushed off to the station Miss Murgatroyd got to a point which showed that she had stumbled on the truth. She called after Miss Hinchcliffe: âShe wasnât there.â¦â

âI asked Miss Hinchcliffe, you know, if that was the way she said it â¦ Because if sheâd said âShe wasnât thereâ it wouldnât have meant the same thing.â

âNow thatâs too subtle a point for me,â said Craddock.

Miss Marple turned her eager pink and white face to him.

âJust think whatâs going on in Miss Murgatroydâs mind â¦ One does see things, you know, and not know one sees them. In a railway accident once, I remember noticing a large blister of paint at the side of the carriage. I could have drawn it for you afterwards. And once, when there was a flying bomb in Londonâsplinters of glass everywhereâand the shockâbut what I remember best is a woman standing in front of me who had a big hole halfway up the leg of her stockings and the stockings didnât match. So when Miss Murgatroyd stopped thinking and just tried to remember what she saw, she remembered a good deal.

âShe started, I think, near the mantelpiece, where the torch must have hit firstâthen it went along the two windows and there were people in between the windows and her. Mrs. Harmon with her knuckles screwed into her eyes for instance. She went on in her mind following the torch past Miss Bunner with her mouth open and her eyes staringâpast a blank wall and a table with a lamp and a cigarette box. And then came the shotsâand quite suddenly she remembered a most incredible thing. Sheâd seen the wall where, later, there were the two bullet holes, the wall where Letitia Blacklock had been standing when she was shot, and at the moment when the revolver went off and Letty was shot, Letty hadnât been there.â¦

âYou see what I mean now? Sheâd been thinking of the three women Miss Hinchcliffe had told her to think about. If one of them hadnât been there, it would have been the personality sheâd have fastened upon. Sheâd have saidâin effectââThatâs the one! She wasnât there;â But it was a place that was in her mindâa place where someone should have beenâbut the place wasnât filledâthere wasnât anybody there. The place was thereâbut the person wasnât. And she couldnât take it in all at once. âHow extraordinary, Hinch,â she said. âShe wasnât thereââ¦ So that could only mean Letitia Blacklockâ¦.â

âBut you knew before that, didnât you?â said Bunch. âWhen the lamp fused. When you wrote down those things on the paper.â

âYes, my dear. It all came together then, you seeâall the various isolated bitsâand made a coherent pattern.â

Bunch quoted softly:

âLamp? Yes. Violets? Yes. Bottle of Aspirin. You meant that Bunny had been going to buy a new bottle that day, and so she ought not to have needed to take Letitiaâs?â

âNot unless her own bottle had been taken or hidden. It had to appear as though Letitia Blacklock was the one meant to be killed.â

âYes, I see. And then âDelicious Death.â The cakeâbut more than the cake. The whole party setup. A happy day for Bunny before she died. Treating her rather like a dog you were going to destroy. Thatâs what I find the most horrible thing of allâthe sort ofâof spurious kindness.â

âShe was quite a kindly woman. What she said at the last in the kitchen was quite true. âI didnât want to kill anybody.â What she wanted was a great deal of money that didnât belong to her! And before that desireâ(and it had become a kind of obsessionâthe money was to pay her back for all the suffering life had inflicted on her)âeverything else went to the wall. People with a grudge against the world are always dangerous. They seem to think life owes them something. Iâve known many an invalid who has suffered far worse and been cut off from life much more than Charlotte Blacklockâand theyâve managed to lead happy contented lives. Itâs what in yourself that makes you happy or unhappy. But, oh dear, Iâm afraid Iâm straying away from what we were talking about. Where were we?â

âGoing over your list,â said Bunch. âWhat did you mean by âMaking enquiries?â Inquiries about what?â

Miss Marple shook her head playfully at Inspector Craddock.

âYou ought to have seen that, Inspector Craddock. You showed me that letter from Letitia Blacklock to her sister. It had the word âenquiriesâ in it twiceâeach time spelt with an e. But in the note I asked Bunch to show you, Miss Blacklock had written âinquiriesâ with an i. People donât often alter their spelling as they get older. It seemed to me very significant.â

âYes,â Craddock agreed. âI ought to have spotted that.â

Bunch was continuing. âSevere afflictions bravely borne. Thatâs what Bunny said to you in the cafÃ© and of course Letitia hadnât had any affliction. Iodine. That put you on the track of goitre?â

âYes, dear. Switzerland, you know, and Miss Blacklock giving the impression that her sister had died of consumption. But I remembered then that the greatest authorities on goitre and the most skillful surgeons operating on it are Swiss. And it linked up with those really preposterous pearls that Letitia Blacklock always wore. Not really her styleâbut just right for concealing the scar.â

âI understand now her agitation the night the string broke,â said Craddock. âIt seemed at the time quite disproportionate.â

âAnd after that, it was Lotty you wrote, not Letty as we thought,â said Bunch.

âYes, I remembered that the sisterâs name was Charlotte, and that Dora Bunner had called Miss Blacklock Lotty once or twiceâand that each time she did so, she had been very upset afterwards.â

âAnd what about Berne and Old Age Pensions?â

âRudi Scherz had been an orderly in a hospital in Berne.â

âAnd Old Age Pension.â

âOh, my dear Bunch, I mentioned that to you in the Bluebird though I didnât really see the application then. How Mrs. Wotherspoon drew Mrs. Bartlettâs Old Age Pension as well as her ownâthough Mrs. Bartlett had been dead for yearsâsimply because one old woman is so like another old womanâyes, it all made a pattern and I felt so worked up I went out to cool my head a little and think what could be done about proving all this. Then Miss Hinchcliffe picked me up and we found Miss Murgatroydâ¦.â

Miss Marpleâs voice dropped. It was no longer excited and pleased. It was quiet and remorseless.

âI knew then something had got to be done. Quickly! But there still wasnât any proof. I thought out a possible plan and I talked to Sergeant Fletcher.â

âAnd I have had Fletcher on the carpet for it!â said Craddock. âHeâd no business to go agreeing to your plans without reporting first to me.â

âHe didnât like it, but I talked him into it,â said Miss Marple. âWe went up to Little Paddocks and I got hold of Mitzi.â

Julia drew a deep breath and said, âI canât imagine how you ever got her to do it.â

âI worked on her, my dear,â said Miss Marple. âShe thinks far too much about herself anyway, and it will be good for her to have done something for others. I flattered her up, of course, and said I was sure if sheâd been in her own country sheâd have been in the Resistance movement, and she said, âYes, indeed.â And I said I could see she had got just the temperament for that sort of work. She was brave, didnât mind taking risks, and could act a part. I told her stories of deeds done by girls in the Resistance movements, some of them true, and some of them, Iâm afraid, invented. She got tremendously worked up!â

âMarvellous,â said Patrick.

âAnd then I got her to agree to do her part. I rehearsed her till she was word perfect. Then I told her to go upstairs to her room and not come down until Inspector Craddock came. The worst of these excitable people is that theyâre apt to go off half-cocked and start the whole thing before the time.â

âShe did it very well,â said Julia.

âI donât quite see the point,â said Bunch. âOf course, I wasnât thereââ she added apologetically.

âThe point was a little complicatedâand rather touch and go. The idea was that Mitzi whilst admitting, as though casually, that blackmail had been in her mind, was now so worked up and terrified that she was willing to come out with the truth. Sheâd seen, through the keyhole of the dining room, Miss Blacklock in the hall with a revolver behind Rudi Scherz. Sheâd seen, that is, what had actually taken place. Now the only danger was that Charlotte Blacklock might have realized that, as the key was in the keyhole, Mitzi couldnât possibly have seen anything at all. But I banked on the fact that you donât think of things like that when youâve just had a bad shock. All she could take in was that Mitzi had seen her.â

Craddock took over the story.

âButâand this was essentialâI pretended to receive this with scepticism, and I made an immediate attack as though unmasking my batteries at last, upon someone who had not been previously suspected. I accused Edmundââ

âAnd very nicely I played my part,â said Edmund. âHot denial. All according to plan. What wasnât according to plan, Phillipa, my love, was you throwing in your little chirp and coming out into the open as âPip.â Neither the Inspector nor I had any idea you were Pip. I was going to be Pip! It threw us off our stride for the moment, but the Inspector made a masterly comeback and made some perfectly filthy insinuations about my wanting a rich wife which will probably stick in your subconscious and make irreparable trouble between us one day.â

âI donât see why that was necessary?â

âDonât you? It meant that, from Charlotte Blacklockâs point of view, the only person who suspected or knew the truth, was Mitzi. The suspicions of the police were elsewhere. They had treated Mitzi for the moment as a liar. But if Mitzi were to persist, they might listen to her and take her seriously. So Mitzi had got to be silenced.â

âMitzi went straight out of the room and back to the kitchenâjust like I had told her,â said Miss Marple. âMiss Blacklock came out after her almost immediately. Mitzi was apparently alone in the kitchen. Sergeant Fletcher was behind the scullery door. And I was in the broom cupboard in the kitchen. Luckily Iâm very thin.â

Bunch looked at Miss Marple.

âWhat did you expect to happen, Aunt Jane?â

âOne of two things. Either Charlotte would offer Mitzi money to hold her tongueâand Sergeant Fletcher would be a witness to that offer, or elseâor else I thought sheâd try to kill Mitzi.â

âBut she couldnât hope to get away with that? Sheâd have been suspected at once.â

âOh, my dear, she was past reasoning. She was just a snapping terrified cornered rat. Think what had happened that day. The scene between Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd. Miss Hinchcliffe driving off to the station. As soon as she comes back Miss Murgatroyd will explain that Letitia Blacklock wasnât in the room that night. Thereâs just a few minutes in which to make sure Miss Murgatroyd canât tell anything. No time to make a plan or set a stage. Just crude murder. She greets the poor woman and strangles her. Then a quick rush home, to change, to be sitting by the fire when the others come in, as though sheâd never been out.

âAnd then came the revelation of Juliaâs identity. She breaks her pearls and is terrified they may notice her scar. Later, the Inspector telephones that heâs bringing everyone there. No time to think, to rest. Up to her neck in murder now, no mercy killingâor undesirable young man to be put out of the way. Crude plain murder. Is she safe? Yes, so far. And then comes Mitziâyet another danger. Kill Mitzi, stop her tongue! Sheâs beside herself with fear. Not human any longer. Just a dangerous animal.â

âBut why were you in the broom cupboard, Aunt Jane?â asked Bunch. âCouldnât you have left it to Sergeant Fletcher?â

âIt was safer with two of us, my dear. And besides, I knew I could mimic Dora Bunnerâs voice. If anything could break Charlotte Blacklock downâthat would.â

âAnd it did â¦!â

âYes â¦ She went to pieces.â

There was a long silence as memory laid hold of them and then, speaking with determined lightness, to ease the strain, Julia said:

âItâs made a wonderful difference to Mitzi. She told me yesterday that she was taking a post near Southampton. And she said (Julia produced a very good imitation of Mitziâs accent):

ââI go there and if they say to me you have to register with the policeâyou are an alien, I say to them, âYes, I will register! The police, they know me very well. I assist the police! Without me the police never would they have made the arrest of a very dangerous criminal. I risked my life because I am braveâbrave like a lionâI do not care about risks.â âMitzi,â they say to me, âyou are a heroine, you are superb.â âAch, it is nothing, I say.âââ

Julia stopped.

âAnd a great deal more,â she added.

âI think,â said Edmund thoughtfully, âthat soon Mitzi will have assisted the police in not one but hundreds of cases!â

âSheâs softened towards me,â said Phillipa. âShe actually presented me with the recipe for Delicious Death as a kind of wedding present. She added that I was on no account to divulge the secret to Julia, because Julia had ruined her omelette pan.â

âMrs. Lucas,â said Edmund, âis all over Phillipa now that since Belle Goedlerâs death Phillipa and Julia have inherited the Goedler millions. She sent us some silver asparagus tongs as a wedding present. I shall have enormous pleasure in not asking her to the wedding!â

âAnd so they lived happily ever after,â said Patrick. âEdmund and Phillipaâand Julia and Patrick?â he added tentatively.

âNot with me, you wonât live happily ever after,â said Julia. âThe remarks that Inspector Craddock improvised to address to Edmund apply far more aptly to you. You are the sort of soft young man who would like a rich wife. Nothing doing!â

âThereâs gratitude for you,â said Patrick. âAfter all I did for that girl.â

âNearly landed me in prison on a murder chargeâthatâs what your forgetfulness nearly did for me,â said Julia. âI shall never forget that evening when your sisterâs letter came. I really thought I was for it. I couldnât see any way out.â

âAs it is,â she added musingly, âI think I shall go on the stage.â

âWhat? You, too?â groaned Patrick.

âYes. I might go to Perth. See if I can get your Juliaâs place in the Rep there. Then, when Iâve learnt my job, I shall go into theatre managementâand put on Edmundâs plays, perhaps.â

âI thought you wrote novels,â said Julian Harmon.

âWell, so did I,â said Edmund. âI began writing a novel. Rather good it was. Pages about an unshaven man getting out of bed and what he smelt like, and the grey streets, and a horrible old woman with dropsy and a vicious young tart who dribbled down her chinâand they all talked interminably about the state of the world and wondered what they were alive for. And suddenly I began to wonder too â¦ And then a rather comic idea occurred to me â¦ and I jotted it downâand then I worked up rather a good little scene â¦ All very obvious stuff. But somehow, I got interested â¦ And before I knew what I was doing Iâd finished a roaring farce in three acts.â

âWhatâs it called?â asked Patrick. âWhat the Butler Saw?â

âWell, it easily might be â¦ As a matter of Iâve called it Elephants Do Forget. Whatâs more, itâs been accepted and itâs going to be produced!â

âElephants Do Forget,â murmured Bunch. âI thought they didnât?â

The Rev. Julian Harmon gave a guilty start.

âMy goodness. Iâve been so interested. My sermon!â

âDetective stories again,â said Bunch. âReal-life ones this time.â

âYou might preach on Thou Shall Do No Murder,â suggested Patrick.

âNo,â said Julian Harmon quietly. âI shanât take that as my text.â

âNo,â said Bunch. âYouâre quite right, Julian. I know a much nicer text, a happy text.â She quoted in a fresh voice, âFor lo the Spring is here and the Voice of the Turtle is heard in the LandâI havenât got it quite rightâbut you know the one I mean. Though why a turtle I canât think. I shouldnât think turtles have got nice voices at all.â

âThe word turtle,â explained the Rev. Julian Harmon, âis not very happily translated. It doesnât mean a reptile but the turtle dove. The Hebrew word in the original isââ

Bunch interrupted him by giving him a hug and saying:

âI know one thingâYou think that the Ahasuerus of the Bible is Artaxerxes the Second, but between you and me it was Artaxerxes the Third.â

As always, Julian Harmon wondered why his wife should think that story so particularly funny.

âTiglath Pileser wants to go and help you,â said Bunch. âHe ought to be a very proud cat. He showed us how the lights fused.â

Epilogue

âWe ought to order some papers,â said Edmund to Phillipa upon the day of their return to Chipping Cleghorn after the honeymoon. âLetâs go along to Totmanâs.â

Mr. Totman, a heavy-breathing, slow-moving man, received them with affability.

âGlad to see you back, sir. And madam.â

âWe want to order some papers.â

âCertainly sir. And your mother is keeping well, I hope? Quite settled down at Bournemouth?â

âShe loves it,â said Edmund, who had not the faintest idea whether this was so or not, but like most sons, preferred to believe that all was well with those loved, but frequently irritating beings, parents.

âYes, sir. Very agreeable place. Went there for my holiday last year. Mrs. Totman enjoyed it very much.â

âIâm glad. About papers, weâd likeââ

âAnd I hear you have a play on in London, sir. Very amusing, so they tell me.â

âYes, itâs doing very well.â

âCalled Elephants Do Forget, so I hear. Youâll excuse me, sir, asking you, but I always thought that they didnâtâforget, I mean.â

âYesâyes, exactlyâIâve begun to think it was a mistake calling it that. So many people have said just what you say.â

âA kind of natural-history fact, Iâve always understood.â

âYesâyes. Like earwigs making good mothers.â

âDo they indeed, sir? Now, thatâs a fact I didnât know.â

âAbout the papersââ

âThe Times, sir, I think it was?â Mr. Totman paused with pencil uplifted.

âThe Daily Worker,â said Edmund firmly. âAnd the Daily Telegraph,â said Phillipa. âAnd the New Statesman,â said Edmund. âThe Radio Times,â said Phillipa. âThe Spectator,â said Edmund. âThe Gardenerâs Chronicle,â said Phillipa.

They both paused to take breath.

âThank you, sir,â said Mr. Totman. âAnd the Gazette, I suppose?â

âNo,â said Edmund.

âNo,â said Phillipa.

âExcuse me, you do want the Gazette?â

âNo.â

âNo.â

âYou meanââMr. Totman liked to get things perfectly clearââYou donât want the Gazette!â

âNo, we donât.â

âCertainly not.â

âYou donât want the North Benham News and the Chipping Cleghorn Gazetteââ

âNo.â

âYou donât want me to send it along to you every week?â

âNo.â Edmund added: âIs that quite clear now?â

âOh, yes, sirâyes.â

Edmund and Phillipa went out, and Mr. Totman padded into his back parlour.

âGot a pencil, Mother?â he said. âMy penâs run out.â

âHere you are,â said Mrs. Totman, seizing the order book. âIâll do it. What do they want?â

âDaily Worker, Daily Telegraph, Radio Times, New Statesman, Spectatorâlet me seeâGardenerâs Chronicle.â

âGardenerâs Chronicle,â repeated Mrs. Totman, writing busily. âAnd the Gazette.â

âThey donât want the Gazette.â

âWhat?â

âThey donât want the Gazette. They said so.â

âNonsense,â said Mrs. Totman. âYou donât hear properly. Of course they want the Gazette! Everybody has the Gazette. How else would they know whatâs going on round here?â

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

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The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews and Other Stories

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

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Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

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The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

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The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

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Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

The Agatha Christie Collection

Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

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The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

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About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

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THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews and Other Stories

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Credits

Cover illustration and design by Sara Wood

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® MARPLEÂ® MISS MARPLEÂ® A MURDER IS ANNOUNCEDâ„¢. Copyright Â© 2011 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved. A Murder Is Announced was first published in 1950.

A MURDER IS ANNOUNCED Â© 1950. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207363-1

EPub Edition Â© MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-175038-0

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